Category Archives: Retirement

Careful What You Wish For and George Foreman

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In January, Mr. Wonderful and I turned to each other and said, “Gee, I wish we could sell the house.” January 11th we sat with a dear friend, who is a realtor, and signed the papers.

No fooling, April 1st, we received and accepted an offer.  Our wish came true that fast and we scrambled to find a living place with enough space for our “stuff.”

We fell in love with a Villa apartment about 15 miles north of Halifax Plantation in Hammock Dunes.  It was everything we said we never wanted, a gated community, no garage, no attic, no recycling and because a second home for many owners, alive on the weekends.

However, there are flowers galore, and no weeding (a harmful addiction I have struggled to overcome). We would give up 1200 sq. ft. of screened lanai living area, say good-by to barbecue grilling, and empty the water-bed.

We were not, unhappy, just conflicted and now renters.

Mr. Wonderful hired Two Men and A Truck for moving day, and got a Budget rental truck to transport numerous boxes plus other stuff to Eagles Nest storage facility, while I cried and sold treasured belongings, including the gas grill, on Craigslist.

We have grilled for the past thirty-five years. Yes, with snow on the ground and in the garage protected from downpours.

We started in 1977 using a Hibachi on an apartment balcony in the Bronx.  Hibachi is what Northerners call a small charcoal table grill. You still see them in State parks. Before Mr. Wonderful came home from work, I started the charcoal briquettes in a one pound coffee can that had both ends removed. I filled the can with ten charcoal briquettes, squirted lighter fluid at them, and struck a match to ignite. In a half  hour, they were hot enough to spread out, add more briquettes, and grill a chuck steak.

After a debate about sneaking a grill on the 10 by 12 foot apartment balcony, a George Foreman grill became an option.GE DIGITAL CAMERA

I was skeptical about a cooking device designed by a man punched in the face for a living who named all six sons George, after himself. Surprise, surprise, the grill does a nice job.  Evidently, George has become an expert and there are forty or more models to choose from.  We might have to upgrade.

We have been here ten days.

While unpacking, I realized we no longer use, but are attached to some ‘stuff’.

The packed silver set is a good example. Include, three sets of stainless steel unpacked, and we have thirty-six, dinner forks, salad forks, knives, teaspoons, and soup spoons; a total of 180 eating utensils.

Well, I am still making pasta salad for eight; hoping more than two will show up.

                                                                               ….Just saying

Ha Ha Baby Boomers

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Aging & Attitude

Statistics show that as you age you laugh less. The elderly lose their sense of humor, no Shit Sherlock! What is there to laugh about?  We cannot see, cannot hear, and cannot remember.

A recent News Journal article informs us of the latest national disaster, sarcopinia, the wasting away of the elderly. Who needs a new word we cannot pronounce, and reminds us of things, we do not want to remember.  It is no surprise, the elderly feel depressed, and lose humor.

I heard that if you cannot get out of the car or off a chair, it is from muscle atrophy. So I started going to the gym, now have muscles and can get out of the car, couch or chair easily.  I just cannot straighten up once I am standing. I am stiff and cannot unbend.  I have termed the condition de-stiff-i-tiz-ing. It is not an official medical condition but most Baby Boomers suffer with it.

We were out to dinner, a table of ten, dear friends who shall remain nameless. After paying the bill, everyone stood to leave and a uniform moan ricocheted off the restaurant walls. A few of us were quick to laugh, covering the additional groans people spewed as they hung to the back of chairs, shook legs awake, and de-stiff-i-tized to reclaimed stature. There was no giggling.

Men actually laugh less and stop laughing sooner than woman, around fifty. (Mr. Wonderful sports a Grumpy tattoo, gotten on his fiftieth birthday.) That statistic may change once the numbers are in on Viagra, although after four hours a man could permanently lose all ability to chuckle.

The humiliation does not end.  A woman attending a wedding went outside to smoke, after extinguishing the cigarette with her foot, bent over to pick up the butt and toppled in her kitty cat heels. Fortunately, her dress did not blow over her head and no one was around.

This never happened to grandma. She could smoke indoors, did not worry about green and thought gym was a man’s name.

So here are my tips for Baby Boomers. (Will someone think of a better term, PLEASE)

  • Replace old toilets with new Hi-Boy’s(the taller  ones).
  • Park in the same spot at the mall everytime.
  • Write down the make, year, and plate number of both cars you own and keep the information in your wallet. (Forgetting where you parked is one thing, forgetting what you parked is another.)
  • Stop telling people you do not remember their name.  They do not remember yours either.
  • Do not smoke when wearing high heels.                                                                                             
                           …. Just saying

We’ve Fallen & We Can Get Up

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   Mr. Wonderful, my husband of forty years, is wonderful, mostly.  He is my househusband, does most of the food shopping and cooking, and dusts if I ask ‘pretty please’. I’m loving it. He seems content, and has heightened status among women when they learn all he does. Although, the guys turn up the TV volume when he becomes the topic of conversation.

   I make a point of showing my appreciation. Today I sat on his lap, gave him a nice kiss. Enjoying the attention he playfully embraces me, arms behind my back. I slipped my arms under his shoulders and interconnected my fingers around his back nervous we might fall. Like Fabio on the cover of a romantic novel, he curves my back across his knee, and we topple.

“Are you okay?”

“I can’t tell. Are you okay?”

“You’re lying on my arm, I can’t move.”

“You’re lying on my chest; do you think I can move?”

 We’ve fallen and we can’t get up.

 “Claudia, you’re killing my arm, you have to move.”

 Granted his arm is underneath me, taking the bulk of the fall; his 200 lbs pressing my 135 lbs into the floor. But I am flattened like a pancake too and cannot move.

  So I quip, “Let me see if I can bench press your 200 lbs. with my nose.”

 “You’re killing my wrist, move!” He says, with a loud little boy in pain tone, to his voice.

  Wondering if I am able to take in air, I say, sweetly, “Don’t panic, yet. Where’s your other arm?”

  “What other arm?”

  “The other arm attached to your body. I’m lying on your right arm, where is your left?”

  He pauses at length to consider the possibility, and responds “You mean this one,” raising his left arm above his head.

  Relieved, I suggest he use it to lift himself, allowing me to push up so he can retrieve his right arm.

  He does. I move and guess what, we have fallen, but we can get up.

                                                                                                                                    …just saying 

Vintage Vanity

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Aging & Attitude

I never wore an itsy bitsy teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikini. I wore a one piece swimsuit with a zipper up the back that I could swim in. I loved that pink and white plaid bathing suit. A darker pink piping set off the waist, and it was fully lined. That was during my teenage years when we swam down at Puffy’s creek or at Jones beach on Long Island.

I never owned a Rabbit fur coat. I had a fake Leopard fur coat bought on sale in Macy’s department store. The large collar and hem trimmed in black fake fur.  This Bo Derek style outer wear was stored in a clothing closet and admired when I opened the closet door, too good too be worn.

I never owned a London Fog trench coat.  I wore a navy blue raincoat with an empire waist and hood, purchased at Lerner’s.  I had black patent leather go-go rain boots and kept dry with a bubble umbrella. I have a picture, taken at the Bronx Zoo, of myself wearing this outfit, and remember feeling quite pleased with my look including the shag wig, I wore.

I never wore jeans, stirrup pants were my favorite, and proud to be the first to wear bell-bottoms, in my dorm. These orange pants coordinated with a gold and orange box plaid mini-skirt and a matching gold crepe blouse. The blouse had flounce sleeves with military buttons on the cuffs, and a wrap around neck sash that tied in a bow. I can picture the outfit in Alexander’s store window on Fordham road in the Bronx and still smile.

I never avoided looking in a mirror, til now. The reflection is unrecognizable and I hear myself saying, “Why does that woman look so familiar?” aloud, and realizing it is me, worry about Alzheimer’s.

I never thought I’d wear elastic waist pants, funny hats or moan getting up from a chair.

I never thought myself good-looking, was never boastful, conceited, or big-headed, but loved those outfits and the way they made me feel.

Damn, I guess it is too late to be vain.

                                                                                      . . . Just Saying

Global Positioning System & Your Hippocampus

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Aging & Attitude

“Have you heard about Todd?”

“No, what about Todd?”

“He went out walking and fell.”

“Oh my God, how?”

“It’s a long story, has to do with the hippocampus.”

“The hippocampus, what is that?”

“You never heard of the hippocampus, the part of your brain that remembers things, especially new stuff.  If you move to a new neighborhood and go out for a walk, how to get back home. Where you parked at the mall or the date of a doctor’s appointment.  Well Todd’s hippocampus is shrinking, just like, he used to be six foot one and is now five ten.  It’s part of the aging process. Remember “The Graduate” and Dustin Hoffman learning that the key to the future was plastics, the hippocampus is now the key to remembering, or so it seems.

“Are you sure? I read AARP’s recent article “Age Proof Your Brain,” It lists ten things, and I don’t remember reading about any hippopotamus…

“That’s because it’s new information, your hippocampus could already be damaged. Ever have hypoxia, heart attack, respiratory failure, sleep apnea or near drowning?  They discovered new benefits to jumping up and down for extended periods. Exercise may slow shrinkage of the hippocampus and specifically the part that passes new information into permanent storage.

“Enough, I’m getting a headache. Tell me about Todd.”

“Well, it seems Todd goes on walks and is gone forever. Apparently, he gets lost in the neighborhood. Marilyn suggested he charge the GPS and take it with him.”

“Todd’s not that old to be that forgetful and who is Marilyn?”

“Marilyn. . . his wife.”

“Marilyn isn’t his wife. He’s married to Barbara.”

“Marilyn’s his wife, do you want to hear what happened? So Todd, by the way he’s almost eighty, goes for his walk and after hitting “GO HOME,”  on the GPS, gets dizzy from recalculating, falls down and hits his head.  A neighbor called 911. They took him to Emergency, eight stitches and he is still confused.”

“Todd’s not even fifty. His wife is Barbara, I invited them to dinner. What did the doctor say?”

“Stop using the GPS and see his regular doctor in two weeks.  It’s probably his spatial intelligence. There is evidence these GPS systems are effecting everyone’s ability to navigate, not just us Baby Boomers. I’m talking about the Todd and Marilyn Smith on the corner.”

“There’s another Todd on this street? How will they get to the doctor’s office without the use of a GPS?”

“Barbara’s thinking of taking a taxi.”

“You mean Marilyn, right?”

“Whatever.”                                                                                         

                                                   . . . Just saying

Anytime Fitness with Bubbles

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Anytime Fitness with Bubbles 

Aging & Attitude

Bubbles was at the gym today decked out in a hot pink workout suit, purple Merrells, a bubblegum glitter headband, and acrylic nails. She wore a scooped neck designer tee-shirt over a sports bra. Sweat covered her forehead.  When she got off the treadmill, a bead of perspiration trickled down her face, dribbled over her wrinkled neck to nestle in some serious cleavage. The bra was working overtime to support the girls.

Bubbles got my attention with her giggles and girlfriends a few months ago. All four of them were working out in a fun way, encouraging each other and laughing at their lack of grace. They called her Bubbles, but she looked like a Mary Jane. Clearly, these senior ladies were the bikini clad in crowd from my past. I guess all had steadies and made the cheerleading squad in High School. I was the cheerleader advisor and my teenage nickname was ClaudieMay.

When Bubbles plopped on an abs machine I jumped on the chest press next store, hoping to hear her story and wondering, if I said, “Hi, I’m ClaudieMay.” Would she say, “I’m Bubbles.”

I can complete three repetitions of twelve, using twenty-five pounds, without grunting. My goal is to not wear a bra. I take that back, my goal is to be comfortable wearing, or not wearing one. Women understand. Either way is uncomfortable now, and I wonder constantly about a heart attack, the band feels so tight.

Back to Bubbles, it does not make me feel better that she is thirty to forty pounds overweight and has muffin-top. Probably, she does not see the extra pounds and wrinkles in her mirror.

I want her magic looking-glass attitude; giggle to your sides hurt and wet your pants experiences. I could be bubbly with practice.

The pounds I lose during the week come back on the weekend and consequently, Mondays, I have to start losing the same few again and my mirrors reflect deep lines and wrinkles, not funny. (I am considering abstaining from cookies and wine on the weekends, also.)

I pass Mall windows and remark, “That old person looks so familiar, I feel like I know her,” to discover it is me.

The mind does not consider age. Bubbles clearly thinks she is sixteen. I have no desire to be sixteen and cheerleader advisor again. Hopefully, Bubbles is wise enough to know not to do splits.

2011 in review

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The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.

Thank you Word Press for this report. It was a very good year. Obviously it will help my status in the Word Press blog community if readers ‘like’ below.  ….Just Saying, Thank You  

Here’s an excerpt:

A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 1,000 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 17 trips to carry that many people.

Click here to see the complete report.

New Year’s Resolution

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New Year Resolutions  

Aging & Attitude

Blame the Romans for the New Year tradition of making resolutions.

In 153B.C. Janus, God of Beginnings was placed on the Roman calendar and January 1st declared the first day of the year. Pictured with two faces, one looking back, the other forward, the practice of evaluation and resolution was established.

During the nineteen hundreds people began celebrating early, making New Year’s Eve the bigger event, and a kiss at midnight a symbol of purification and luck in the United States.

It is a good time to take stock, change behavior, and anticipate a better you.  Not everyone agrees. Some believe they are already their best, and others, convinced they are doomed to break resolutions, refrain from making them.

I personally enjoy the custom.

One year I resolved not to drink wine with twist off caps and dedicated myself to promote merging in traffic. Initially I did better with the wine but after a month reevaluated the cost and went back to twist off.

Merging proved as challenging.  Friends, unable to grasp the concept of allowing vehicles to go in front of them, appeared bored by my conversation and started to avoid me, so I gave that up, too.

Last year I was determined to give up weeding, lose weight, and start Blogging. I had success with the writing and only gained five pounds, which does not count because muscle weighs more than fat, I am told at the Gym.

Giving up weeding was a disaster. I found myself returning from getting the mail with fistfuls of weeds, magazines and bills tucked under my arm.  In 100-degree heat, I would wait for cloud cover and sneak outside addicted to a bag full. By August I was weeding several times a day and paying the price with back pain and  hand tendonitis.

My resolve this year is to be more realistic. I have considered hiring, but think buying expensive wine makes better use of my money, besides setting healthy boundaries is the real issue.

Consequently my New Year Resolutions are:

  • No weeding in hot humid months.  (In Florida that means May through November.)
  • No moving rocks and the black stuff to get to weed roots.
  • Only one small plastic grocery bag a day regardless of weather conditions
  • And by 5pm to be sitting or in a prone position with something pleasant to drink.

                                                      Damn it, I am retired!

Just Saying

(What is your New Year Resolution?)

What Do You Want For Christmas?

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What You Want For Christmas?

Aging & Attitude

“What do you want for Christmas?” Mr. Wonderful* inquires, walking into the kitchen wearing drawstring athletic shorts, his toes protruding through open toed sandals, and cheaters sliding off his nose.

“You mean besides World Peace” I quip.

“No, seriously what do you want for Christmas?”

“Jobs for the unemployed would be nice.”

“You’re the one who wants packages under the tree, think about it.”

And I do.

I want it to be 1958 and wake to a shiny blue two-wheeler and bride doll. The air crisp, sharp enough that your nose hair freeze, the sun strong and no wind on Long Island. Santa left the same Schwinn bike for my sister, Mariellen, an English Racer with handbrakes for Victor, my brother.  I ride in circles, periodically going in the house to coax my brother and sister into joining me. They will not, but I am determined to hold on to my joy.

I want it to be 1971. Mr. Wonderful dressed in full Santa costume, white beard and black belt, drives the New York State Thruway, waving at cars and greeting toll booth attendants with Ho, Ho, Ho.

I want it to be 1977. My son wears PJ’s, a blue robe, belted and slippers, his face aglow at the Fisher Price garage Santa left. His sister wears a hand me down Santa infant suit, her arms flapping, matching his excitement.

I want it to be 1985 and a white German Shepard dog does not bark once during the night to wake our kids. He kept his surprise til Christmas morning.

I want it to be 2003. It snows all day, continuing into the night, creating a spectacular White Christmas our daughter’s Southern guest marvels.  We troll the unplowed streets of Newton after midnight, make angles in the snow, sleep late and eat dinner in our pajamas.

I want those simple uncomplicated times.

But were they?

Christmas greeting cards scotched taped around a door frame were fancy decorations. I could decorate the entire house, wrap the presents, and bake cookies, all the same day.

Last week it took one day to unbox the artificial tree and determine if plug A really went into socket E. Only one small section of lights is not working. We turned it towards the wall. Days two and three were spent putting on the ornaments, up and down the ladder, watching not to fall.

I am not the only one getting older, facing the challenge of aging; everyone else is too.

So this year, we are all going to Disney.

                                                                                                  ….Just Saying

*Mr. Wonderful is my husband of forty years

Thanksgiving Turkey & Christopher Columbus

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Turkey and Christopher Columbus

Aging and Attitude

Writers can be odd thinkers. Their thinking is not peculiar, insane, or eccentric; they think differently. In my case, thoughts of cooking a turkey attach themselves to Christopher Columbus, the explorer.

Thanksgiving is a week away and Columbus Day Sale events are fresh in my mind. I could purchase a turkey on sale and cook it perfectly.

A bigger issue may be fueling this association.

Christopher Columbus questioned conventional thinking that the earth was flat. He was a trailblazer.

I am not in his league, but why do ‘people in the know’ or chefs say, “cook a turkey breast side up”?

For years, I have secretly roasted a turkey breast side down.  Recently, my discretion was revealed to a few close friends. They were speechless. Fearing they would consider me mentally ill, I explained.

“A turkey dries out breast side up as the juices sink to the bottom of the pan, so we baste the bird frequently. Why not turn the turkey upside down and stop opening the oven door?”

I was ready for their concerns and cautioned myself, do not mention your view on gravy.

“The bird will sit lopsided in the pan.” Several exclaim.

“So what, does it need a perfect tan?” I say.

“The pop-up button letting you know when it is done will not pop.” They announce in high-definition.

“The pop-up button doesn’t always pop-up.” I counter.

Christopher Columbus was not the only one to consider the earth might be round.

Perhaps I am not a lonely turkey renegade. 

Please cast your vote below for breast up or breast down. 

Just Wondering