Total Memory Makeover

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Aging & Attitude

   I thought myself shallow remembering life more by what I wore than people and places; and hesitate to confess longing for clothing and the fond memories surrounding them.

Memories attached to  a sweet sixteen birthday gift given by my grandmother. The glove box embossed with Gimble’s logo, and secured with a gold elastic ribbon tied in a tiny bow that rested in the top corner. I recall peeling back the layered tissue paper to reveal creamy white kid gloves with a real pearl closure; and feeling adult. After a day in the city, I washed the gloves in the bathroom sink by wearing them, rolled the gloves in a towel, and laid them out to dry. In the morning, I finessed the stiff pair of gloves back to elegance.

Younger memories are of a so-soft white rabbit muff, black velvet head-scarf, green coat and matching leggings with zippers near the ankle, that I wore to Sunday mass and on walks to school.

A red and white candy cane striped dress with a red velvet bodice dominates my thoughts of family Christmas gatherings. A Brownie uniform, the sash stiff with sewn on badges, reinforces a childhood relationship with Vicki Love. Shiny patent-leather shoes with heavy metal toe and heel taps dance my feet through lessons. A black herring-bone pencil skirt purchased for 25 cents at John’s Bargain Store brings back fun shopping trips.

Later a royal blue wind-breaker takes me skiing on Windham Mountain in High School and I’ll never forget that pink and white check swim suit with poor boy pants and a zipper up the back that I wore to Puffy’s Pond where I learned to smoke.

Bell-bottom pants introduced me to my college roommate, and a clear plastic bubble umbrella and rain hat are reminders of my first job at The Berlitz School of Languages. Paper underwear; I have yet to meet anyone who remembers them, a throw away item that was short-lived (they ripped easily) but I had a few pair.

Now thanks to Marilu Henner, yes the actress in Taxi, I can free myself from guilt.

Marilu has legitimized this type of recall, defines it primary memory tracking, and believes it is a pathway technique to other memories.  She says, “It could be a sports track, a travel track, relationships, jobs that they’ve had, hairdos. I’ve heard bats even,” that connect you to your past.

She was recently interviewed by Diane Rehm, and discussed her book Total Memory Makeover. Tested and identified as autobiographical by Dr. James McGaugh, Marilu joins a select group of twenty, formed after the television show “60 Minutes” featured his research in 2010.

Autobiographical memory is distinctly different from photographic and Dr. McGaugh says people with autobiographical memory don’t’ simply remember the date Princess Diana died, they remember in detail their life on that day. MRI’s, of this small group of people, show their brains are different in size, shape and conductivity.

This trip to Washington DC for Diana Rehm’s interview, produced a drop down menu of other visits stored in Marilu’s mind by dates, going back to the first, on Saturday, January 18, 1969.

Marilu is smarter than most and has a gift, however, her Dad helped by breaking down the steps to remembering as; anticipation, participation and recollection. After holidays and family occasions they gather for a recollection party, now that sounds like fun. Sure they talked about what Uncle Jim did, but they seared the happening in their mind.

Her advice, “Find your track. It’s like in the jigsaw puzzle of your life, what are those hard-edged pieces to help you make a bigger picture? Or as my brother-in-law said, in the murky forest of your memories, what pebbles have you dropped along the way?”

I am thinking about memories and remembering differently and look forward to reading her book.

I am ready for a memory makeover.

…just saying

Do You Tweet?

Aging & Attitude

 

“Do you Tweet?” Christine asks me, as the waitress approaches the table.

We are having lunch at The Olive Garden. It is a celebration of sorts; Christine has a new website  and food blog, Pudbudder. Tricia’s, children’s book, “Detective You’re” is in the hands of an illustrator, and my short story, “Wheels of Circumstance” is an FWA selection.

The waitress interrupts to tell us the specials and ends by saying, “I’ll be back to take your order.”

“I have a Twitter account but never Twit?” I responded

“It’s Tweet, you tweet, not twit on Twitter.” Twitter links to LinkedIn and can increase your followers. I have 452 followers. I’m doing resumes for people in Australia”

Tricia and I, thankful to know someone tech savvy are impressed, and leap on the opportunity to ask questions we feel too stupid to otherwise ask.

“If it is called twitter, why do you tweet and not twit?”

Soft spoken Tricia  inquires politely, “What’s Twitter?”

“Twitter is an online social networking service where people can send and read text-based messages of up to 140 characters, known as ‘tweets’.”   Wikipedia’s definition; “a short burst of inconsequential information, and ‘chirps from birds’.” Christine says smiling.

“I think I was a bird in a former life,” I comment.” But why characters? Why not spaces?”

Tricia asks, “Couldn’t they send a short email?”

“I don’t know.” Christine rolls her eyes and continues, “This is like trying to convince cavemen they’d be better off using matches.”

The waitress is back and takes our orders.

When she is gone, Christine leans across the table to Tricia and questions, “Do you know what a hash tag is?”

“Don’t be a twerp, how would I know about hash?” Is Tricia’s not so polite, reply.

“It’s a number sign, # you can use it to share a twitter story.” Christine taunts and proceeds to inform us; Twitter is undergoing changes and now has Tweetups, Tweetie, New Twitter, and Retweets.

I have a headache.

We leave the restaurant two hours later laughing about Twitter, tweets and twits.

Later that evening I login in to my Twitter account, take the Twitter -Tour and learn, one has to follow to get followers.

So, who will I follow?

Mr. Wonderful is watching the ALDS series, the Yankees are playing Baltimore.  I type Yankee in the search bar.  Mike Blooomberg, aka Mayor of NYC, tweets, “Go Yankees”

Ruth Westheimer, aka Dr. Ruth, Psychosexual Therapist,(I am surprised is still alive) tweets, “So-A-Rod benched”

Nothing exciting is happening here.

I  plan to watch Blue Bloods on CBS and figure the TV program is a safe search.

Jim Wahlberg, Dorchester, MA, no known relation to Danny, Donnie Wahlberg, real life brother to Mark Wahlberg well know for the movies, Ted and The Fighter is tweeting, really flirting with Paula NKOTB.

Not of interest to me.

However, Donnie was recently interviewed by Gayle King, of whom I am a big fan. She asks an interesting question, waits and respects the answer.  Sunday morning Gayle tweeted she’d been to Streisand concert and to the Barclay for burger bash with her favorite mayor.  I am jealous.

Gayle has 589, 454 followers and one more, me.

As of today I have one follower, dear Christine, but who is counting.

                                                                               …just saying

My Most Embarrassing Moment

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 Wet & Wild

Aging & Attitude

   My most embarrassing moment occurred the summer of 1986 on Long Beach Island, a well know vacation spot for families from the New York, New Jersey and Philadelphia area. The drive along the Garden State Parkway to exit 63A and over the Manahawkin Bay Bridge, affectionately called The Causeway by locals, is a true Jersey experience. The unique bridge lights, famed Strand of Pearls, are memorable viewed at night.

Called LBI, the island known for its beach umbrellas, sand castles, and surfers, has no boardwalk, and is minus the frenzy of other nearby beach communities like Seaside Heights, famous for Snookie and the TV show “Jersey Shore.”

My husband says his most embarrassing moment was asking a cousin when her baby was due and she responded, “I’m not pregnant.”

His experience pales next to mine.

Makes you wonder what is behind embarrassment.

My children and husband watched the incident.

In 1986, my son was eleven, my daughter, nine, and me; I was thirty-eight years old. I do not know the age of the pimpled face teen.

The week was uneventful, no rain or black flies, and the mosquitoes only came out at night. Our friends and their two kids visited a few nights, and we went to the Wet & Wild slide in Beach Haven.

Recently, I Googled  Wet & Wild on Eighth and Bay Ave, and it is renamed the Thundering Surf Water Slide, but the giant pink bubble gum colored slide remains the same.

The kids enjoyed Wet & Wild so much we went back. My husband, not up for the wet and wild experience, joined other parents in the gallery to cheer and applaud when the ride ended. I was eager and grabbed a rubber magic carpet for the ride.

For the vacation, I purchased a hot turquoise one-piece swimsuit; halter-top, knotted behind the neck and perfect for swimming.

After several carpet rides, I was starting to enjoy myself, you know let loose, when the embarrassing moment happened. To this day I am thankful my husband was standing in the gallery, keen-eyed.

I landed in the bottom pool with the heavy magic carpet on my head, choking on water. My eyes opened to Pimple Boy staring at me like he is stoned.

I managed to remove the mat from my head and stand, then heard a voice call my name. Once my husband had my attention he pointed to his chest.  I looked down. Yes, I was fully exposed and playing to a full crowd, about twenty people.

Pimple Boy popped more zits and I scurried to hide and put things back in.

I sort refuge behind the stairs, where my two children where hiding, and exclaimed out of breath, “The most embarrassing thing just happened.”

In whispered tones, they mouthed, “We know, Mom.”

I wonder what Pimple Boy’s most embarrassing moment is.

What is your most embarrassing moment?

                                                         …just saying

Zero Ending Birthdays

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Aging & Attitude

A dear writing friend, Marsha, recently celebrated a  zero ending birthday or a “big one” and shared her thoughts about the occasion. She offers an interesting perspective I think you’ll enjoy.

Zero Ending Birthdays

                                      by Guest Blogger, Marsha

Birthday Blog

 (to no one in particular – just because I feel like writing a blog)

I recently celebrated one of those “milestone” birthdays. For the last ten years there has been just a one digit change to the years of life number, but now all of sudden both digits have changed! That comfort zone has been lost to a whole new era of unfamiliar and intimidating numbers. Plus there is this new theory that you are actually ten years younger than your age now, based on the wonders of baby boomers living longer than their predecessors, which presents an entirely new issue of confusion.

Graduating to the new number has also brought to light the birthday cards designed for the consumer to address this milestone. And for some reason, many well wishers seem to think they need to send a card with the new number boldly emblazoned on the front of the card. I hadn’t received a number card before that I could recall, although I probably did for the big 40 (can’t really remember at this point – and it was probably a funny card), as we see a lot of decorations available for this particular birthday milestone in the party stores.

But my recent birthday seems to have prompted a bevy of different salutations that shouted “you should feel excited to be alive at a time when you are really free to live”,” liking what you have become”, or “ this day is to celebrate the beginning of the most beautiful years of your life.”

Seriously – does this make me feel good? Is this a happy birthday greeting?

I’m sorry, but I find this disconcerting and almost downright rude. Do people really think we want to hear this stuff? Isn’t it enough that we are in the quagmire of not yet qualifying for Social Security, dealing with healthcare insurance issues and grappling with where to invest our hard earned retirement money?

You have probably guessed my new number by now.

Please understand that I don’t mind the aging process. I can live with that. What I object to is being reminded that my double digit birthday is a landmark that is being shouted from the rooftops by these ridiculous cards that come our way at a time when you would rather celebrated the day with a simple “Happy Birthday” or a piece of cake……

As my friend Claudia would say

                            ….Just saying

Tell Me What Rain Smells Like

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Photo by Nikx

The Smell of Rain

Aging & Attitude

Steel metal colored clouds consume the sky and travel my way. The sun disappears behind them, and the sky turns dark.

Lightning cracks the sky and the sound pierces my ears.

The rain falls heavily, straight down and creates a blur; like at Niagara Falls, a sheet of rain cascades off the roof gutters and I recall  standing on “The Maid of the Mist” weathering the streams of water surrounded by rock.

The pinging rain is musical and comforting.

Floridians call it “big rain,” and I pull to the side of the road, the visibility is so poor.  It is not a monsoon, a season of precipitation; although the rain in April and May seem endless.

This daytime rain smells sweet.

A smell so fragile I inhale deeply to guess its fragrance. It is clean and crisp like mountain air but not strong. It is not vanilla, nor any other spice and less subtle than an herb.

Childhood memories; searching for a four-leaf clover, cartwheels, and skipping home to snack on Wonder bread, buttered then sprinkled with sugar, permeate my mind.

Coolness surrounds my shoulders and I close my eyes to relish the moment and the smell of rain, but cannot capture words.

What do you think rain smells like?

Homeless in Apalachicola

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Aging & Attitude

   My head turns with the slam of the restaurant’s screen door and I watch a woman my age, seat herself at an empty table for eight. It feels odd and she is toting too many bags.

Uninterrupted, our waitress listens to our comments and says, “Um, one got me bad the other day. I’m still scratching,” and puts menus and glasses of water on a blue tablecloth, its wrinkles accented by a small vase of pink plastic flowers.

“I’m Rachael, and I’ll be your server.”

We are in Apalachicola, a small fishing town located in the Florida Panhandle, and were sitting outside to watch a river sunset when the no-see-ums attacked and forced us indoors.

Always intrigued by the name, Apalachicola, Mr. Wonderful has surprised me with a stay at The Coombs Inn, a Bed & Breakfast.

“Where are you all visiting from? Rachael inquires, a pencil and spiral assignment pad clutched in one hand. She is wearing an orange t-shirt with Caroline’s Restaurant in cursive letters angled across her chest, and looks as incongruent as the wrinkled tablecloth.

“Ormond Beach on the east coast. We’re retired.”

“Now that’s a long haul, first time in the Oyster Capital? I bet you want a dozen fresh oysters.” She says with the enthusiasm of one who had a good night’s sleep.

We agree and Rachael says, “I’ll get that started and be back for your order, take your time now, no hurry.”

Apalachicola is a curious mix of old and new. A throwback town that looks loved and lived in. The Victorian homes are restored; most with tin roofs. The retail signs are not deliberately retro, just never replaced. You can enjoy gelato made with Florida mango, at the Apalachicola Chocolate Company on Avenue E as long as you get there before 5PM, after that all shops close.

The only new construction is The Water Street Hotel and Marina tucked at the end of Water Street alongside the commercial oyster boats. The smell of gasoline is strong as weathered oystermen smoking cigarettes, and wearing yesterday’s clothes fuel up.

I watch the woman actively arrange her bulging shopping bags, as another waitress slips beside her. I hear no conversation, suspect it is hushed and my curiosity heightens.

The woman’s bags are not new. The retail logos on several are disappearing.

She is served a class of white wine, instead of being asked to leave or move to a smaller table, and stoops over a menu as though she needs glasses. All day travel or slept-in creases distinguish the back of her jacket.

Rachael brings the oysters, takes our order and hightails it back to the kitchen.

Mr. Wonderful continues talking, reviewing the day; a visit to St. George Island and the lighthouse.  Our conversation with the museum volunteer who informed us there are eight hundred and some year round residents on the island now, and house prices have dropped five hundred thousand to one million dollars. Yes, dropped, she reaffirmed and suggested we visit the Nature Center, which is free and contains a beautiful mural of the Gulf area.

Rachael returns with house salads and casually asks, “Have you been to Panama City or Mexico Beach?”We have and recount their beauty. The blue-green gulf water rolls in to smooch the shore,its sand the texture and color of boxed table salt, unlike the ocean waves that slap the eastern coast to prove who is boss.

Realizing we have our salads but no silver, I look around to rob some from a nearby table. Surveying the area, I notice the woman stand abruptly and leave carrying her bags, the glass of wine untouched. I surmise she cannot pay and has come to her senses to explain the abrupt departure.

“Did you see that woman leave?” I ask Mr. Wonderful

“No. What woman?”  He answers.

“The one sitting by herself with all the bags, looks homeless.”

Rachael’s arrival with the entries interrupts our conversation and we ooh and aah about the fancy plating.

My meal is broiled grouper, shrimp, and bay scallops in reduced teriyaki sauce topped with wasabi, and sides of mixed vegetables and garlic mashed potatoes. Mr. Wonderful’s dinner is broiled scallops and a crab cake in lemon butter sauce, asparagus and garlic mashed potatoes.

We are enjoying our meal when I notice she’s back, without any bags.

Keeping my head down to control my confusion I say, “Look, look in the corner, it’s her.”

“What are you talking about?” Mr. Wonderful says with food in his mouth.

“Maybe she’s staying at the motel next store and went to put her bags in the room. She’s probably mentally ill. Or even run away, had enough of everything,  I start to speculate when I notice her perfectly manicured hands flip open an iPhone, and conclude . . . maybe newly homeless.

The dinner is memorable, and the day outstanding.

I could do homeless in Apalachicola.                                                                                                                             . . .just saying

The Art of Saying Nothing

                                                                                   Aging & Attitude 
Conversations at Vermillion

Conversations at Vermillion (Photo credit: JeanineAnderson)

Conversation is changing. Verbal communication is evolving and taking a new direction. The ability to converse for a significant period and say nothing is the trend. Notice that off colored jokes and heated discussions are a thing of the past. As small talk was through the 1990’s, saying nothing is an art form you are privy to if you experience these symptoms.

  1. Feelings of confusion, stupidity, or that you are old and simply do not understand.
  2. Low self-esteem after listening to a superior sounding conversationalist.
  3. Yelling “What are you freakin talking about?” in your sleep.
  4. Withdrawal from Face Book and other social media.

Please do not confuse this with the romance of saying nothing in Ronan Keating’s song “What I Hear When You Don’t Say a Thing” because that void clearly conveys passion and emotion.

Do not include the nothing, inquired of an advice expert, “What does it mean when you invite  women to date and they say nothing?”

That nothing says something, too.

The type of nothing Politicians use to avoid answering a question and turn the discussion to a character assault of opponents does not count either. Nor does the nothing created by a double negative i.e., “He didn’t say nothing,” (The double negative cancels the saying nothing out and you said something, we just do not know what.)

“He didn’t say anything,” is a legitimate form of saying nothing but not the one we are talking about of.

To acquire skill in saying nothing choose a topic, not safe and guaranteed non offensive like, weather, food, and travel, something slightly controversial, but politically correct. Create the impression that you are expressing an opinion or point of view that the listener cannot grasp, and you will say nothing successfully.

Filler words, such as; um, uh and you know, are prohibited, and considered cheating.

Now, I am practicing and far from an expert, but tell me, have I successfully talked about nothing?

. . . .Just Saying

Kreativ Blogger Award/JustSaying

I am  green to writing and a new blogger, and when notified I was a recipient of the Kreativ Blogger Award thought it was a poke, like on Facebook.

Pleased by the  recognition, I graciously accepted and immediately sent a thank you to Christine Speno of Words,etc. For some unknown reason, Christine has taken me under her wing and gladly meets with me to discuss various how to subjects. Why? Christine does not need a why, she is a giver and we have become friends and writing partners.  I’m loving it. Thank you Christine.

What is the Kreativ Blogger Award? I searched Word Press to find out.

The Kreativ Blogger Award is a peer award, as is the Golden Globe Award. The fact that another blogger thought my writing worthy is encouraging.

Husfrauas Memoarer, a Norwegian, came up with the idea on May 8th 2008, pieced together fabric for the original design, (shown below)

and bestowed it upon four fellow bloggers.

Evidently Kreativ is German for creative. Hulda is still blogging about inspirational crafts at blogspot, She is creative and displays beautiful  photography.

The design, and criteria have changed over time.

Now a recipient lists ten things people may not know about them, displays the award on their blog and passes the honors on to six other bloggers.

It has been fun viewing and revisiting blogs to make my decision and grueling to list things about myself.

Ten things you may not know about me;

  1. I am average, and have no hidden talent unless you consider singing, “Gold Finger” at the Windham Arms Hotel Summer Talent Show, of significance.
  2. Although I have big opinions, and not shy about expressing them, I am shy.
  3. I have four sisters and three brothers, but no first cousins.
  4. My son complains he has never seen me drunk.
  5. I started writing in 2009, secretly.
  6. Visiting the White House at Christmas is on my bucket list.
  7. I am published in “Let’s Talk”, a collection of short stories by Florida Writers.
  8. Given the choice between eating leftover pizza and a baked sweet potato, choose the potato.
  9. Am still friends with my best friend from High School and my first boyfriend, they married.
  10. Think youth is wasted on the young.
Kreativ Blogger Awards recipients are:
Chris Hamilton writer of Florida Writers Conference Blog. FWA is a great organization, the mission statement is  Writers Helping Writers and they mean it. Chris shares valuable information, keeps the mundane interesting and is task driven.
Kristen and Jacqueline, the brains behind “Chicks with Ticks”, amuse and enlighten women about the great out doors.
Michael Ray King, poet, etc., is as diverse a writer as they come, and more importantly, a romantic mush.
Jennifer Ward – Pelar an environmentalist and writer is cheer and funny.
Renee Fisher, author and former hula hoop champion makes driving in the boomer lane fun.
Sue Healy an award-winning writer, tutor and journalist, not ashamed to say she is Irish; I like her take on writing.
Thank you Christine Speno, receiving the Kreativ Blogger Award has encouraged and validated my efforts to write.

                                                                                           Just Saying,

Claudia

Calendar Girls

Calendar Girls

Aging & Attitude

As soon as I saw the News Journal headline “Pinup Grandmothers” Neil Sedaka’s song, “Calendar Girls” popped in my head.  You know, ” I love, I love, I love my little calendar girls, everyday of the year.” The words repeat themselves in my mind and occasionally I sing them aloud.

Disappointed with fundraising efforts for an American Legion Post kitchen renovation and inspired by the movie, “Calendar Girls” the older group of women decided to show some skin in their own calendar, Ladies of 32744, the zip code for Lake Helen, Florida. The calender sells for $16, $13 if you can pickup.

The photo of Sharon Cremen, 67, in wrapping paper and Ho! Ho! Ho! ribbon tastefully wishes us Happy Holidays in December. Miss June, Betty Pfahler, 87, draped in a wedding veil and flowers leaves you thinking great legs, and the azaleas surrounding Cindy Thomas, Miss May, in her wheelchair are spectacular.

Coincidently, the 2012 BGIRL Calendar came to my attention. These twelve, much younger women, break dance and stand on heads for a cause.  The Sisterz of the Underground raise money for the nonprofit Warehouse 508 and Young Women United in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Their mission is “to support our youth…driven to inspire the young to express themselves in a positive light.” Their calender sells for $20.

Imagine both groups in the same room, what would the conversation be?

Mooxie, photographer and owner of dela Mooxie might ask, “Yo grandma, where did you get those shoes, they rock.” Or, “ your pics are crazy, who did them?”

Pat Chadwick, editor of the Lake Helen City Observer newsletter, who organized Ladies of 32744 might inquire of BGIRL Jleigh, Ms. January, “Where can I buy those black lace leggings; we could use them next year. Tell Sarow, Ms. August, “We never considered feathers in our hair. It is a nice subtle touch.” Or ask Marie, Ms. March, “Does standing on your head give you a headache?”

How could women so different and have much in common?

They are women; mothers, dancers, sisters, writers, wives, accountants, significant others, photographers, daughters, aunts, teachers, and entrepreneurs.  You get the picture.

These women are the same. The times are different.

The oldest generation, women in their eighties, dreamed of marriage, children, and family, having little choice of career.

Women in their sixties, Baby Boomers, dreamed of marriage, children, and family, but also career and had more choices. It was exhausting trying to have it all.

Gen X, the next generation ( born between 1960 and 1980), set goals for a dream career and marriage, children, and family waited.

Generation Y  is encouraged to dream for themselves and dreams of marriage are separate from job and career.  Family enhances not defines their life.

Close your eyes and hear the happy banter, curiosity and encouragement they share and Neil Sedaka still singing, “I love, I love, I love my little calendar girls everyday of the year.”

                                                      ….Just Saying

2011 in review

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.