Two Little Words

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Aging & Attitude

Looking exhausted, I pay for an empty cardboard cup and turn toward the coffee carafe.

“Let me help you with that,” the clerk says and takes back the brown container made from recycled paper.  “How do you like your coffee?”  She inquires walking away with her head turned sideways.

“Medium, light, no sugar, please.” I respond and fumble my way to a nearby seat.

I am extremely thankful the hospital cafe is open after midnight and the coffee is hot and fresh.

“Thank you.” I say to the young woman with very blue eyes when she delivers my coffee.

They are the same two little words I said upstairs to the surgeons and nurses for performing a twelve-hour life saving operation on my husband.

Two little words, thank you.

Over the next few hours, days, weeks and months, I say those words repeatedly to family and friends who call to boost my sagging spirit and spoon feed me courage.  Two little words that wrap themselves inside my heart and feel insufficient, so I add; so much, if only you knew or I really appreciate, to thank them for their gift of caring.

I struggle to find a way to acknowledge and return their kindness, and hope they hear the enormous gratitude sealed inside, “Thank You,” then realize their gifts are mine to keep, for me and my family to remember, relish, and treasure; help us grow in love and wisdom, two words; thank you.

They are not little.

                                                                                                ….just saying

Welcome to My Beeping World

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Photograph by Kyle Merriman, National Geographic

Aging & Attitude

   Welcome to my beeping bleeping world where everything beeps, rings or vibrates. It is a typical sunny day in Florida, the sky is clear, the clouds pure white. The select button on our Mr. Coffee, is green. Fresh brewed coffee will be ready in a few minutes. Although the brewing sounds like a choo-choo train speeding into the station before screeching to a stop, Mr. Coffee will beep four times to wake me  from a coma and remind me, I want caffeine. In the mean time, I open the refrigerator and ponder what to eat for breakfast; soy yogurt and rye toast or maybe… pumpernickel bread, perhaps egg white French toast or  two suicidal eggs over easy (430mg cholesterol).

My thoughts are interrupted by the refrigerator alarm, four consecutive beeps, notifying me, like I do not know, the door is open. Why the alarm, I am retired, and deciding what to have for breakfast.

Simultaneously, Mr. Coffee beeps to signal the coffee is ready. I grab the half-and-half and close the door. The pot sputters, spits and spills but the coffee is not really ready. There is time to kill.

I open the freezer, grab chicken for dinner and use the time before beeps to rearrange the veggie burgers and throw out a Carvel cone experiencing frost bite.

Oatmeal  seems a better choice for breakfast than the death wish eggs, and confident, I can outsmart the deafening microwave notification system by hitting cancel with five seconds left on the time pad, mix up a bowl.

Life is good. I get dressed and skip my way to the grocery store wearing a hooded sweatshirt as several dairy and frozen food items are on my list.

In the produce aisle among the melon, cucumbers, and squash is an electric cart shopper, a man, handling tomatoes: cherry, plum, beefsteak; comparing firmness and price, travelling in reverse. He is having difficulty making up his mind and a triple beep loud enough to reach Mars sounds every time he backs up. We have already said “Good Morning,” when he parked, not in a handicapped space, and walked into the store. Maybe the trip used all his stamina because he cannot stand to squeeze a tomato.

I toss a pre-weighed plastic bag of fresh green beans, three times the amount I need in the cart and sprint through the dairy aisle before escaping to the warmth in my car.

The car’s automatic beeps indicating; a seat belt needs fastening, the key is still in the ignition, or lights have been left on; are easy to ignore but not the variety of long, medium, and short signals from my Medtronic insulin pump and continuous glucose monitor that change to vibrate if not responded to and yes wake me from sleep.  Checking the alarm message is equivalent to texting while driving. It is lunch time, so I find a Panera .  After placing my order, I am handed a beeper device that will, blink and vibrate when the food is ready. I substitute as waitress.

The restaurant is noisy and includes banging sounds from the kitchen. I find a seat in a heightened state of awareness, and wonder, will I be searching my blouse for my concealed pump when really my lunch is ready.

                                                                                        …just saying

Beeping Household Items

  • Alarm clock
  • Humidifier
  • Electric toothbrush (after every minute brushing)
  • Telephone handsets
  • Clock radi0
  • Computers
  • Washer
  • Dryer
  • Fridge
  • Freezer
  • Coffee maker
  • Dishwasher
  • Oven
  • Microwave
  • Digital cameras
  • Fax machine
  • Printers
  • Stud finder
  • 2 cellphones
  • Security alarm
  • Fire Alarm

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

Peculiar

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Picasso Blue Nude

Picasso Blue Nude   Aging & Attitude

My only aunt died recently at the age of ninety-two. Peculiar is how my mother describes her sister. It is a kind word choice considering, and gives my aunt personality and style, rather than label her strange.

Born on January 13, 1920, her dad, Charles Achilles DeSalvo, proudly named her Marie Antoinette, (while her mom was sedated) though she was called Carol; and legally changed her name once twenty-one.

As a twelve-year-old, I thought her a princess arranging articles of clothing (padded bras, garter belts and silk panties) on the bed, to wear after a bath. She wore high heel, open toe, sling back shoes lined with Kleenex tissues, as slippers; bathed with Palmolive soap, used a pumice stone to ward off foot callous, brushed with tooth powder and applied makeup sitting at a dressing table in a house coat. The final step once I zippered her newest dress was to take out the Bobbie-pins and comb through her hair. She did not dilly-dally wanting to be only fashionably late for cocktails.

Aunt Carol was frozen in time. Nothing changed for her since 1958 when she owned a green Buick.  She had a Nancy Regan style, but never went to Washington. Her hair-do the day she died was the same as the day my parents married. She never had children and did not marry until sixty. She did not wear slacks, low shoes, socks, or sneakers. Every dress she owned was individually surrounded with plastic and stored in a closet. I still can hear her response to the mention of denim, “Only cowboys wear denim,”  she said with a sharp rise in her voice, clutching a tissue.

Picasso Blue Nude

Aunt Carol loved to shop and demonstrated peculiar behavior at the checkout.  She watched carefully every item rung up as though it was her first trip to Disney then waited for the cashier to ask, “Will that be cash or charge?” which did not happen. Aunt Carol eventually said “Credit Card,” with a look of distain, opened the metal clasp on her black leather purse, and removed a zip lock bag.  A wallet wrapped in Kleenex tissue; the tissue secured by a blue rubber band was inside the plastic. Unwrapping, the wallet was a slow process that suspended time for everyone around her. Eventually she removed a credit card and paid. I wonder what her life would have been as Marie Antoinette DeSalvo.

                                                                                  …just saying

Phone Trash

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 Aging & Attitude

   Remember being a nine-year old and selecting a number from the telephone book; dialing the number and addressing the party by name, Mr. or Mrs. Smith, to ask; “Is your refrigerator running?” When the reply was “Yes,” I delivered the gem of a retort, “Well, you better go catch it,” and hung up the phone doubled over in laughter with a room full of my closest friends.

That was summer fun in 1957. That and playing Gin Rummy under a weeping willow tree or collecting discarded cigarette butts from the gutter to smoke after straightening them out.

Phone trash became more sophisticated in 1962. We lived in Hensonville, N.Y. and had a party line. Our number was two digit, eight -seven; an operator much like Lillian Tomlin on Laugh-In connected you to the party to whom you spoke. A telephone hullabaloo erupted when my boyfriend, Ronnie King, wrote my brother’s girlfriend, Lillian St. Claire, a hand written letter, saying he would give her a ring when he came upstate for the summer. He stuffed the letter in an envelope and glued a three-cent stamp in the right hand corner. Ron meant he would call her on the telephone but Lillian, a drama queen, used the line out of context to set the Windham Ashland Jewett High School reeling and all party lines smoking.

Today phone trash is real a dilemma I experienced when all four phones in our home displayed the prompt, still connecting. Since the batteries had recently been replaced, I gave it time, and waited until 10:30 PM to contact the Bright House customer service line.  A recorded message said, “Most problems can be corrected by pushing the reset button on the “Box.”  Crawling under a desk equipped with a flashlight and cake tester to reset did not work, and consequently used my cell telephone to speak with a live person.

An hour conversation determined an on-site visit is needed and someone would be out between three and five pm the next day. I had inadvertently reset the router box and now did not have wireless internet service as well. It is now after midnight.

Promptly at three PM, the doorbell rang and to make a long story short, after testing all equipment the technician determined I needed new phones. It was likely the power pack was faulty and more unlikely I would be able to buy one. I had to go shopping.

A day and a half later, we had land line service. I am still working on the internet.

Here is the dilemma, what to do with the four telephones, four new batteries, one answering device, three phone docks and one power pack that might possible work.

  • Donate to  Goodwill
  • Sell on Craigslist
  • Convince my neighbor she needs them for her grandkids to play house.
  • Save the four batteries, (although they do not fit my new phones someone I know might have phones they do).
  • Throw everything in the garbage and pray Zero Waste blogger, Jen, does not haunt my dreams.
  • None of the above and have a suggestion to leave in comment box                                                                                                                                                                                   ….just saying

Am I Politically Stupid?

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Capital_Building

 Aging & Attitude

“Hardball” with Chris Matthews is on the television as I join Mr. Wonderful on the couch to snuggle.  The urgent tone in Matthew’s voice compels me to listen. A heated discussion about Mitt Romney’s selection of Paul Ryan as a VP running mate is taking place, analyst predict Ryan’s budget cuts will intensify the political fight over Medicare.

By commercial time I feel stupid, have difficulty following the ping-pong conversation and question what I can follow, as not making sense.

What fight over Medicare? Every republican in the House and Senate, including Paul Ryan signed into law Obama’s cuts to Medicare Providers (insurance companies, hospitals, nursing homes and drug companies).

Oops, right the 2012 budget was never passed on July 31st, a continuing resolution was approved.

“Oh wait, wait, don’t tell me,” Romney says he will not sign the bill into effect if elected.

After the break I turn up the volume and lean in to concentrate.

Chris Matthews introduces Ezra Klein,a political columnist for the Washington Post, and David Leonhardt, Washington bureau chief of New York Times, to clarify the politics of scaring people especial baby boomers.

Matthew insists Leonhardt delineate Obama, Romney and Ryan on Medicare for viewers.

Delineate sounds dangerous and I am nervous but Leonhardt delivers the difference clearly, with a smile. It is simple without all the political double talk.

  • Obama keeps a single payer government system with cuts to provider management and an emphasis on quality care in the future.
  • Paul Ryan voted yes for all of Obama’s cuts (“only because Obama did first”) but in ten years wants to move to a voucher system, aka, premium support e.g. a check sent to Mr/Ms Senior Citizen to shop around for a provider.
  • Romney wants the voucher system in ten years, but not the cuts in the 2013 Budget/ resolution deal, he will veto when brought to a vote in March 2013 if elected. (Republicans are foxy.)

Ezra Klein confirms the points and reiterates that Obama makes modest changes, the voucher plan is radical; and all three politicians predict the same path of growth in Medicare but look for savings in very different ways for the entitlement program.

The term entitlement blurs my mind and triggers thoughts of stupidity.  I know I’m entitled to Social Security and Medicare benefits because for the past fifty years I and my employer have contributed to the fund. We had a deal; give Uncle Sam part of your pay weekly and the money will be returned for retirement and medical coverage.

Why do I feel caught with my hand in the cookie jar?

Wait, wait don’t tell me, I’ll get my money back but what is left will not cover the costs of Medicare so  cuts are mandatory.

Let me get my pea size brain around this with an analogy I can relate to.

I put aside $100 to buy a dress, when I go to buy the dress it costs $115. There is  only $55 in the kitty because my sister Judy borrowed money to buy designer shoes, consequently, the dress costs too much. If Judy returns the designer shoes the dress becomes affordable.

Wait, wait don’t tell me, Judy has already worn the shoes so I have to shop around for a much cheaper dress (something under $55); what retires, now fifty-five will do in ten years according to a voucher plan.

Am I stupid or are people fifty-five and younger being thrown under a bus?                                                                                                     …just asking

High Definition

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Aging & Attitude

My husband can never die. One of the many, many reasons is his ability to surf the TV channel guide. My television viewing is dependent on him. Just when I’ve remembered that Lifetime HD is 1137, it’s not. The local newspaper does not list High Definition channels but I have a dated program locator (aka guide), with several notations about changes, although not enough to entice me off the couch, into the study, and rifling through a file cabinet.

He’s still alive, sitting in his chair so I double-check, “Lifetime is 1124, right?”

“No, it’s number 1237. All HD channels have been regrouped in the 1200 range.”

“How would I know that?”

“It was in the newspaper, remember I told you.”

“I….Forgot.”

“Bright House also mailed a flyer about Channel Lineup.”

“That was a TV Guide?”

He is a sweet man. Surely, I can figure Television viewing for myself.

Sunday I study the News Journal television guide, and with a highlighter make note of the day and time of my favorite programs and copy the information in a daily calendar. It does not work.

The shows I like are on at 9PM and later, The Closer, Mad Men, Men of a Certain Age, that lawyer show with Cathy Bates, not Andy or Jackie, you know, Harry’s Law. Typically that’s about the time we switch. I swap whatever I am doing for TV and he retires to the bedroom, saying, “Don’t you want to see such and such?”

“Yes! Thanks for reminding me, Mr. Wonderful.”

In the morning I phone Bright House and after pushing several prompts hear a voice say, “I’m Murray your customer service representative, how can I exceed your expectations?”

Now we are talking.

                                                              ….just saying

Repost “Water Bagging”

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Aging & Attitude

 What is Water Bagging? Water Bagging is a newly coined phrased (by me) referring to an experience that can occur in public bathrooms. Water Bagging has a snappy ring, sounds like water boarding minus genuine torture. The similarity, other than the obvious H2O, is the incident left me feeling victimized and asking, “What can be done legally?”

My mission was to exchange an ink cartridge that went dry printing a few Sudoku grids.

The customer service person at the local super store said, “Without a receipt or the packaging, I can only give you ink.”

“That’s fine.” I said. Did she think I wanted money?

“Go get a new one; you don’t have to wait in line again when you come back.”

Great, I hike to technology, grab a new HP cartridge and a second one, just in case, and skip line.  She checks me out with a reminder to save the receipt and off I go. Life is good.

I  see a restroom, do not ‘really’ have to go, but slip inside. All the stalls are in use. The handicap stall frees-up first, no handicap people are in line, and I hurry in.

Thanks to an ABC story, “Your Purse Could be Making You Sick” about pseudopodia, Staphylococcus aureus, ecoli and salmonella invading our homes due to women putting handbags on the floor, I look to hang my bag on the back of the door. The hook is missing. My handbag is small with two handles and closes with a snap, but not snapped. I dump my bag on the edge of the sink and start to undo my slacks.  The bag slumps into the sink, no big deal, until with my pants down and a plastic grocery bag on my wrist notice that like Niagara Falls, water is pouring into my handbag. Tripping, I grab the handbag out of the sink and begin tossing the contents into the plastic bag strangling my wrist. Once the handbag is empty, I pour mega amounts of water out, puddle walk to the toilet, sit with the bags on my lap, and pee, studying my wet stuff.

The ink from the receipt is bleeding and threatens to blotch up several items.

The automated paper towel dispenser is just beyond my reach, wiggling closer (my pants are still down) I manage to activate the release of brown paper by flapping my arms. I wipe things dry while standing.  A couple of deep knee bends later my pants are secured and nothing has touched the floor.

Leaving, I stop to use a noisy hand dryer hoping to preserve the needed HP ink cartridge receipt, conflicted about searching my handbag for ear plugs to prevent loss of hearing from these mother of devices.

Does Water Bagging happen to anyone else? What are the numbers?

Legislation is needed, a grass-roots movement, Women United Against Automatic Flush Toilets, Soap and Paper Towel on Demand Dispensers, and Hot & Cold Water Request Valves That Only Work When You Do Not Want Them To.

We could start a protest similar to Occupy Wall Street, but still pay taxes, babysit grandchildren and sleep in beds.                                                                                                   ….Just Saying.

Repost “Over Active What?”

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(Mr. Wonderful is recovering from surgery, and needs my special attention, consequently a  repost that many of you may have missed and others will still enjoy.)

Aging & Attitude

Overactive bladder is a scary phrase for someone my age.  According to Dr. Paul Donohue, there are several ways to wet your pants.  His daily column in the local News Journal Newspaper answered a reader’s concerns and the good news; you can retrain your bladder, and or take medicine.

Leakage or stress incontinence is loss of urine when swinging a golf club, laughing, and sneezing. Laughter and golf may not go together. If you anticipate a good time golfing, tee up with pads, not knee, the other kind. Perhaps you have seen Whoopi Goldberg’s TV advertisements. Another option is to be a straight-faced golfer committed to not laughing.

Urge incontinence is the other overactive bladder condition. Early symptoms (in my non-medical opinion) are, fear that a bathroom is not readily available when needed, and using a bathroom when you do not have to, resulting in bladder shrinkage.

Dr. Donohue states that the medicines Vesicaare, Enablex, Detrol, Ditropan, and Sanctura help control the urge resulting from bladder contractions. He suggests retraining the bladder by delaying use of the bathroom for five minutes for a week and gradually increasing the time before “going” until you are “going” every two hours or more. This process may result in doing the pee-pee dance, but it does work.

He also recommends avoiding alcohol, carbonated beverages, milk, milk products, honey, sugar and artificial sweeteners during training periods. This man is no fun.

Dr. Donohue goes on to describe a more barbaric invasive procedure, called InterStim no one wants to talk about, although it does stimulate a nerve somewhere in the lower body.

Thank you Dr. Paul Donohue. It is comforting to know there are options. We can take medicine or give up my favorites, wine and ice cream, and stay home to retrain our bladder.

                                                                      ….just saying

A Morning Walk On The Beach

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Aging & Attitude

   The sound, faint in the distance, gathers intensity, as I walk closer. I take my shoes off, and listen to the crescendo, an orchestra’s percussion section; a drum roll of rapidly boiling water rising above a pot edge with white peaks cascading down the side.  I inhale the salty sea air and watch cotton ball clouds hug the horizon as I walk.

The waves have an agenda, moving in shifts, and as the percussion section works its wonder toward the shore, the horns step in, and trumpets whip the water into peaks of sweet cream. Violins and harps join the frolic near the shoreline and linger as the residue changes to beer foam.

I pickup my pace, let the water tickle my toes and remove my hat because the sun is hiding behind a group of clouds. The waves roll back and reveal a pink coquina rock naturally shaped like an alligator, with a twisted tail, protruding neck, and eyes bulged for a better view. The rock earns a lingered look.

Today the sand is speckled with small sea shells scattered above the high tide line like bathers on a popular beach.

The birds do their rapid two-step to imagined music in the air.

A single crane maintains an elegant stance, ready to do a ballerina dance as I leave the beach wishing I had a camera and reduced to words.

                                                                             …. Just Saying