Category Archives: Aging

Odd things against the backdrop of a sad day for our nation

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In New York City, it is overcast and raining.  Not just a sprinkle but the bone-chilling, clothes-drenching kind of day that can make a person melancholy.  That is fitting for the anniversary of September 11, 2001.

I got my son off to school this morning.  6am-9am are not my “prime time” hours.  Let’s just say that for the first two mornings, I returned to the house after drop-off, to sleep a little, shower and get to the office.  Given the cost of the various taxis, this is not a sustainable practice even for the “AM challenged” like me.  Luckily, his other mom comes home tonight from a business trip.  She likes mornings, G-d bless her. 

But today I was meeting a friend at a coffee shop at 8:30am, so I had to be showered and dressed BEFORE drop-off.  This required success-oriented self-coaching last night.  Today I could not hit the snooze button.  I had to be fully groomed and ready with breakfast, packed lunch and washed, dressed and fed child.  After a successful drop-off (phew) off I went in the whipping wind and drastically cooler temperatures to meet my friend.

Neither of us had been to this coffee shop, which turned out to be a 1950s style, singing coffee shop.  The servers (the genderless version of waitress or waiter because “waitron” sounds like a machine) sing. At 8:30AM.  Think about that.  Most people don’t want to hear another’s voice until the crack of 10:15AM, but these servers are belting out songs at 8:30AM.  

Some servers/singers are good, some not so much.  The guy who sang Paul Simon’s “Call me, Al” should have had the microphone ripped out of his hands.  At the risk of being redundant, it is 8:30am, and he is crooning in full voice WITH microphone in a cavernous space where there are few customers.  My friend and I, as 40-and-overs, asked another server to turn down the volume of anything, the senseless movie playing in the background, the background music or the singer.  The response was, “well, we are singing servers.”  How nice for you, really; how unlucky for us.  This is when I wished I had a hearing aid to turn off.

My friend and I called on our powers of concentration and focused.  We giggled about things, talk business some, and talk family (the latter is always bittersweet).  At one point, all the noise — oops, I mean music and singing — stopped and I realized was yelling over the din.  So, I guess I did get the experience of what it must be like to have a hearing aid.

Apparently, one goes to the place for the entertainment and not for the food.  Which makes a person wonder how this place survives the recession.

But it was a great place to have coffee because it created a bloggable moment.  And the guy who sang, “Call me, Al” really should look for another line of work.

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What 40andover women talk/email about

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Did you ever wonder if you know someone who left the bathroom unclean after using? 

One of my dear college friends, let’s call her WF1 (wonderful friend 1) recounted the following story:

“I have an embarrassing story about the bathroom —  I was at a Sunday School meeting at someone’s house.  I needed to use the bathroom, but someone else went in ahead of me.  When she was done, I went in.  I took one look at the seat and [there was pee on it].  I was annoyed, wiped down the seat, washed my hands, and then refused to sit on the toilet.  Well, I used the toilet roll bar to steady myself, and the whole thing fell to the ground and broke!  When I came out, I just used the line my kids use and gave the innocent face “woops, sorry’.” 

How do you eat at that person’s house, let her kids touch anything in your house, shake hands?  EEeeeeewwww.

 

Do you ever wonder about the no standing sign in the toilet?

Then, some days later, WF1 saw a sign in the toilet that said “No standing on toilets.”  WF1 was confused mightily and consulted the group.

So, another dear college friend (let’s call her WF2), enlightened us:  “The ‘no standing’ on the toilet sign is probably aimed at people from countries where they use ‘non-Western’ toilets.  [There is no place to sit and one squats.]  So maybe they stand on the toilet.  I wonder if you can see their heads over the top of the stall divider?  I think standing on the toilet can damage it because they aren’t designed to take a person’s full weight. I discussed this with my husband who was perplexed by footprints on a toilet seat at work.”

I can understand being perplexed by our toilets.  A bidet still scares me.  Originally I thought it was either the most bizarre urinal ever or a place to wash your feet.  Why wouldn’t a person just take a shower?

 

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Visiting Mom

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So I let my son wake me earlier than usual on a weekend [dulcet tones of “wake up, WAKE UP, Mom, there are CARTOOOOONS on!!”] because I need to pick up my sister and father to go to visit Mom at the cemetery.  My son didn’t want to come because he says cemeteries are creepy and make him think of ghosts and skeletons.  I get that.  Cemeteries are creepy, I tell him, but I have to visit Grandma’s grave.  He says he will visit us but he is not ready yet.  We are not ready to be visited there for a really long time, I tell him.  He nods and then asks to turn on cartoons.  Good, I think, death and destruction before the pilgrimage to the cemetery.

Lots of people are buried in Queens and on Long Island.  Very convenient if you need to pop in on two funerals on different sides of the family on the same day. We had to do that once. Very convenient, indeed.

I pick up my sister who is limping badly, even with a cane.  Her husband who is NOT coming with us (he hasn’t met Mom yet) is feeling sheepish but he needs to focus on a painting.  He is trying not to look like a heel by carrying my sister’s stuff to the car.  He even offers to carry her cane.  Ok, he IS funny.

We drive to Dad’s and set off to Long Island.  Once, when I mentioned that Grandma is in Heaven, my son asked, “Heaven is on Long Island?” [ To some, yes, I guess, Heaven is on Long Island.]  I stammered that her body is there but her spirit is somewhere else.  Then I called for my partner because I was WAY out of my element.  Kids are smarter than adults.  But I digress.

Dad gives me helpful driving hints like, “is there a reason you are driving behind the slow car?” and “go straight. no, make a left.  I said make a left!” and “well, I guess I told you to get off at the wrong exit.”  It is really ok.  My dad is going to be 89 in October, and he is in terrific shape (spit in the evil eye, a Jewish superstition).

We arrive and get a little lost in the cemetery.  So many dead people.  But we find Mom and our other relatives.  Luckily, they haven’t moved.  We three say a few prayers for all of the family members, leave stones on the graves and reminisce about Mom.  My sister brings pictures of Mom through the years.  It is good to have the gravestone as a focus of our thoughts.  About 45 minutes into our visit, a couple stops and visits another grave nearby.  After they finish their drive-by visit, the woman comes over to us to say, “we come all the time and never see anyone else here.”  Gee, thanks.  Very thoughtful of you to say and I don’t really notice all your ugly plastic surgery.   

My sister needs to take pictures to document the occasion.  No joke, these go into our family photo albums. I wish she had taken a picture of the woman with the bad face lift.

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Anything goes in an epic day where nothing happens

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After meeting my sister at the gym (see prior entry), I raced home and showered and changed in time to go with my family to my sister’s house where some out of town, and newly-minted New Yorker, cousins were coming for brunch.  Before meeting me at the gym, my sister had schlepped on her bad foot to Zabars to purchase a Jewish soul food brunch extravaganza.  (We both got the food purchasing gene from Mom; too much is still never enough.) Where is my brother-in-law, you ask?  He was working on a painting assignment in his studio, but I cross-examined him and I was satisfied that he was hard at work and stressed about the painting and, more importantly, he felt guilty and undeserving of my sister’s love.  So, he was excused for the day of family activities.

Whenever our family gets together, gastro-intestinal fortitude makes its way into the conversation.  This time, a fourth generation cousin (third generation born in this country) talked about her IBS (irritable bowel syndrome).  I thought, wow, I thought irritable bowel was just a family personality trait (think about that for a second).  I had no idea that it was a medical condition.  She is a runner and cannot complete a run without — er, um — finding a bathroom (or remote area of the woods if she runs in the countryside).  We discuss Metamusil, Immodium and other products while stuffing smoked fish down our throats.  We discussed the relative cleanliness standards of most major chain stores in NYC and the value of her strengthened thigh muscles in being able not to sit down.  Still we are eating.  In fact, we have to talk with our mouths full just to get in a word amidst the chatter.

My son was very engaging until he stopped abruptly, got a bird encyclopedia (my brother-in-law is a bird nerd) and sat down to read.  My father wanted to continue talking to my son, but my son would have none of it.  He said, “Puh-leeze, Grandpa, I need some alone time to recharge my batteries.” Kids hear everything you say and some time, some place, it comes out — ZING!!!

My cousin brought homemade zucchini bread with zucchini from her garden.  I thought that I could re-gift it for our barbeque in Scarsdale later in the day, but no one would believe that I made anything like that.  Besides, it would be too much like life imitating art — or Seinfeld, whichever.  Of course, after someone tried it and thought it was delicious, I mentioned that I had really wanted to re-gift it and was disappointed that any of it was eaten and my family (jokingly, I promise you) tried to make it look whole again so I could take it.  I didn’t even watch Seinfeld (but I did hear the retelling of the episodes) and even this was too much.  But reality is crazier than any fiction. 

We had to leave this gathering to go to Scarsdale for a barbeque but by this time the migraine had overpowered the pills and I was achy and in need of a dark, quiet room.  That is not possible in my house because when my son gets into playing with his toys, it is loud like an arena.  And, he was so unhappy not to go to our friends in Scarsdale.  So were we.  I just couldn’t make it. 

I slept for awhile and then we did some errands with the car I rented so we could go to Scarsdale.  These are the kinds of errands that need a car — dropping off heavy stuff at donation places, etc.   After a few of these type of errands, my partner gave my son a choice of whether or not to go to Fairway food store (the one that is like a warehouse) to shop.  He opted not to, of course.  My partner tried to change his mind but if you give a child a choice you have to live with the answer or start negotiating.  So, I started negotiating.  He got french fries and an ice pop at dinner if he and I stayed in the car while my partner went shopping for exactly 20 minutes.  Then she remembered she had her iPod with the bird sounds game.  But no one would let me renegotiate, so I was left in the car listening to high pitched bird calls.  My migraine started to spread beyond the borders of my brain and threatened to create an epidemic of brain pain throughout upper Manhattan.

So as not to let the rental go to waste, we are going to the cemetery to visit my mom’s grave tomorrow.  My sister will bring the left-overs from brunch so we can have a tailgate.  Our family can eat anywhere.

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Lucy and Ethel go to the Gym

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Some days you wake up feeling like a Mack truck has run over you.  Today was that day for me.

But my sister wanted to go to the gym today and do weight exercises because, she conveniently slipped into the conversation, she had been in the ER yesterday and has a stress fracture in her foot, is using a cane and wears one of those ugly, sling-like shoes (I guess the word, “ugly” was redundant).  I told her even if the shoe was comfortable and resembled an Easy Spirit style for one’s tenth decade, it was not a fashion statement she wanted to make.  My sister need diversion and so I dragged my sorry self out of bed and away from my son who was watching less violent cartoons (must be something about Sundays).  I had a sense of an on-coming migraine, but it is my sister and she was in the ER alone the day before.  Anyway, migraine pills are always at the ready.

We both belong to a wheelchair accessible gym but you have to go outside and up a ramp to get to the elevator which doesn’t go to every floor.  Ok, so like most things in life the advertising is better than the product. My sister hobbled up and skied down the stairs (the latter was scary because my sister is no Picabo Street).  Here is a picture of the latest sporty ambulatory footwear (some day I will master the reformatting of a picture but for now, please turn your head sideways, thanks):

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My sister plans on a whopping twenty minutes at the gym.  I channel my old trainer and yell “thrust the bust!!”, “breasts out!!” and other crazy things that only a perky 20-something can say to a 40-something person.  My sister laughed too much and ruined her posture while using the weight machines.  And I sounded like a moron.  But I got into it and kept yelling, “breathe IN, breathe OUT”.  Another episode of “Ethel and Lucy Go to the Gym” but without the laugh track.

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You’re young one day, then Mom stares back from the mirror

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Dear Mom:

You weren’t a fan of summer, especially the humidity.  And some of your summer outfits were — how does one say — sartorial tragedies.

The summer is over.   You loved the fall for the crispness in the air and that back-to-school sense of starting anew.  You also loved the springtime for the promise of warmer days and rebirth and renewal. 

So, this time of year (who am I kidding, every day) I think about you especially.

I looked in the mirror and saw your eyes staring back at me.  More particularly, I saw the extra skin in my eyelids.  I remember that you were adamant about not having that extra skin removed.  Remind me again, why? 

I have started to moisturize.  I know you gave us such good skin, but I think I have taken enough advantage.  You always had beautiful skin on your face, but your neck — well, it is looking like I may need to go back to turtle necks or scarves like Candace Bergen in Murphy Brown.

All kidding aside, you were beautiful throughout your life (maybe the 70s wasn’t your best decade).  I am grateful for all of you that is in me.  

Love, me

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Lynette Squeaky Fromme

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The only reason to feel sorry for this Charles Manson follower and would-be assassinator of our then President Ford, is that she is 60 years old and STILL she is called Squeaky.  Is Lynette such a bad name?

Do you think she is different now?  It is hard to imagine a 60 year-old Manson follower.  It is like imagining your grandparents’ having sex.  But not as gross.  Eeewww.   Eeeeewwww.  I need to stop now.

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If Mom were alive, would this be her comment?

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I’m guessing this is what my mother (of blessed memory) would comment on my blog.

Hi, darling!  [said with a thrill that only a mother could have in corresponding with her child]:

Please be careful. There are crazies out there who might be reading your blog. So, I called the Secret Service. They are so efficient; the person who answered knew exactly who I was. Technology is SO marvelous. I asked for protection for you. The agent wasn’t sure, so I called the White House and they said that I looked marvelous at the last march on the Mall. Who knew? I wasn’t feeling great that day, chemo and all, so it must have been my new wig. Thank Goodness your father was there. He takes such good care of me. When I went over to talk to anti-abortion people, they were very nasty and your father stepped in. My ovaries haven’t worked in decades, so why couldn’t they have a civil conversation on a theoretical level? Which proves my point about protection for you.

Your sister came along on the march as my physician. (Isn’t it a MUST to have a health care professional in the family?  Don’t worry, I remember how you helped get me a $200 rebate so paying for law school was worth it.)  Having a travelling doctor IS the new accessory for us old people. I have Dad and your sister. Let the Secret Service top that for Obama. By the way, isn’t he handsome? So smart, so funny, such a leader. If only he were Jewish and not married, he would be perfect for your sister if she weren’t already happily married to a wonderful man (I am not schlepping in Central Park to look at birds).  After all of these years of keeping an eye out for eligible men, it is hard to remember to stop looking now that she is married.  I forget things at my age, but I am always thrilled when I remember that she is, in fact, married.

You looked thin last week. Is there enough protein in your diet?

Well, off to chemo, then a gallery and then there’s a protest at One Police Plaza. Maybe I’ll get lucky and get arrested. I have your card in case I need a lawyer. One should get arrested for a good cause once in one’s life. But only for peaceful protests.

So, all right, Tootsie. See you for Sunday night dinner.

Love, Mom

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