Senior Schmenior

A hand-written sign in the plate glass window at the entrance of Jimmy's luncheonette announced: Senior Citizen discount - 10%!  I made a mental note to tell my husband. (I’m not being fresh, he boldly lists to anyone who will listen all the places he gets his senior discount. He looks about 15 years younger than he is, owing in part to a full head of black hair. So of course he tells people how old he is, because they always say, “No way!”)

Anyway, once I tucked that bit of information into my brain, I promptly forgot about it. I was having lunch with my writer’s group, Trudy, and we had Important Matters to discuss. And we had to eat lunch, the kind of lunch that you treat yourself to when you’re having a  Meeting therefore you get the grilled cheese and the French fries. Yum.

The Important Matters that Trudy and I talked about were the typical writer’s group topics: our kids, her grueling committee work, my grueling committee work, doctors, traveling and wine. Oh . . . and writing. After an hour or so, the waitress brought us our bill and we gabbed a few minutes more before reaching for our wallets. It was a little less than we had figured in our heads. Ten percent less.

Ouch.

Please understand, I am a fan of aging. (“It beats the alternative” ba-dum bum). I am also a fan of discounts, especially for grilled cheese and French fries, so no problem there. However, don’t you think it was a little presumptuous on our waitress’s part to assume that Trudy and I were eligible for the Senior Discount?  I am certain that it was not a malicious assumption and we didn’t take our initial umbrage out in her tip. But, I think it’s one of those things where it would have been nice to be asked.

“Excuse me, Miss, we have a Senior discount on Tuesdays. Obviously, you’re too young to take advantage, but we like to tell all of our customers, just in case.”

This particular waitress was a 20-something and probably everyone over 40 looks old enough to get the discount to her. The regular waitresses we usually get are a couple of ladies who certainly appear to be over 40 (well look who’s making age judgments now!) and definitely have some experience behind them. It’s just in their manner.

If I had been asked, then I could lie and take the discount or politely decline (I’m not eligible, okay?) but it would be my choice to declare my age and financial status. Having seniority thrust upon me is, well, oddly, uncomfortable. Why? Well, I suppose I’ll add that to the list of things I have to look at more closely. Or maybe Trudy and I can discuss it at our next writer’s meeting.

Road Trip

I love road trips. I’m like a yellow lab. I bound into the car practically panting with excitement at the adventure to come. It’s been like this as far back as I can remember (and granted it is not that far back anymore). I don’t know what it is about sitting for hours on end, watching the scenery fly by, suffering traffic and bad drivers until I get to my destination that sets my inner navigational system abuzz, but I love it.

When I was little, one of the games I used to play with my brother and sister had something to do with us pretending to pack up our car or covered wagon or train and travel a great distance to discover new lands or visit some adventurous place--in our basement. I have this memory of enjoying the decision-making process of what to bring and where to put it. I thrilled at finding just the right space for my belongings and I beamed with pride when I got all of our dolls to fit in the “backseat”. Maybe it’s just packing I love. Maybe I missed my calling and I should be working at UPS. I do look good in brown.

There’s not much I don’t like about climbing into a car, igniting the engine and taking off. Alone or with company, I have many, many good memories of traveling by car. Even when traveling with kids, which can be challenging. In the days before portable dvd players and iPhones, we would throw a few books in the backseat, a blankie, a pillow and some favorite stuffed animals and we were off. I remember talking, listening to music, singing and laughing. (I do understand that these are probably not my children’s memories, but they are mine and I’m sticking to them.) When the trip would start to get a little long, we played the enormously original game of Alphabet.  We had to find things that started with each letter of the alphabet, in order. Airplane, bushes, cars (the easy one), drawbridge, etc. When we had trouble with Q, X and Z, we made allowances and we could cite a billboard or a phone tower that had the shape of the particular letter. (There are a lot of Xs in tall telephone towers, just in case you need that information.) We also played, “What’s in the truck?” another original game in which we would guess what exciting merchandise a semi trailer was hauling, if it wasn’t evident on its sign--like Dunkin’ Donuts. Obviously that was a truck full of doughnuts. Yes, our drives were quite academic in those days. But if we weren't learning quantum physics, we were definitely having a good time.

My latest road trip was a little different. Technology has integrated itself into my travel time in the form of a smartphone. Where I once gazed out the window, wondering if that was the Erie Canal or if we were close enough to the Blue Ridge Parkway to drive on part of it, I was gazing instead into the little screen in my hands. New emails? No problem, I could answer them right away. Voicemails? Same thing. Done. Of course I could also find out about that canal (Yes, it is the Erie Canal), but I spent more time on my phone than watching the late fall beauty of upstate New York pass just outside my window.  This of course, is my experience as a passenger. The phone is new and hopefully a passing fancy. (Yeah, sure. I’ll always want to know the origin of that lake’s name or if the next rest stop has a Starbucks.)

When I drive, and I can’t hold the phone in my hand, it’s just me and my car, watching the sky and feeling the road vibrations under my feet. Stories about the people who live in the towns I pass create themselves and fill my head as I drive by. They seem like nice folks. Way back in the olden days, when we only had steering wheels and tires and forty-cent a gallon gas, I drove everywhere in all kinds of cars; the make or model didn’t matter as much as that I got to get behind the wheel and go...anywhere. As a passenger I usually read books when I wasn’t looking out the window or tending to children; as the driver I pointed out interesting sights, sometimes to those same children who were now sleeping. It was always a good time. I don’t want an electronic device to dictate my road trips to me (and don’t get me started about the irritating and bossy GPSes we have had). As a result of this last trip, I think I will have to fight the urge to annotate my trips via Wikipedia, put down the phone and do what I have always done: enjoy the journey.

And I can always play the Alphabet game.

Sick Day

The other morning, driving into work with Angelo, which is all of a three-minute drive from our house, (Yes, I know I should walk...don’t remind me) I said to him,  “I wish I could take a sick day.”

We both laughed.

I woke up that morning with a sore throat and while it wasn’t life-threatening, it did make me feel like staying in bed longer, drinking tea and reading the new book I bought two weeks ago that I hadn’t even cracked open yet.  It sounded like such a good idea.

But as all self-employed people know, the infamous Sick Day is not a benefit typically available to us. You would think it would be the opposite. In fact, most traditionally employed people probably think we self-employed folks sit around in our jammies, catching up on Netflix and playing Words With Friends most days. This is, in fact, mostly not true. We self-employed folk don’t have the luxury of a 9 to 5 time frame in which to complete our work. We are more often working at 7am or 10 pm and most hours in between than not, responding to emails, writing up invoices, composing reports, looking at ways to bring in more business. Because the other thing we don’t have the luxury of is a regular paycheck. (Or insurance, but that’s a whole other bottle of pills.)

So, why is it so hard to take a sick day? It is true that we can make our own schedule.  And, to be honest, we are very lucky in being able to do that. It allows me to babysit my grandson, take a trip to Maine without submitting a request for vacation days to an unsympathetic boss or wait for the cable guy’s outlandish timeframe for arrival. And, if we don’t have any morning appointments, we actually can stay home in our jammies and make calls and write emails and have a second cup of coffee. But we’re still working.

I guess the work ethic is strong in most of us raised in a certain societal climate and time.  I had a hard time calling in sick when I had a traditional job, so staying home -- in bed!-- when I have a business to run certainly sounds like lollygagging to me. In my own office I can cough or sniffle or moan and no one is there to complain. Well, Angelo is, but I also listen to his complaining, so it makes it even. And I make an effort to not moan and groan too much with clients. Work hard, that’s the mantra that plays again and again in my head, even through a head stuffed with congestion or over a throbbing toothache.

But taking care of my own health should be as important as the health of my business, yes? And yesterday my back went out and it’s still really painful today. I have no appointments on the calendar.  I have some emails to respond to, but I’ve already covered how I address that. I have a book to read.

I really don’t have anything else to do but finish this sentence. 

Bathing Suit Black and Blues

I’m not much of a shopper. The last time I tried to do a little wardrobe updating, I quit twenty minutes in because my arm started hurting from picking up and putting back all the hangers. I know. I’m a lightweight. But here’s a question as a result of that ill-fated trip: aren’t bathing suits typically expected to cover up one’s top and bottom anymore? 

The last time I bought a bathing suit was about four years ago, so admittedly, it’s been a while, but the one I bought covered me up in all the right places. It was a fancy brand name one-piece in sensible brown that I bought at a discount store in Maine.   The suit itself was not fancy, it was proper as I swam and sunned each summer since in relative comfort. (It was less comfortable when I had to wear it on the Amalfi Coast a couple of years ago when all the Italian ladies I was traveling with slipped right into their skimpy two-pieces and stood proudly, ankle deep, chatting in the ultramarine Mediterranean. I sat under an umbrella and an oversized white shirt and claimed sun poisoning.)

I can barely navigate the crowded aisles in the ladies department much less find what I’m looking for, so when I spotted the bathing suits (at least I can still recognize them) I decided to ditch the wardrobe updating and find a replacement for my quickly disintegrating old faithful. My arm flinched in pain as I chose a hanger upon which hung a black suit and I held it up to try and spot any hidden bejewelment. No sparkly jewels on this one--promising--but, no bottom either. It looked like a tankini top but there was nothing else attached to the hanger.  “Ah,” I thought, “this is that scam where you have to buy the tops and bottoms separately.” As if buying bathing suit tops and bottoms separately makes any sense at all. It’s like buying pots and lids separately. Dumb.

So, I scanned the rack for the accompanying bottoms section. There wasn’t one. There were no bottoms anywhere except two racks away where, scrunched up at the end, was a selection of teeny, bikini bottoms in none of the colors of the tops I was looking at. Dumber.

I was stymied. My husband, who had been wandering around in the Men’s shoe department, eventually came looking for me. He found me, glassy-eyed, arms tangled with hangers, bumping back and forth between the racks as if I couldn’t find my way out. I couldn’t.

“Here,” he said gently, as if approaching a wounded animal, “let me take some of those from you” and he lifted the tangle of metal and plastic hangers, spandex and gold leaf from my already aching arms.

“I can’t...” I began, “I don’t know how...” I sputtered until I was finally able to wail, “there aren’t any bottoms!”

“How about we do this another time?” he suggested and he started to tug on the single, black, one-piece I had managed to add to my pile.

“NO!” I shrieked, and I threw it in the basket he had shown up with. At least he had found the shoes he was looking for, although he isn’t that much better at shopping than I am. Weary and shopping-worn, we headed to the checkout counter. His leather sandals, some cute cereal bowls for my grandson, a green sundress marked down to $12 that I still haven’t tried on and the mysterious black bathing suit went into the shopping bag and out the door with us. We went straight home and had a drink.

At my age, I am not going to get better at sorting out the enigma that is women’s clothing. As long as I can go out in public in a semi-acceptable outfit, I will consider myself successful. I only have to wear a bathing suit a couple of months of the year; it doesn’t have to be perfect.  Still, I haven’t worn the new one yet. (Upon further inspection in the privacy of my own home, I can report that it is black, hopefully the correct size, with no gold or jewels, although there is some acceptable blue and turquoise piping across the front.) I haven’t tossed old faithful, sensible brown, yet, either. Let’s not be hasty, I always say.

Imagine

Today was just a regular day in a long string of regular days. I got up - late - and went to teach my OLLI class. My projector didn't work, so I had to go find a tech guy to help me, which cut into the time I needed to prepare since I was late to begin with. But my students showed up and we did what we needed to do and I drove home thinking of the list of things I needed to take care of before the end of this regular day, dodging the guys standing in the middle of the street and sulking when I got stuck behind a slow-going tow truck.

One of the things I had to remember to do today was to stop by the Post Office and mail back my ADL contract. Four years ago I trained to be a trainer for the Anti-Defamation League. Just the training experience alone is a whole other blog post, but for now, suffice it to say it was meaningful. So meaningful that although I've only been called to train a dozen or so times in the last four years, I am committed to sticking with it. I attend as many of our quarterly meetings as I can, I try and volunteer for the fund-raising events as often as possible and I stay connected with some of my co-trainers via email or Facebook, just because I like them so much. Last night, when our training coordinator handed me my "official" ADL name badge - with a magnet and everything! - I nearly swooned. I love this work.

Sometimes though, outside of my ADL family (and my family) I feel like no one really knows what the ADL does or even who they are. I've had to explain a number of times what the initials actually stand for and I do my ol' stand-by description of the work and the mission: fight hate, build hope and safeguard liberty.  And even then, there is often a blank stare before the topic is quickly changed. Not because people don't care, I'm sure, but because where do you go after that? I think that's why I love going to my trainer meetings so much - my people are there.  We "get" each other and it's always nice to feel that way.

So it was more than a surprise this morning when I handed over my manilla envelope to send back to the ADL HQ containing my trainer's contract to hear the postal employee say, "I love the work you people do." My immediate thought was, "what is he talking about? What people?" until I realized he was gesturing towards the return address which has ADL in big bold letters.

"Oh, thank you!" I said.

"There's so much work to be done," he said and I immediately drew on the excitement from the previous night's meeting and told him about this year's centennial celebration and theme: Imagine a World Without Hate.  Anne Frank celebrating her 84th birthday. Matthew Shepherd running for political office.

"Yeah," he said, "been there, done that."

"Thank you for saying something", I said,  "I really appreciate it."

And then he said, "God bless you on your journey."

So, not a regular day after all. Actually, a pretty awesome day. When I got back to my office I took out the new magnetic, permanent, name tag I got last night and put it on. I think I'll wear it all the time.

The Best Mother's Day Ever

At about 3 o'clock on one of the sunniest Mother's Days in recent memory, Luca sat up from a sound sleep in his Nana Sue's arms and threw up everything he had eaten since 8 o'clock that morning.  We were all sitting on the porch together, having completed two of the day's three planned meals. It was Annie's first Mother's Day and she and her own mother (me) AND her mother-in-law (the aforementioned Nana Sue) were having a pretty nice day so far. The morning meal - bagels, cream cheese, lox and fruit salad - looked like this:

And this: 

 

We had Momosa's (which is a Mimosa made on demand for Mom) and just plain enjoyed the beautiful day.  Luca, as always, was the center of attention, but the Moms got some attention, too. We moved to the back porch for our second course, mini quiches and chicken-maple sausages; bananas for Luca. My sister the Great-Aunt arrived and we all opened tissue-paper wrapped presents and cards in pink and purple envelopes. It was a good day. We moved back up to the shade of the side porch when the sun got too hot. Luca had lost his shirt by this time and my son, Uncle Christopher, showed up after he had gotten off of work.  A few minutes before 3pm, Luca looked like this: 

Not even a hint of what was to come. Then he threw up. Eight adults jumped to action: Mommy (Annie) swooped up Luca to hold and comfort him, Daddy (Tony) helped his Nana extricate herself from the torrent of bananas, rice cereal and milk that was dripping off of her black blouse and now pooling on the porch. Great-Aunt Susie and Uncle Christopher tackled porch-cleaning duty and Auntie Christina helped Daddy take care of their mother.  Papa and I helped by staying out of the way. 

The mood of the day changed. Although the little guy was able to manage that brilliant smile, he was clearly feeling terribly and continued to throw up. Mom and Dad took him upstairs and the rest of us kept vigil on the porch, sharing vomit war stories. We grandmothers hovered, galvanized, ready to be of any assistance necessary. Papa took a nap. Uncle Christopher went up to check on his little nephew and gave his sister the First Mother's Day card he had for her and decided to leave the vigil in our capable hands. Plans for meal number three were put on hold. It wasn't as if we hadn't eaten enough anyway. Many of the Mother's Day presents were chocolates; of the fancy boxed variety, so we were fine.  

At one point, Tony came down and asked both me and Nana Sue to come up - they needed advice! We didn't need to be asked twice. Upstairs, Luca was laying across Annie's lap smiling, but he barely moved. Annie held on to him as if hoping to transmit her own energy into him, looking tired yet strong. She said with a smile, "He's really making me work for this Mother's Day."

I thought about that later, how things work out. All of our plans, potted plants and tasty dishes were set aside when the baby got sick and everyone discovered something about the best laid plans and motherhood. Personally, I learned that I don't always have to know everything...just because I've been a mom for over 31 years. I came by the knowledge first-hand, through experiences just like this. Luca has a mother; he doesn't need two more. And although Sue and I are a couple of pretty good mothers, we are better grandmothers...sitting back until called upon. But when we're called upon, you better believe that we'll be on the job. But I think we both know that to be able to trust your mother's intuition, you need to develop it. And when your baby is throwing up and crying and tired...well, that is the proving ground. 

Yesterday, everyone, from Papa to Auntie, from Uncle to Great-Auntie, seemed to understand that when a baby is sick, you just do what needs to be done.  Nobody was disappointed, nobody pouted, everybody pitched in to help. As a mother, I couldn't have been more proud of the way my family rallied around Annie, Tony and Luca. Or the way the new Mommy and Daddy stepped right up to the responsibility of taking care of their little one. There will be many more Mother's Days to come, complete with handmade construction paper cards, breakfasts in bed, macaroni necklaces, fancy brunches, bouquets of flowers and lots more chocolate. As far as I'm concerned, though, this year was the best Mother's Day ever. 

I don't have much, but I love what I've got

Last year, I received--or bought--an orchid. (I'm sorry if you gave it to me and I don't remember. One of the things I don't have much of is memory.) It bloomed on the table in the kitchen for months, until, one by one, the delicate petals fell off, leaving only broad, waxy leaves and a creepy looking stem held to a stake by one of those small plastic hair clasps. It had been so pretty and I marveled at the fact that I hadn't killed it sooner than it's apparent natural demise. I didn't want to toss it out in the garbage--that seemed harsh, so I Googled "orchids" to see if I could nurture it back to beauty once more.

I wasn't too hopeful.

As it turns out, there were some easy "bring-back-to-life" instructions on the web site for these particular orchids. I had to cut back the creepy looking stem and add some fertilizer and wait. A couple of months later, one of what looked like exposed roots started to poke upward. It began to turn from brown to green and as it grew, I used the hair clasp to secure it to the stake. I continued to water it and a couple of months ago, a tiny green shoot appeared with a small greenish bulb at the end. Then more appeared. I was getting excited. Then, it bloomed. I came down one morning and saw that pink, delicate blossoms hung impossibly from the tiny stems. Success! It grew back! And there were more blooms and, I think, a stronger looking stem. I pointed it out, more than once,  to everyone who walked through the kitchen - "Look! it came back! It came back!" My family was not equally thrilled. But I felt like I had just painted the Sistine Chapel.

My point is (if it has not been clear yet...no one can muddle a point like I can) that there is a lot that I can't do. And once one (okay, me) gets to a certain age, it's not likely that I'm going to acquire many more skills and abilities than those I already possess. Old dog, new tricks...that sort of thing. (I'm not cynical about lifelong learning...I teach in a lifelong learning program...I'm making a point, remember?) Some people can grow acres and acres of flora and fauna. I can't, but I can get an orchid to come back. And that makes me happy. I like what I am able to do, I'm grateful for what I am able to do.  And I'm grateful for what others can do that I can't - like my taxes. It's nice to be at this stage of life when I don't feel like I have to do everything. I can just do the stuff that I can do, do my best and let somebody else do theirs. Why take all the fun for myself?