"Silver Lining"

     Here are some good news/ bad news scenarios affecting my life right now:

     The good news is that I no longer have acne.  The bad news is that it's been replaced by wrinkles.  The good news is I'm the only one in my class with clear skin.  The bad news is I'm the oldest student in the whole damned school. I met with my younger classmates to work on our group project recently.  Scanning the occupants of the school library, I was embarrassed to find that the only people even remotely close to my age in there were the... librarians.

      When I was younger I used to pluck my few stray greys, that is up until the practice began to alter the appearance of my hairline. Of late, I have had to engage in the same practice with my eyebrows.  Thank God for Maybelline.  For without it, I'm beginning to look like a very old Mona Lisa.

     I recently got a new pair of eyeglasses which I think are very striking, and also give me a kind of "bookish" look.  The down side is that the next time I'm eligible for new glasses-I'll be sixty.  Ouch!

    ( Speaking of turning sixty, will I then be compelled to change my blog's title to "Sixty-Something Sophomore"?)

     As previously mentioned, I recently had an older person's test done-bone density.  Receiving my diagnosis was a real wake up call, and it threw an absolute wrench in my age related state of denial.  Yes, I have osteoporosis.  The good news is that my long hair will help camouflage anything that may "arise" because of it. Additionally, when I'm in school, I will be sporting an empty backpack.  Who's to know it will be devoid of books...  And since I'm shrinking (I've already lost an inch)  that presents an opportunity to go out with shorter men, in effect broadening my significantly limited range of options. Every cloud has its silver lining.

  

    

"One Liners and Other Stories""

     So I met with the "boys" Thursday evening,  to work on our final class project .  We have to meet once more, so I suggested Monday afternoon, explaining that I was unavailable in the morning because I have a test.  "Oh? In what subject?" they queried in unison.  "Bone density", I replied morosely.

     I have a friend who indicated that she had been married to "Tony Soprano", except without the money.  I can relate. I was married to "Stanley Kowalski", except without Marlon Brando's looks.

     Speaking of the Ex, we met recently to run some errands and have a cup of coffee.  As he described life with the current "missus", which, by the way, is not exactly heaven on earth, I asked him did he realize that he had married "himself"...I don't think he got my drift...

     I have another friend who indicates he may need rotator cuff surgery.  Suspicious that I may as well, I was asking about his symptoms.  He described the intense pain he has running down his arm when working, as his job entails heavy lifting.  Funny, mine only hurts when I reach in the refrigerator...I don't let that stop me though...

     I was describing to  a  coworker how my hair has a mind of its own. I have a widow's peak, which causes my hair to combat any style I attempt to achieve.  Feeling compelled to show her, she took me by complete surprise when she informed me that I do not have a widow's peak.  I ran (as much as a 50-something can run) to the nearest mirror, horrified to discover that I do not, in fact, have a widow's peak. At least not anymore...I did at one time. I imagine that, unbeknownst to me, it slowly disappeared along with my natural brown hair and full, round cheeks...

"Food for Thought"

     The other evening I met with my young (20-something-if that) classmates to work on our group project.  As much as I detest group projects, I welcome the opportunity to get to know these young fellows.  I tend to be somewhat discriminatory towards today's youth, but these kids are just so nice-good, clean cut kids trying to get an education.  The one young fellow (the one who reminds me of my son) is immensely talented.  For our project, he has done some "drawings" on the computer which are extraordinary. He did them "free hand", so to speak, his tool being a mouse rather than a pencil or paint brush.  He is talented, and loves doing it.  Computer graphics, however, is not his major.  He is majoring in something entirely different.  We asked him why, when he obviously enjoys this so much. His reply was "Well, then it would be work."  That remark got me wondering.  The general conception is that one should find what one loves to do, and then figure out a way to earn a living doing it.  On one hand, this makes perfect sense.  After all, most people do spend the greater part of their lives "working".  But I believe this young man may be on to something.  For example, I have a friend who has been lamenting that she didn't pursue a career dancing when she was younger, and perhaps become a professional dancer.  However, at this time in her life, dancing is her hobby, and she enjoys it immensely.  Would she derive such joy  from dancing now had it been her profession?  One can only surmise.  As for me, yes, I do have regrets that I didn't pursue a writing career as a young adult. But again, I write for enjoyment now.  No pressure, except that which is self imposed.  Writer's block, as I have experienced of late, does not mean that I won't eat or pay my rent.  I have my real job for that.  So would earning a leaving doing that which we love cause a lifetime of enjoying one's work, or a contempt for that which we once enjoyed?  I guess it's up to the individual.  It is food for thought, however. 

    

"Den Mother"

     The semester is winding down, and thankfully, I only have one class remaining.   The group project is progressing slowly.  At times I feel like the den mother of a cub scout troop.  We haven't been communicating outside of class as much as I believe necessary to complete the project.  I stressed to the guys the need for increased communication, and subsequently asked them if they "text"...   I felt ridiculous as soon as the words had escaped my mouth, and quickly switched gears. " I know that was a ridiculous question. You fellows are probably wondering if I text..."  I have to admit, they were gracious...

     Seniors Get the Inside Story on Marriage.  Huh?  This was a headline in the Clark Monthly, which momentarily confused me (a senior moment?).  In actuality, it confused me until I read the first few sentences of the article, which was referring to a class for H.S. Seniors at the local school.  I was wondering why a certain age group would have needed that class...Many of us could have taught it!  I know I could have.  I found marriage to be very educational.

     Buddy managed to knock his rawhide bone under the love seat.  He crouched down, his head and front paws under the love seat, his butt sticking up in the air, and in an exercise in futility, attempted to reach it. When I realized he couldn't, I joined him on the floor, my arms flailing about, also in an exercise in futility (sort of-all of the dust bunnies are gone).  In exasperation, I got up to fetch the broom, and there was the bone in full view to the right of the love seat.  Well, duh!

    

   

"Late Bloomer"

     I mentioned to a coworker recently that I had to leave work early because I had to attend school. "Are you going for your Master's?", she queried. (Nobody expects a fifty-something to be a college freshman.) "Wrong! Guess again."   "Bachelor's?"  "Nope!"  (Three strikes you're out!)  I couldn't stand it anymore so I blurted it out. "I'm working towards my Associate's Degree." (She was momentarily dumbfounded.)  I sheepishly added  "I am (and always have been) a late bloomer."

     Speaking of school, my professor is constantly remarking about how "old" he is.  What's frightening is that, to me, he appears young.  I recently discovered that he is ten years younger than I.  If he considers himself old, what must he think I am?  I am disinclined to inquire...

     I haven't been applying myself as stringently this semester as I have over the last two years.  I recently mentioned to a friend that I didn't feel like going to class, and that I hadn't done my homework. "Ah", she opined, "you finally have something in common with your (young) classmates!" 

     We have a group project to complete, which is the first I have ever participated in since returning to college.  I was hoping Professor would pair me with some of the more mature students, but such was not the case.  I am in a group with three 20-something guys.  (I don't mean 20-someting as in 28 or 29. I'm talking 20 or 21.)  In fact, I can't take my eyes off of the one fellow (not for the reason you're thinking...) because he looks just like my youngest son!  I can't begin to imagine what these young fellows (I just can't call them men) were thinking when they realized they would be working with their "grandmother". 

     While discussing the project, we have been deciding who will handle each task.  I volunteered to do the writing (naturally) while others are handling art work, graphs, and presentation.  My son's lookalike is a terrific artist, and was explaining how he had put a picture together in "pixels".  "Do you know what a pixel is?", he inquired of me.  With all eyes on me, I responded that no, I don't know what a pixel is, but that I do know how to spell and write in sentences...  I think we are a great match...

"Perplexed"

       I have always been more inclined to shop for "the house" than for myself.  For example-for years I have stored my make up in a Hefty one-zip bag  (the epitome of  haute couture, don't you agree?).  I recently went "garage sale hopping" with a friend, and I could barely carry all of the great bargains I had found to decorate my apartment: curtains, table cloths, pictures, cookie jars (did I mention that I don't bake anymore?)  On our last stop, I found an adorable make up bag, which was brand new.  I stood there pondering purchasing it for what seemed an eternity, when my friend, in total exasperation, told me to just buy it, as it was only 50 cents!  So the make up bag came home with me, and I now use the one zip bags to store what they are intended for-food.
   Later that week, I went to the local mall on a shopping spree.  I needed to purchase some "unmentionables", but the price of some of these "unmentionables" (okay, I'll say it-bras)  was ridiculous.  I was appalled to see bras like I have previously purchased for $14.99 now selling for $38.00 apiece.  (Unless someone else bought them, they are still sitting on the rack.)  I subsequently went in search of some bargains, and bought three for the price of one.  Once I finished in the lingerie department, I went to the bed and bath department.  I bought two bath mat sets,  four hand towels, and I spent a whopping $154.00!  (I know what's important!  Not!  I'm "prioritizationally" perplexed.)  While checking out, the cashier asked me did I have two bathrooms. I indicated that I have one bathroom, but that I am depressed. (Lots of people shop when they are depressed.)  I was even more depressed when my credit card statement arrived.  Okay, so I'm broke, and my back hurts from wearing cheap bras, but my bathroom looks great!

"Old Fashioned Email"

     Okay, so it's been over a month since I have written a blog post.  In case you're wondering why, and I know some of you are, it is because I am developing an intolerance for technology that is so intense, I do not possess the vocabulary to adequately describe it. My home computer is rarely even on anymore, which causes some difficulty when I want to write a post or do homework.

     Technology is moving so fast that I am struggling to keep up.  For example, the format on my Email accounts  has changed. All I want is the old fashioned Email (isn't that an oxymoron?), one where I click compose and a box opens up.  I type my letter and hit send.  Done. I click on the response, a box opens up.  I read it. Options are included.  Reply.  Send.  Delete. Done. But no, my inbox lists all correspondence on one line.  Sometimes I don't even know how to access a particular Email.  I know it's there, but I'll be damned if I can get to it. It appears  the Emails all run in a row, and I literally don't know how to reply.  I guess they are supposed to resemble  a conversation.  Well, Emails are not conversations, per se.  They are letters.  When I have a conversation with someone, their words travel directly to my auditory sensors, and vice verse.  The words don't traverse the globe before reaching me.  I am not at a loss for how to respond.  I simply speak. In sentences. My partner answers me. In sentences. Simple.  Straightforward.  Understood, and with far less aggravation or frustration (unless of course, I'm talking to the ex).  And consider this-if I whisper to my partner, the conversation is confidential.  I won't see subsequent ads in my Email about the topic of discussion.

     Another issue I have is all these annoying symbols and highlights that occur when my cursor passes over an Email in my in box.  I hate pop ups.  They are distracting, and they make it difficult to see what I am looking for.  These pop ups are everywhere!  What the fudge!  If I want to see something or buy something, I will look for it!  Getting in my face will only irritate me, and I will avoid whatever it is you are trying to sell me, at all costs.

     When I look at the movie schedules, do you know that I can't view the calendar to adjust the date because the bulk of it is obscured by an ad?  Are you kidding me?

     Lastly, and this is the best-I couldn't find the link to my blog today.  It took quite awhile for me to figure out where it is.  Now that I am in, I don't want to sign out.  I may never find my way back...

"Wire World"

Back when I was a little girl

    Horse drawn carts still traversed my street.

    Now I'm caught up in a wire world.

    Mounds of plastic spaghetti lie at my feet.

    The clutter in my apartment

    Nearly causes me to lose my mind.

    Not the mess of my own making,

    The offensive electronic kind.

    I long for the days of simplicity.

    Before home computers and color TV.

    For the time when relationships were real,

    Not engaged in electronically.

    I was born in the wrong era

    And I struggle with the frantic pace.

    I remember with fondness the days of my youth,

    When the world was a simpler place.

"Silver Alert"

     Every day without fail, as I drive home on Route 287, electronic billboards flash a "silver alert". For those of you who don't know what that is, it means a senior citizen is M.I.A. In an effort to locate the errant senior, the license number and a description of the car appear on signs along the highway.  I have yet to see my license plate number up there. So either I'm not lost, or else I am and no one is looking for me!

"Date With a What?"

     One of my girlfriends recently went on a date with a....casket salesman.  Naturally the conversation

 turned, shall we say, a little morbid.  Rather than being romantic, she considered his wandering gaze more

 like appraising her as a potential customer. During the course of the conversation, she indicated that (when

 the time comes), she intends to be cremated.  He intimated that she would be cutting in on his business...  

 Not surprisingly, their first date was also their last date.   

"Left Handed Compliment"

       Recently, I purchased a pair of embellished stockings.  They were popular when I was much younger, and have made a comeback, as most fashions do.  I wondered (briefly) if they were perhaps too youthful for me.  Since I don't really care about that, I bought them anyway. (Seriously. I still wear hiphuggers, love beads, and shirts embossed with peace signs. And I'm not too proud to shop in the Junior Department to get them.) 

     I wore the stockings to work today, and wasn't one of the twenty-somethings sporting the same stockings.  We smiled at each other with amusement, and I casually mentioned my misgivings about wearing them.  "How old are you?", she queried. "I'm closer to sixty than I care to admit" I whispered . And then I admitted it. "I'm fifty eight."  She subsequently indicated to me that I reminded her of her...grandmother. Ugh! (This conversation gets better.) She said her grandmother looks good for her age too. (That's what you call a left handed compliment.)  She continued, "I'm always telling her if you've still got it, flaunt it." Then she said to me "and girl, you've still got it."  Have I mentioned how fond I am of this young woman?

"Red Faced and Bushy Tailed"

     One of my friends is a master at carving pumpkins.  Her glorious works of art adorn her front porch every October, along with photos being posted on FB for distant friends and relatives to enjoy.  We wait with eager anticipation at the slightest hint of fall, to view her latest, increasingly elaborate, jack o' lanterns.     A recurring problem she has encountered is with squirrels who view her artistic accomplishments as dinner, her intricate carvings, the "presentation"...  Undeterred, she did some online research regarding how to stave them off.  One site indicated that cayenne pepper would do the trick, so she sprinkled generous amounts into each orange orb. The next day, the insides were…you guessed it…gone from the pumpkins.  Once beautiful, the sculptures teetered precariously, like squat, orange Towers of Pisa.  Scanning the yard in search of the culprits, she noticed them nearby.  She recognized them on sight, a drove of red faced squirrels staring at her smugly. Back to the drawing board!

"Back to School"

     School starts tonight, and as usual, I am a wreck.  I made the mistake of double checking  the course description immediately prior to going to bed last night...and...you guessed it!  "I couldn't sleep at all last night. Do do dodo do".*  This course is one of the most intimidating that I've faced thus far.  The course is "Introduction to Business & Technical Writing".  My reasoning when I scheduled this course? I love to write, and I have occasion to write on my job.  Seems like a good fit. Right?  I thought so too, until I took a closer look at what the course entails.  I will be writing proposals, doing analyses, and of course, technical writing.  What was I thinking?!?!?  I hope I'm just experiencing my usual beginning of the semester jitters.  I've been trying to boost my confidence all day today.  I figure that if the kiddies, (who will most assuredly be playing with their Smart phones for most of the evening), can handle the class, I should be able to, considering I'll be focused (provided of course, that I can stay awake), I can already spell and write in complete sentences, and I've been working for over forty years.  I had to have learned something in all of that time.  

     Oh-I almost forgot.  One of my friends (?) cautioned me against doing most of my course work during the first week of the semester. Ha!  I hope I've learned to interpret a syllabus by now!

From "Tossin' and Turnin'" , a song written by Ritchie Adams and Malou Rene

"No Respect"

     My sister came to visit recently, armed with a gigantic bag of Twinkies, the remainder of which she ultimately left with me.  (Although I love sweets, I can't remember the last time I'd eaten a Twinkie!) So, I called to ask her what I'm supposed to do with them.  She suggested I have one a day..."You mean, like a vitamin?"  I queried... I doubt the effects would be the same, although I suspect they would go a lot down easier...

 
      I received an Email from Amazon which included “local deals”.  I usually delete them promptly, unless of course, they include an offer that’s relevant. This one did!  It indicated savings on clothes for college.  The problem with that was…the deal was from Mandee’s.  Apparently Dress Barn is not a common source for “back to school” clothes.

     In a recent post, I was telling you about the sense of hearing in “older” adults, or should I say…lack thereof.  My "Psychology of Aging" textbook indicated that, when conversing with older adults, one should use “Elderspeak”.  “Elderspeak” means reducing the complexity of grammar, using more repetition, speaking more slowly and in shorter sentences.  Sounds to me like  1984-"Senior" Edition... 
 

     "Bozo". "Jaybird". "Boston Blackie". "For this she needs white teeth". "All brawn and no brains". "Step and fetch it". "No neck”.  "Short cake”.  In my youth, these were nicknames that certain members of my family had for some of my boyfriends. Talk about getting no respect! Rodney Dangerfield had nothing on me!

"Decidedly Dumb"

     Sometimes I am so dumb that I even surprise myself.  I met up with a friend the other night for coffee.  She was inquiring how my recently injured foot was coming along.  I happily informed her that it felt just great.  "Have you been doing the exercises the doctor recommended?", she queried.  "Uh...no.  But I do stretch it occasionally..."  (It actually felt so good from the injection the doctor had administered, that I had forgotten I was supposed to exercise.)  By the way, she asked, "do you know how you injured it originally?"  "I do!"  I readily described to her how I believed the injury had happened, in addition to...demonstrating....I actually felt a tearing sensation in the bottom of my foot, quickly followed by a throbbing pain...
     Did I say I'm dumb? As in "decidedly"? As in "with a capital D"?  As in, dumb "to a fault"? At times, dangerously so, I'm afraid... I hope no one else asks me how I injured it...

"Suspended in Mid Air"

    Did I tell you I injured my foot recently?  I couldn't for the life of me figure out what I'd done, but it hurt like hell.  I had a some difficulty obtaining an appointment with a podiatrist.  I didn't consider it a problem, however.  After all, it only hurts when I walk!  

     I began rooting through my closet trying on different shoes that I can wear that don't cause me pain, to carry me through until my appointment.  I discovered that my solitary pair of Sketchers are the most comfortable shoes I own.  (I am planning a trip to the Sketchers store, as soon I feel good enough to trek up and down the endless aisles of shoe heaven.)

      So, I finally managed to see the Doctor, and at first I was somewhat skeptical.  At his behest, I described my symptoms, including the pain I was experiencing, as well as pointing out the problem areas.  He was quickly scribbling notes, and when I stopped talking, he asked me if I was... experiencing pain!  I would have gotten up to leave except that I was suspended in  mid air in his examination chair, my feet six feet off the ground, waiting to be poked and prodded. At my age, I couldn't have jumped out of that chair if my foot wasn't injured! 

     They gave me an x-ray, and I was more favorably impressed during the second half of the examination.  I have a condition with a name a mile long.  Basically, what it means is that the muscle which runs the length of my foot has tears in it. From what I understand, it is as frayed as the hems of a hippie's bell bottom jeans.  

     The problem with this type of injury, of course, is that it never heals. Why? Because I keep walking on it!

     The solution is stretching exercises, limited walking for a few weeks, and...a needle in my foot.  I hate needles. And I know there are an abundance of nerve endings in the extremities, making this shot even less appealing.  So I sat shaking in the chair, on the verge of passing out.  In the midst of my terror, I couldn't help but wonder how I was able to bear three children, having needles and stitches in parts of my body that had never seen the light of day...I guess youth had something to do with that, or naivete perhaps...

     With my leg twisted like a pretzel so the doctor could reach the desired location on the inside of my foot, he sprayed it with some freezing solution, and pricked me quickly before I was able to faint.  With that, he whipped out an adhesive sponge the size of my palm, and slapped it on my tender arch. Literally.   He didn't apply it gingerly. He didn't place it on there carefully.  He slapped it on me, rather like the way sports figures slap each other on the backs when they win a game...I sat there, dumbfounded, and decidedly grateful that the numbing solution hadn't completely worn off...

     Kind of makes you wonder why I made a second appointment, doesn't it?  Well, I do have another appointment. Because, believe it or not, my foot feels better than it has in two weeks.  The reduced pain in my left foot enabled me to walk semi-normally today, alleviating the excruciating pain in my right leg, caused by my uneven gait... The down side of all this is that I'm going to need to start a diet after not being able to exercise for the next 2 weeks...For that matter, so will Buddy...

"The Color Red"

     I recently shared with you how I do things by rote.  That sometimes includes doing laundry.  I gathered up my (white) bedding, and absentmindedly tossed it in the washer and the dryer.   Entering the laundry room to retrieve my stuff from the dryer,  I heard something clinking around as it spun.  I was puzzled, as I hadn't included anything with buckles, or any kind of metal or plastic.  I was horrified when I opened the dryer, and found my bedding streaked with red.  There was my Bonnie Belle red Lip Smacker in the middle of the heap, completely melted...Always one to see the glass as half full, I reasoned that it could have been worse-I also sleep with my cell phone and remote control...

        I bought a set of sheets at a reputable establishment, not only because I needed them, but additionally, they were on sale for 50% off.  Imagine my surprise when opening the package, and I discovered they were somewhat soiled, not to mention, damp.   You know how sheets are packaged with cardboard?  Well, these sheets were wrapped around dirty, damp cardboard...some old box that the manufacturer had received a delivery in...And no, the sheets weren't manufactured in the good old USA...

     I have noticed more often than not, that there is very poor quality in a lot of the goods I purchase and pay good money for.  Permanent Press, for example, is a thing of the past.  (I can remember when it was the latest thing!  Women could throw away their irons. I was one of them!)  Not now. Everything needs to be ironed.  And do I hate to iron...

     Have you noticed how blues and blacks fade, and quickly?  Still new clothes take on a weathered look way before their time.  Additionally, the colors run...forever...  I need to be much more cautious sorting colored clothing to be laundered.  I have invested a small fortune in the complex laundry room, as well as the local dry cleaner's.  I could have filled my gas tank with what it cost me to have two dresses cleaned.  Ugh!  I know how to sew.  Maybe I should start making my own clothes...and sheets...

   

"Senior Student"

     Over the summer, the students from my college traveled to Europe.  I wish I'd known about the trip. I could have traveled as a student, and doubled as a chaperone!

     Some of the establishments in my town offer student discounts, provided you present your student I.D.  I wonder if I could utilize my Student discount and Senior Citizen discount simultaneously? 

     You know how grocery stores have convenient parking designated for expectant mothers and parents with young children?  Well, I have presented to my college that they incorporate "senior student" parking into their overcrowded parking system.  Believe me when I tell you, it's no small feat for me  to cross five parking lots to get to class.  I'm generally too winded upon arrival to even utter a greeting when I enter the classroom, the students viewing me with puzzled amusement as I attempt to catch my breath.  It's just not fair!  They don't require a nap after walking from car to class.   Besides,  I have to head to school thirty minutes earlier than the youngsters, and I arrive home thirty minutes later. I could take an extra class with the time and energy I expend dragging myself through the parking lot. 

     This coming semester I am registered for my favorite subject!  It's a writing course: Introduction to Business and Technical Writing.  I am looking forward to returning to school after my summer respite.  I hated that I didn't attend this summer, thereby missing out on having earned six more credits.  However, at this age, I recognize my limitations.  I am too old to over extend myself and to self impose that kind of pressure.  At this rate, I will have earned my diploma at the same time that I qualify for Social Security...I won't have to take off work to graduate-I'll be retired!

 

"By Rote"

       More often than not, I do things by rote, and that sometimes includes purchasing, and using, my "Miss Clairol" products.  During a recent hair coloring event, once applied, I quickly realized that the color on my head looked very abnormal. (Now if that isn't cause for alarm, I don't know what is!) It was, in fact, black, with a burgundy tint. My alarm turned to panic while I was rinsing it out, and the water and shower, grout and all, turned the most vivid color of Christmas cranberry!  I imagined that I might very well emerge a carrot top, while simultaneously pondering how I was going to clean the shower.  Once out, shower forgotten, I grabbed my spectacles and scanned the box to see what color I'd actually purchased.  The box indicated #20 (medium brown), my color of choice, followed by a barely discernible "R".  Ugh!  Why do they do that?  Don't they realize the people buying this stuff probably have failing eyesight?  (Not to mention, short attention spans.)  I already carry a magnifying glass with me (a fiftieth birthday present from my BFF).  Apparently the $700.00 bifocals I'm wearing aren't cutting it.  Maybe I should attach the magnifying glass to a lanyard, and wear it around my neck so it's handy while I'm shopping!  When the magnifying glass no longer works, I could use the lanyard to hang myself....

     In reality, the color of my hair actually turned out pretty nice. It was a soft brown-not too dark for my aging complexion.  The roots, however, oh the roots!  What had been grey was now a strikingly bright....orange!  What is it with the roots, that they never get dark, no matter how long the dye is on them, while the remainder of your hair is dark, regardless of how briefly it is exposed to the coloring?  What the Fudge!  

     So, to make a long story short, I spent the next three weeks with a tiger stripe all along my hairline.  (I'm not only stubborn, I'm cheap!)  Thank goodness for bangs and long hair.  They can camouflage any number of hair coloring blunders...

"Pricey Pie"

     More often than not, my eyes are bigger than my stomach. Both are bigger than my wallet.  I've had this insatiable craving for a peach pie for most of the summer.  (God forbid I should make one...)  Yesterday I had plans with one of the sons to go to his place and watch a classic movie, so I determined that this would be a good time to indulge, especially since it would just be the two of us.  (Okay, sometimes I'm a little greedy with food, especially where sweets are concerned).  I headed to the bakery behind my apartment (how convenient is that? Oh, and there's a Friendly's within walking distance.  Sounds lethal, don't you agree?)  Anyway, I decided instead to get a "very berry" pie, because that is what my son likes.  Well, by the time I got to the bakery, they were sold out of both.  So instead I chose a deep dish apple blackberry pie, requesting that the girl box it without asking the price.  That was mistake number one.  "That will be $17.99" she announced.  I responded quicker than a baker can peel an apple:  "I beg your pardon? $7.99?"  No ma'am (she would call me ma'am. If she were a waitress, that would have meant no tip).  "$17.99", she reiterated.   I briefly considered sarcastically suggesting that they may keep it, but ultimately,  I (grudgingly) opened my wallet and forked over the one cent shy of $18.00, more than a little furious that they would charge such an exorbitant amount of money for a pie. A pie!  Now, I make one of the best apple pies ever, so while driving over to my son's house, I seriously pondered a change of career. 

     My son was absolutely incredulous when he saw the size of the pie I brought for just the two of us.  Observing the magnitude of the pie in his kitchen, I had to wonder myself ... especially considering it wasn't even the kind we really wanted! Oh, and did I mention...we're both on diets? 

"Determination"

     I have been in a writing frenzy this weekend.  Recently, I had gone from writing for hours on end each day, to not writing at all.  There were days last summer when I would sit contentedly at my computer for eight hours at a time, happily writing away.  Then, much to my surprise, when I was out of work, I was too depressed to write very much.  Oftentimes when I'm depressed, I am able to work it out in verse or prose.  Not in that instance, however. 

     When I went back to work, I found myself too exhausted at the end of the day to expend another ounce of energy.  I would think about writing, briefly, then subsequently remain idly on the couch, an unproductive lump of human flesh, recovering from a demanding day (believe me when I tell you, part of that exhaustion is attributed to being just plain old). 

     The other day, however, I was inspired by a line in a movie.  I was watching Capote, and in one scene, Capote's partner, an author, indicated that he was heading to Spain, "to write".  Now, I have no intentions of going to Spain, but that singular line reminded me just how much I love, and have missed, writing.  I promptly wrote three pages in my journal, composed a poem, and am now on my third blog post. 

     Writing had become an integral part of my life, especially during the course of the last five years, when my life changed so abruptly and so radically.  I have written some of my most beautiful poems (in my estimation) as a means of expressing my emotions, my tears sometimes spilling onto the pages.  Be it pain, joy, love, or even some current events, my writing is my outlet.  It is a healthy means of expelling emotions which could prove damaging if kept locked up inside.  Additionally, I have found humor in my back to school escapades, in my dealings with young professors and even younger classmates.

     So, here's hoping that I've reached a turning point, and that my journal and my blog will once again be overflowing with the fruits of my writer's imagination and dogged determination, preferably without the tears...

"Get the Message"

     It is 7:47 A.M. on Sunday, and my day has been very productive thus far.  Buddy and I had our thirty minute daily walk done by 6:30, after which I cleaned my living room windows, made my breakfast , checked my FB page, began composing a blog post, and I updated my personal info with my car insurance company. Which brings me to my point.  I am totally fed up with self service and automated service, be it by phone, internet, or even in stores.  For example, when I go to the grocery store, I absolutely refuse to utilize the self service check out.  Why should I?  Are they providing me with a discount by having me do the work myself?  God knows they are saving money in salaries and insurance costs by employing fewer people, but who reaps the profits?  Not the average working man, that's for sure. They do not pass a nickel of those savings on to us.  We are constantly compelled to pay higher prices for smaller quantities.  Then, to add insult to injury, they want us to weigh produce, check prices, then ring up and bag the groceries ourselves!  I watch with marked incredulity as one singular, solitary customer service rep "trains" the customers to utilize the half dozen or so self serve contraptions, at very little cost to the store, rather than the store employing a half dozen people who would be grateful to have a job.  What the fudge! 

     This morning, for instance, I spent about thirty minutes online with my insurance company, registering and updating my address and phone numbers.  If I had called to make the changes, I may have spoken with an actual person, after answering a mere thirty five questions from a computer generated attendant, and thereby utilizing a scant ten or twenty minutes of my precious time, rather than thirty.  Those automated phone systems are so annoying!  Don't you agree?  I become so angry in my futile attemps to gain access to a to a human being, that the anger is obvious in my curt responses, as if the recorded voice on the other end would get the point, and promptly transfer me to the ever elusive human.  Obviously, that is not the case because...it's automated!  So, all of these corporations are earning oodles of profits, while we are inconvenienced more than ever, and the unemployment lines grow ever longer...Oh, I almost forgot, that's automated too! 

     So, what is the solution?  Well, to begin with, I say, no more self check out.  It's not much, but it's a start.  If everyone stopped using them, we could have an impact.  Someone might actually get the message...

"Antiquated"

     I am compelled to share my "prescription" saga with you.  In mid May I went to the doctor for my annual check up, and I had her refill my prescriptions, which she did electronically while I was still seated on the examination table.  Now, I had recently transferred to a new pharmacy which is more convenient to where I am living.  I can, and often do, walk there.  The problem is, they have antiquated methods.  Most doctors submit prescriptions electronically nowadays.  This pharmacy, however, wants prescriptions either phoned in or faxed. (What's a fax machine?)  Due to their strict requirements, plus the fact that my doctor has very limited office hours, I was waiting-are you ready for this-six weeks to get my prescriptions filled.  It took a multitude of phone calls and visits to the pharmacy, as well as phone calls to the doctor, all in an apparent exercise in futility.  It got to the point where I instructed my doctor to submit the prescriptions to my former pharmacy before I ran out of my meds. (Did I previously mention convenience?)  Would you believe that my former pharmacy phoned me within the hour to advise me that my prescriptions were ready to be picked up?  So I retrieved my medicine, and put the incident out of my mind.  About a week later, my new pharmacy texted me (they are updated in that respect) to tell me that my prescriptions were ready to be picked up.  Needless to say, I retrieved them.  This way I'll have a little extra stored for the next six week lag  (rather like a squirrel preparing for winter).  No-that isn't the end of the story.  The new pharmacy texted me again this week....to inform me that my prescriptions were ready for pick up!  I was somewhat puzzled, but I retrieved them anyway.  They had filled the prescriptions again!  So, because the my new pharmacy is anal and antiquated, I got my prescriptions filled three times!  Kind of defeats the purpose of being so controlling, don't you think?  Ah well, I don't have to go back to either pharmacy for about two years!  Now that's convenient!   My insurance company is going to love it...

"Spiders and Other Critters"

     Not too much has been happening in the month or so since I've written a post. I've been busy working and getting settled in my new apartment, and after two months, I'm pretty much there.  I was talking to my sister recently, and she was asking how I like my new place.  Quite frankly, I love it.  I have privacy!  I see flowing branches on a big tree, directly outside of my front window, giving me the freedom to keep my blinds open-even at night.  There are no rowdy neighbors.  In two months time, I have not been awakened by my neighbors once, not even on July 4th!  Conversely, the neighbors in my former unit had to deal with a three ring circus on the 4th.  "The witch" put up a tent, a volleyball net, and a slip & slide, all in the complex courtyard outside of my old apartment.  Then she proceeded to have thirty people over for a barbeque. Afterwards, she set off fireworks.  The management got wind of it (it was not me-it was the one armed man*).  Actually, it was another neighbor who is determined to see me vindicated.  The super subsequently went over to take pictures, prior to compelling her to take the stuff down.  I don't understand why she does not get evicted.  One of the mysteries of  (my) life, I guess.

     There is only one thing that I don't like about my apartment.  I imagine this is because of the tree, but there is an over abundance of spiders, in every size, shape, and form, not to mention stink bugs, moths, and Jersey mosquitos.  (Have you ever seen a Jersey mosquito?  They are about the size of a small fist!)  I walk through the hall bobbing and weaving, in an often futile attempt to avoid bodily contact.

       Recently, I saw something dark on my pillow one morning, grabbed for my glasses, and approached cautiously, while silently praying that it would not be a spider.  My prayers were not answered.  He was promptly squashed, and the pillow case discarded.  Then I was washing dishes, and the biggest daddy long legs started crawling up the side of the sink, headed right for me.  I was shrieking in terror, while debating how to dispose of him.  I had to think quickly, so I promptly washed him down the drain, no small feat with all of those long, wiry legs.  Additionally, a number of spiders have been swatted with my shoe, or sucked up in my vacuum.  I won't even keep the vacuum in the apartment anymore-it's in the hall until I empty the bag.  My sister, who is infinitely more clever than I, suggested I hire a professional  exterminator...Why didn't I think of that?!?!?!?!?!

 

*Dr. Richard Kimble in "The Fugitive"

"More Movie Reviews"

     I went to see "Before Midnight" yesterday.  It was right up there with my least favorite movies of all time.

     I hate, absolutely hate, a movie that is nothing but talking, talking, and more talking.  That describes this particular movie in a nutshell.  There was zero action, a miniscule fragment of scenery, and the two lead characters engaged in a conversation that I though would never end.  In a way it reminded me of "The Descendants", a film in which the characters walked and talked for two interminably long hours.  To that movie's credit however, was the beautiful scenery (and I don't mean Clooney!).  Michael Clayton was another movie of the same vein.  Ceaseless talking.  My ears were bleeding and begging for mercy by the time I left each of these films.  After seeing movies of this caliber, it is a pleasure having no one home waiting for me besides Buddy.  I love it that he can't talk...

     Here is a sampling of the worst movies I have ever seen:

Carnal Knowledge 

Barbarella

The English Patient

The Blair Witch Project

To the Wonder

Before Midnight

     I was only sixteen when Carnal Knowledge was released.  After more than forty years, it still stands out as THE worst movie I have ever seen.  It is the only movie that I have ever walked out on.

     Barbarella was another loser.  The only good thing about seeing it, was that I was eighteen years old, and at the Drive-In with my adorable boyfriend Bruce...

     I was deeply disappointed in The English Patient.  I hated it.  When it came out on video, I actually rented it, because I couldn't believe that I hated it so much.  I did.  My children have never let me live that down, either.  Each time I declare my distaste for a movie, they ask me if I plan to rent it so I can be sure...

     The Blair Witch Project was not my movie of choice.  I merely went to appease the spouse.  It was awful.  Both of us emerged with splitting headaches from the constant motion of the film, from the camera man constantly running.

     I gave my review of To the Wonder after I saw it, about six weeks ago.  To its credit, it had eye candy, i.e., Ben Affleck.  That's about the only good thing I can say about it.

     I harbored nothing but disdain for the characters in Before Midnight.  They were crude and annoying, and the film definitely showed more of her than I wanted to see. Actresses of a certain age should keep their blouses on...

    

"Cable Catastrophe Continued..."

     My moving saga of dealing with inept people rages on-after more than a month.  I received my cable bill on Thursday.  Normally, I wouldn't have opened it until I knew it was due, but my intuition signaled to me that I not wait this month.  My bill, for one month, was $265.00!  I immediately scoured the bill's details, in search of the additional cost.  Sure enough, I found it with relative ease, and digested it with much angst.  There was a "service charge" of $110.00 added to my regular bill.  I got on the phone immediately, with my curiosity and fury competing emotionally.  The Customer Service Rep I spoke to indicated that the fee was for "non-returned equipment".  I expressed to him that I retained my old equipment, to which he replied "mm-hmm".  Fury won the emotional battle, as I expressed to him incredulously that he sounded as if he didn't believe me.  He didn't.  He went on to explain that the company always provides new equipment to customers when they move.  (Not surprisingly, the right hand doesn't know what the left hand is doing.  Read on.)  I clearly expressed to him that someone from his company instructed me to disconnect my equipment myself and bring it with me, which I did.  "Mm-hmm", he replied, nearly irritating me beyond reason. I assertively informed him that I'd be damned if I was going to pay it, therefore he had better get his supervisor on the phone.  He put me on hold for a few minutes, and then finally came back on the line to tell me my account would be credited.  Ha!  I knew that going in.
     Did I tell you that my router hasn't been working?  I imagined I was going to need another useless technician come out and hook up a new one.  However, I managed to figure the issue out myself, despite being technologically challenged.  The original technicians (that's right, two of them failed to get it right) never connected the router to the modem.  I'm sure I don't know what they were doing here for thirty minutes, but it apparently wasn't hooking up all of my equipment properly.  Fortunately, I have a couple of extra ethernet cables on hand (two of my flea market bargains at $ .50 each).  Finally, everything is in working condition.  Now I can only hope that next month's bill is correct.  What are the odds?  I don't believe they are in my favor... 

"Buddy's Diet"

     Buddy and I are both on diets.  The vet had indicated that Buddy, at 116 pounds, was overweight (as if I didn't know that, what with his increasingly rotund appearance, coupled with my diminishing ability to control him physically!).   As for me, I have my own personal "ceiling", and I had reached it.  Last summer.
     Our diets began in earnest on April 10th, my first day back at work, as we incorporated a thirty minute walk into our morning routine.  For Buddy, the walk has a dual purpose.  He definitely needs the exercise to better manage his weight, besides which I figure the long walk will tire him out so that he will sleep in my absence.  For me, the walks also serve a dual purpose.  I need the exercise too, especially given my advancing age, for weight control, and my mental health.  Wait-that's three.  Well, suffice to say that walking is beneficial to me in myriad ways.
     Initially, I did not decrease Buddy's food intake for the first six weeks, despite the Vet indicating that I should.  A couple of weeks ago, twenty something son #2 intimated that I could probably decrease Buddy's intake of dry food by a cup per day, at least.  (Him I listened to...he too works with animals.)  I took Buddy to the vet on Thursday, and he had lost fifteen pounds in just over two months!  The vet was amazed, and considered Buddy's weight loss to be remarkable. I was beaming with pride as Buddy showed off his new svelte physique.
     I decreased my own food intake immediately once I began my own diet.  A few pounds have come off, albeit much more slowly.  In fact, over the last year, I have lost a mere eight pounds.  What the fudge!  I'm now dejectedly contemplating incorporating "Beneful" into my diet...

"Proclamation of Emancipation"

     It's graduation time!  Every June, multitudes of high school graduates decorate their cars with streamers, and go joy riding through the city, gleefully expressing their ecstasy at having been, shall we say, emancipated.  In addition to decorating their cars, they write on the windows: Class of "whatever year" it happens to be, along with sometimes questionable declarations.  I saw one "Proclamation of Emancipation" yesterday that nearly floored me. It said:  "Class of 2013! WE OUT ! ".   There it was, in big, bold letters, written on the windshield, for all the world to see. (Okay, maybe not all of the world, but anyone and everyone in my town).   All I can say is, I'm glad my children didn't attend that particular high school.

     I know I keep harping on this, but proper grammar and correct spelling are extremely important to me.  With so much business being conducted in writing, it is amazing to me the number of errors I see in both! 

Personally, I can take what seems to be forever to write an Email (or a paper for school, or a blog post).  I read and reread until I can't stand it anymore, and I'm not afraid to use a dictionary.  (Daniel Webster is my friend.)  It's tough being a perfectionist, but worth the effort, I believe.  After all, I'm not writing in my journal, or sending text messages.  Many people at varying levels read what I write, and I want it to be right!

"Bargain Hunting"

     My thirty-something son lives in a more upscale town.  Now, it's not Beverly Hills, mind you, but it's far more upscale than my town.  How do I know this?  Well, aside from the multitude of mansions perched on vast properties, or the BMW's and Jaguars parked in long, winding driveways, that would be the ATM machines.  I recently went to a flea market up there (it's in the mountains of New Jersey-although they are probably more like foothills to those of you from California!), but  I had to grab some quick cash along the way.  I swiped my card, hit withdrawal, indicated savings account, and then...the ATM asked if it was savings #1, #2, or #3!  I have never seen this in any ATM machine that I've visited previously!  I pondered that a minute, briefly confused (I'm not particularly dumb, just economically challenged!).  I'm lucky to have one savings account-and there ain't much in it!  (I know ain't isn't a real word. However, sometimes using it just feels right.)  I  tremulously indicated savings #1, and out popped my cash.  That ATM probably hasn't registered a balance like that-ever!

     Going to estate sales, moving sales, and flea markets in upscale areas has it's advantages.  The first time I attended an estate sale in that town, I assumed that anything the people would be selling would be out of my price range.  However, quite the opposite is true.  What I'm finding is that the sellers are actually more interested in getting rid of the merchandise, rather than making any real money off of it.  (I guess if they have three savings accounts, they don't need the little bit of green that people like me are going to spend!)  I've found some real bargains in that area.  If I remember correctly, I told you about the estate sale I attended last summer.  I got about fifteen paperback books and a pair of kitchen curtains, all in mint condition-for free!  The other items I purchased were frightfully inexpensive.  

     As you know, I moved recently.  I had been looking for an accent table for my bathroom.  I didn't know exactly what I wanted, but I would know it when I saw it.  I found it that day at the local Flea Market.  It is adorable-antique white, with beautiful scroll work edging its face.  If the vendor had seen my look of sheer delight upon catching sight of it, she may have upped her price.  I would have given her twenty dollars for it-but she only asked for five...I snatched that table and ran (as much as someone flirting with sixty can run).  So-if you enjoy these types of scavenger hunts as much as I do, don't avoid the "richer" towns.  The bargains are plentiful.

"You Say Tomayta..."

You say tomayta
I say tomotta
You say sikayda
I say chicahda

     I have always pronounced the word cicada: "chicahda", and quite frankly, was stunned when I heard the more common pronunciation of "sikayda".  Actually, my BFF was the first person I heard pronounce it that way.  I didn't want to be rude and tell her she was pronouncing it incorrectly, so (wisely) I kept mum.  Then I watched the news, and sure enough, the newscaster pronounced it "sikayda" also.  So I was compelled to "Google" the word, to see which pronunciation was correct.  There are a number of variations, all depending on where you come from.  The way I pronounce it is rooted in the Italian version of  “cicala” (“chi-kah-la”).  I, in my stubbornness, will continue to pronounce it "chicahda", even though I am not Italian. I am Polish (partly), and that version would probably be "chicahdahski".  (I wouldn't go that far, even if it was a real word!)

     Yesterday, thirty something son and I went cicada hunting.  I had seen a few isolated fellows flying around my neighborhood, but I hadn't heard the unique and deafening roar of the multitudes.  We were not disappointed, as we found a wooded area near his home, and stopped to observe this wonder of nature in progress.  We actually saw them before hearing them, as many were flying erratically, like drunken dive bombers.
     I am, as always, awed by nature.  I find this particular phenomenon to be particularly intriguing. We watched, and listened, and took a few photos, lucky enough to catch two while mating, their interlocking wings like two drawn curtains, partially covering them, as if for modesty's sake.  We even stopped to save one that was stuck on his back, flailing about in a small puddle. (I was trying to make up for all of the spiders I've been sucking up in my vacuum, but that's another blog post.)

     By the way, the last time the cicadas emerged, I was 41 years old.  Next time it happens, I will be 75.  The fifty something freshman has done something we women hate to do-I just admitted my true age (you do the math).

They are difficult to see by the leaves, but there they are...

"The Exterminator"

     On my early morning walks with Buddy, I have been noticing the neighborhood trees, particularly the trees that were aggressively trimmed after the recent hurricanes and ice storm.  Strangely, many of the oak trees have little sprouts up and down their entire trunks.  They are thinner than a pencil, each with one or two leaves on them.  They are not like anything I've ever seen before, as most oak tree branches are toward the tops of the trees.  I am curious to see if these little sprouts will ultimately grow into branches, as I imagine they will.  I also am wondering if this is nature's way of compensating for the extreme branch elimination which the trees endured.  I wonder that many of them even survived, as often half of their upper branches were cut off, leaving them decidedly lopsided.  I understand why this was done, with all of the power lines in jeopardy.  I just hate to see nature maimed by the human hand.  I am patiently awaiting nature's response.

     Speaking of nature, there is a giant maple tree directly in front of my apartment. It is an absolute joy to see, with all of the green leaves, birds, and squirrels.  It is a big improvement over my view from the last place.  The catch is, with trees come insects.  The other night, I was sitting on the sofa watching a movie, minding my own business, when something compelled me to look over my right shoulder.  Much to my horror, a tiny black spider was staring at me, so close that I could see his mouth watering.  I tried to squash him, but failed, as he was one of those that jumps more quickly than a Mexican jumping bean. Reluctantly, after having moved the sofa, I abandoned my futile quest.  Within minutes, I encountered a stink bug moseying across the living room floor.  I grabbed my trusty vacuum and sucked him up pronto.  In the bedroom, which is the last place I want to see any insects, was a small silverfish.  Him I was able to catch.  I hate killing insects.  Call me crazy, but I always say I'm sorry when I swat one.  (My thirty some-thing son will catch spiders, and release them outside.  I'm not that brave.)  My BFF intimates that the overabundance of insects is the price I have to pay for having a tree so close to my window that I can almost touch it.  I'll take the insects.  I can squash a spider or call an exterminator, but I can't exterminate bad neighbors, much as I might have liked to.  I relish the peace and quiet, which is interrupted only intermittently by the roar of my vacuum.

"House Arrest"

     I have to disagree with Governor Christie.  We are not "stronger than the storm".  What we are is resilient. Remember the "unsinkable ship"?  

     I am glad to see that our beautiful Jersey shore is making a strong comeback.  Can't wait to get there.

I long to go to Ocean Grove.  The problem is, Buddy has me under "house arrest".  He lays on the guilt every time I head for the door.  He is alone so much while I am at work, I feel too guilty to leave him at night or on the weekends.  If I were to get a second dog, maybe I could get my life back...

"Rent Check: MIA"

     I just received my rent bill.  It is for 1-1/2 months rent.  June, of course, and the past due: May 15th-31st for the new apartment....except that I paid the Super when I picked up my keys on May14th...I wonder where that check went...People-it's time to put the cell phones down and focus! 

    

"Cable Catastrophe"

     On to the cable company.  Here was our plan (twenty-something son #1 and I, that is).  I would have the technician come to the old apartment, disconnect all of my cable equipment, hook up the son's new cable equipment, and then come to my new apartment and hook my stuff up.  Seems simple, don't you think?  Well, of course it could not be done this way.  First of all, I had to disconnect all of my cable equipment myself, and bring it to my new apartment.  Additionally, they wanted me to hook it up myself, but since I am not employed by the cable company, I declined.  Needless to say, I had to pay for a technician to come out.  Secondly, they could not hook my son's cable up on the same day, because my service would be disconnected.  Make sense to you?  Me, neither!  So I had the technician come on the day I moved, Thursday, and my son made his appointment for Friday.  I told the technician upon his arrival that I had brought all my stuff as I had been instructed.  "Why", he queried.  "I have all new equipment for you..."  (So why did I unhook and transport all of this stuff?)  "No, thank you", I replied, decidedly bewildered.  "Just hook up my existing equipment...."  So the technician got busy,  and before he left, everything was working just fine.  When I got up the next morning, I had no cable TV or phone service, although I did have internet.  The problem could not be fixed over the phone, even though I explained that I was sure my service had been disconnected.  A technician had to come out.  Guess what?  They had disconnected my service overnight.  The technician corrected the problem, then checked the TV and phone.  Since both were functional, he promptly left.  Then I tried to get on the internet.  It was disconnected.  I had to call the cable company to have them set up my "new" service.  The next day, I didn't have phone service, and I still don't.  I am so sick of dealing with these people that I am not willing to invest another minute of my time.  (I know.  It's kind of like cutting off my nose to spite my face!)  The saga is not over yet.  I received a letter of confirmation from the cable company indicating that my Email address was changed and that I added a user on my account...OMG!  All I did was move!!!!!!!

     Did this seem like a particularly difficult transaction-moving?  Not to me, and probably not to most of my readers.  Too bad none of us works for the cable company.  We could show them how it's done!

"Electricity, or Lack Thereof"

     My tales of woe are not limited to my frustrating dealings with the Post Office. Throughout my move, only the gas company got it right.  I called them, they came on the agreed upon day, and they turned on my gas.  Period.  End of story.  The electric and cable companies, however, were a horse of another color.  I called the electric company on 5/10,  notified them of my move, gave them the new address, and arranged to have the electric turned on at the new apartment on 5/15.  Everything went off without a hitch, and then the bills started arriving.  Not bill, as in one and only.  Bills.  As in numerous.  Four, to be exact.  First I received a final bill for the old apartment.  Then I received a second (?) final bill for the old apartment.  Then I received a bill in my name for the new apartment.  Then I received a bill addressed to "occupant" of the new apartment.  This one was the icing on the cake.  It indicated that someone had been using the electricity there, but that no one had applied for service...  This particular bill was dated 5/21.  Oh, by the way, it also indicated that service was to be disconnected...Does anyone pay attention to what they are doing anymore?  Dare I say it? What the Fudge!  Stay tuned...I will give an update on this scenario, provided, of course, that my electricity isn't disconnected.

"Live and Learn"

     The move was brutal, physically.  I was so tired afterward, all I wanted to do was soak in the tub and go to bed.  I got everything ready-dish detergent in lieu of bubble bath, towels, and improvisational pajamas (in other words-sweats), and then I proceeded to fill the tub.  Except the tub wouldn't fill.  The stopper doesn't work.  Dejectedly, I nixed that idea and started to just wash up and change.  Reach for my toothbrush and toothpaste...of course they aren't there.  And of course, I didn't know where I had packed them.  (I apparently wasn't smart enough to put them in my purse, which already carries everything but the kitchen sink).  The last thing I felt like doing was rooting through boxes, but I did nevertheless.  Mercifully, I didn't have to look too far.  Now to clip back my hair...To make a long story short-I used a paper clip and rubber band. (Ouch!)  My hairband and clip were whereabouts incognito.  On to the hand lotion, which I apply liberally nightly to my weathered hands and elbows.  I found some sweet smelling pink stuff that I hadn't used too often.  It would have to do.  I didn't really like it, as it left my skin rather slimy, and it didn't do much for dryness.  The next day, in the daylight,  I took a closer look at the bottle, and came to the realization that the slippery pink goo was actually...hand soap! I'm not kidding!  This stuff does not in any way resemble any kind of liquid soap that I have ever seen!

     So what did I learn here?  Well, instead of packing my carry on with books, paperwork, and knitting needles, I should have loaded it up with the essentials that I would certainly be needing at bedtime.  Why hadn't I thought of something so simple?  Live and learn.

"You Can't Make This Stuff Up!"

     As most of you know, I moved to a new apartment recently, after living with twenty something son #1 for four years.  I (mistakenly) notified the Post Office of my address change, online, a few days prior to my move.  I did an "individual Change of address" (as opposed to a family change of address.  I imagine you know where I'm going with this.)  Needless to say, my son's mail has been forwarded to my new apartment.  I called the Post Office Friday, and they implied that I must have done a "family change" by mistake. I was confident that I hadn't, but gave them my confirmation number, and had them verify.  Yes, I had done it correctly.  I did the individual change.  They instituted some kind of investigation, and they are supposed to call me on Tuesday.  So on Saturday, the very next day, I get my mail.  In addition to my own mail, I received my son's mail.  No surprise there.  I also received his girlfriend's mail.  (She recently changed her address to my former-on her own-not through the P.O.)  And yes, this goes from bad to worse to worst. Included with all of the forwarded mail was a confirmation of my change of address from the Post Office.  It was addressed to "CURRENT RESIDENT", at my former address.   So, to be clear,  the Post Office is verifying my change of address with whatever Tom, Dick, or Harry may have moved into my former address.  (Oh, did I mention that the Post Office included a privacy notice with my original confirmation?)  Then, in an act of increasingly unimaginable stupidity, they automatically forwarded the anonymous confirmation request to my new address (which turned out to be a good thing).  I was shaking in anger when I received the notice, and I am shaking in anger as I write this.  

     Luckily for me, strangers did not move into my new apartment.  Luckily for my son and his girl, their mail is being delivered to his mother.  I forgot to add that I am also receiving mail for the former tenant at my new apartment.  I can't help but think someone might get this simple address change straight, if only they would remove the omnipresent cell phone from their grasp!  I can't adequately express how often I have seen the mail delivered by a carrier whose head is cocked to one side, because he is talking on his phone.  Shall I go on?  The mail is never placed inside the box.  It is standing up, exposed to the elements.  I have received soaking wet mail, and have found countless pieces of mail on the ground, or even in the parking lot!  What the Fudge!  Wait until I get them on the phone Tuesday.  It won't be pretty.

"Offensive Visitors"

      I do not deal in smut.  I don't know how smutty websites find my blog, but they do.  I clicked on a link today of a site that had visited.  I am generally very cautious in this regard, but this particular site was well camouflaged, and I was completely fooled.  When the website opened, I was met with a young woman's perfectly shaped bare behind staring at me, in a most unflattering position.  (I contemplated criticizing her, when I wrote this, but I do not know what her circumstances are, and will therefore keep my thoughts to myself.)
     However, I will say this: to the people who try to draw innocents in, don't you think people would find you if they wanted to?  I am most certainly not interested.  I find smut vulgar and offensive, and I do not endorse it.  Additionally, I write a clean blog that anyone can read.  I do not appreciate dealers of smut visiting, or advertising.  Please keep out!

"Anchor's Away"

      I have "Aced" another course.  Less than two years ago, I was a fifty-something woman with 9 college credits, and a 2.something GPA. (I can't remember the exact number.  Chalk it up to my age.  Or maybe it was so just so bad that I blocked it out.)  Now, I am a fifty-something College Freshman.  I have earned thirty credits, and a 3.9 GPA.  Out of ten courses, I have nine "A's", and one "B".  I feel such a sense of accomplishment, at nearly halfway to my Associates Degree.  I have more education than both of my parents, albeit less than my sons, which is in keeping with the general order of things.  Actually, three of us may be graduating simultaneously.  One of my sons is currently working towards his Bachelor's, and one toward his Master's.  

     I was somewhat surprised that I earned an "A" in this latest course, Psychology of Aging.  (Attribute that to subjective age.  I still think I'm thirty.  Mentally, at least.  My body reminds me constantly that I am not, in a variety of increasingly unpleasant ways!)   Twenty-something son number one attributes my success in this particular class to my having an unfair advantage.  "How could you possibly do poorly?", he inquires with aplomb.  "You had to have earned the highest grade in your class..."  (Did I mention he and I are not on speaking terms?  Just joking.  I don't play that game with my kids.)  I did, however, find his comments amusing.  He's got his father's sense of humor-funny initially, but becoming tiresome after awhile...

     His perspective, believe it or not, was pretty accurate.  I did not study for this course nearly as much as I did for the other courses I've taken.  A lot of the information was, to me at least, either common knowledge or common sense.  For example, at what age does one qualify for Social Security?  (Sixty two.  I'm almost there-and I'm already thinking "early retirement".)  During what years were Baby Boomers born?  (I'm a Boomer.  The years are 1946-1964.)  What is ageism?  (Age discrimination.  Haven't I experienced  more than my share of that lately, throughout my frustrating seven month long job search...)  Normative history graded influences:  I've witnessed a good number of those.  (For example, the assassination of President Kennedy when I was in the third grade; Neil Armstrong landing on the moon in 1969; the Challenger explosion in 1986; the Oklahoma City bombing in 1995; the horror of September 11, 2001; the Inauguration of our first African-American President in 2009;  and most recently, the Boston Marathon bombing.)  

     Perhaps, though, I am simply becoming more comfortable with my role as student.  When I first returned to school, it had been thirty years since I'd done any studying.  I had to learn all over again.  Quite frankly, I do believe my overall technique has improved...It sure looks that way...

     It is wonderful to have a goal at this stage in my life, especially since the sons are all grown and embarking on their own journeys.  I've had a whirlwind five years, having experienced a number of major life changes, beginning with a divorce (and still devoid of a subsequent significant other).  This latest chapter has included a new education, a new home (my own apartment for the first time-ever), a new job, a new car...A woman can make a lot of progress with a little determination-and without an anchor weighing her down...

"The Spirit is Willing..."

     "The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak."  I remember my mother saying that all the time.  In my youthful naivete, I thought she was merely lazy.  Now I know better.  Presently, her words come back to haunt me on a daily basis, never more so than during the past weeks.  I moved three days ago, and the job was daunting, to say the least.  It was physically demanding, exhausting, and is not over yet, as I still have tons of stuff to put away.  Okay, not tons, but a great deal nonetheless.  

     I hired a moving company for the first time, but I still found the job overwhelming.  Although the movers belly lugged 98% of my stuff, somebody still had to pack it and unpack it.  Additionally, I carried some of my belongings myself-like most of my clothes (of which there are many).  You wouldn't think that clothes would be heavy.  Believe me when I tell you-they're heavy.  Especially when they have to be carried up two flights of stairs by a person seriously flirting with senior citizenship.  Additionally, I personally moved a myriad number of items that are precious to me.   

    Throughout the day of the actual move,  I was reminded of when I was newly married, at the tender age of 29.  My then husband and I (he was 32), helped friends of ours move.  They, like me, had three rooms of furniture.  They lived in a second floor apartment.  (I moved into a second floor apartment.)  My husband drove an eleven foot box truck from his job, and the four of us spent the day emptying out their apartment, driving forty five minutes, and subsequently loading up their new house.  I remember that day clearly.  It was August.  It was hot.  Yet we pulled off that job like it was something we did on a daily basis.  This move, however, was a whole new ball game.  For starters, I have a bad back, with injuries in two different spots, my lower back, and my middle back. I injured my left shoulder recently (did I mention I'm left handed?), and one of my feet is a total wreck, causing pain all the way up my leg.  Add to that the fact that I am 50-something years old.  WTFudge!  

     By two P.M., my body said "Enough!", and I could barely do another thing.  I sat down, and was basically done for the day.  Luckily, all my stuff was in, although I was compelled to, once again, live among all of my bulging boxes and bags of books, movies, countless kitchen items, knickknacks, etc.  I'm used to that though.  I've been doing it for weeks, while eagerly anticipating my big move...

"Gotta Love Robert Redford"

     "You're much younger than I expected."
     "Thank you."
     "I didn't mean it as a compliment"
(Susan Sarandon to Shia LaBoeuf in The Company You Keep, early in the film.  I was sold at this point, kind of like "you had me at hello".)

     I went to see The Company You Keep yesterday with one of my girlfriends, having chosen an afternoon with Robert Redford over an afternoon with Leonardo DiCaprio.  When I left, it was at the height of a serious thunderstorm, and I actually pondered going back home and cancelling.  The only reason I didn't is because this particular friend is not as attached to her cell phone as I am to mine, and I would not have been able to reach her.  Anyway, the movie was worth the trip, and I thoroughly enjoyed it despite my soaking wet jeans and sneakers.  

     The movie has a stellar cast-many of them old timers whom I never get tired of seeing: Robert Redford, Susan Sarandon, Julie Christie, Chris Cooper.  It feels almost surreal to see these amazing stars, whom I remember so well from their hey-days a number of years back. (That was intentionally vague.  In a way it saddens me to see them aging...)  Additionally, the movie starred Shia La Boeuf, who reminded me of a curly haired Benjamin Braddock.  

     Robert Redford is, as ever, a class act.  The movie was intriguing, a truly good story.  It was devoid of smut, coarse language, and the omnipresent special effects.  Needless to say, I loved it, as did my friend.  Perhaps I'm old fashioned, but when I go to the movies, I was to see a good story.  I don't want to see naked people explicitly engaging in physical relations, numerous ridiculous explosions, nor unbelievable feats of daring, with super human heroes surviving extreme physical assaults.  (Sometimes I believe all of those techniques are to mask a lack of imagination on the part of the writers.)  This movie was a real treat, and I highly recommend it.

    

"Bargain Watch"

     I love going to yard sales, flea markets, and thrift shops, always in search of a bargain.  I have furnished most of my apartment in this manner, saving myself thousands of dollars, and having purchased cozy furniture that I (and my dog) can "live on".  I am not worried if the dog climbs on the furniture, or drools on it, or sheds on it.  I am not constantly chasing him off, which I most assuredly would do, had I invested  a lot of money.  For me, it's a matter of priorities.  Mine are: 1. I want to be debt free. The yard sales, flea markets, and thrift stores that I patronize do not accept credit cards.  2. I want to cuddle with my dog when I read or watch TV.  I used to sit on the floor rather than have him on the furniture with me, and then I decided that was ridiculous. (Besides which I couldn't tolerate the hard floor anymore).  I put a quilt on the love seat, and that is officially our spot.  3. I want to be comfortable.  I don't want to stress if I spill something, or if the furniture gets a little dusty (or hairy).  4. I am a shopaholic.  I can mollify my desire by investing a minimal amount, and coming home with adorable odds and ends for my apartment (or myself) and money in my wallet.

     Sometimes, however, my tactics will backfire.  Like with the black jacket I bought-the one with the red pinstripes.  I spent more trying to match it than I would have on a new suit.  Something similar has now happened with an adorable watch I picked up.  It is pewter, and the band tan,trimmed in brown.  It was adorable, unique, and a real bargain at $.99.  I tried it on at home, and the band immediately broke.  I took it to the jewelry store, bought a battery ($10.00), and a new band ($19.95).  The band is a deep pink, with a delicate design in it.  Needless to say, it doesn't match anything I own.  I guess I should have chosen a black or red band (to match my jacket), or gone to Wal-Mart and bought a new watch for $11.00.