Category Archives: aging

“Email, texts, shmexts…what’s the difference”

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“Email, texts, shmexts…what’s the difference”

As our parents age there are many things we wish they would stop doing.  Driving, eating too much salt and sugar, or becoming too sedentary seem to be the most prevalent concerns that I’ve heard from my friends. My suggestion to my parents isn’t quite so health textschmexts1related.

I simply want my Mother to place her iPhone under the front tire of her car and then drive over it. Many times. Until it’s pulverized.

First, the calls to me:

“Delly?”

No Mom, its Tracy.

“I didn’t call you, I called Delly.”

Mom, you called ME. You’re talking to Tracy.

“Well I meant to call Delly.”

At times I may receive a text with a red pin on a map indicating her current location. According to the map she’s in her house and apparently not lost and hoping I can find her so there’s no need for alarm.

The FaceTime application makes me yearn for those days of the land line telephone. My mother doesn’t know why my face appears on her phone even though she is the one who textschmexts2initiated the Facetime call. It’s difficult to converse; she is too busy laughing and has no idea what to do next. Turning her phone this way and that makes her face jump side to side, up then down on my phone. I get dizzy trying to follow her image. Mom, I ask, what the heck are you doing?!  She replies, I’m LOLing.

Calling her takes patience until she figures out which pocket, which purse, which counter, which chair, which car, which room her phone is in. Then she swipes to answer. Usually she swipes the wrong way no less than 3 times disconnecting me each time. When we finally connect she’s still laughing.  I’m learning to take deep breaths as I count to 10.

When I call, and my mother’s out of the house she puts the phone on speaker and then textschmexts3places it to her ear.   I hear the lawn mower, the check-out girl, a blow dryer, all sounds going on around her but I can’t hear HER. She can’t hear me and I can’t hear her.  My ears are ringing. We’re like walking advertisements for Verizon…Can you hear me now?

Despite my frustration, my dizziness, and the constant ringing in my ears, I’m impressed technology doesn’t scare away this 80+ year old.  My interesting, intelligent mother reads the NY Times on her iPhone forwarding articles on Tesla, hedge fund tax loopholes, and recipes.  So it’s with patience, respect, love, and deep breathing that I explain to my mother that no, I didn’t receive her message in an email, but received it in a text which textschmexts5didn’t include the attachment indicated, and oh by the way the text went to 4 people I don’t know.  From my still feisty mother, “email, text, shmexts, what’s the difference.”  And she inserted a red faced emoji.

But the worst day of my life happened with the inevitable, dreaded phone call.

I knew it was coming, but still not quite prepared for it.

My distraught sister on the line, tearfully saying…

“Mom’s on Facebook.”

STEP AWAY from Facebook, I quickly texted my mother. This is nothing to be LOLing about. She texted back an emoji of a certain hand gesture.

So I accepted her Facebook friend request.facebookheart

It might be easier to get her to stop driving.

Beach bag bell curve

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Beach bag bell curve

beach1Show me a bag anyone is bringing to the beach and I’ll tell you how old they are.  It’s like looking at a bell curve of your life: the bag starts small, becomes larger until it’s bursting then slowly tapers off.

Like your life.

During the teenage years I carried a very small beach bag.  All I needed was a bikini, baby oil, a chair, and Cousin Brucie on the radio. My Italian mother supplied lunch for the entire beach whether she knew you or not.  Back then I wasn’t worrying about what I looked like from the side or behind. I sat upright in my chair because I could.  Because when I looked down I wasn’t wondering, “how the heck did that happen?”

The dating years come; the bag gets larger.  You are still in a bikini and haven’t yet had children, who destroy your life,

…I mean your body.

The chair remains upright.beach2

My mother still supplied the lunch but only if she liked my boyfriend. No lunch delivered, I knew he was history. When I brought my future husband around she delivered breakfast and lunch to the beach and my dad carried down gin and tonics.

…Subtle like a sledgehammer, my parents.

During the years I was raising children, getting to the beach required a large bag busting with shovels, pails, sunglasses, flip-flops, trucks, diapers, sun screen, hats, and diapers , along with beach4strollers, small tents, umbrellas, and chairs.  Attempting to cross Ocean Ave to the beach with 2 kids in tow required an act of God.  By the time I had survived the crossing, unpacked, the cramp in my bicep finally subsiding, it never failed that one of my kids needed to go back to the house to use the bathroom. The bikini has been traded in for a mu-mu. And that chair?  My sister, 8 years my junior with a tight stomach and no kids now sits in it…upright.

Currently my bag is considerably smaller, my life quite different.  This was apparent when I spent a few days with a girlfriend at the beach. She used to remind me to bring my ingredients for margaritas, now it’s my heart meds, gluten free wraps, probiotics, and vitamins. I used to remind her to bring sauvignon blanc, now it’s microwaveable quinoa, green tea pills and bee pollen for our metabolism.  We lined everything up on the bar and took a picture of our “stash” to send to friends remembering how we used to send pictures of cosmopolitans. The sun is no longer our friend so our hats are large enough to carry a small child.

I’ve ditched the mu-mu and am back in a 2-piece but that chair needs to be at a very specific back-angle so that it appears I have a flat stomach. One notch up in the wrong direction and it’s all over.

Now about that bag… Sometimes I forget the bag. Sometimes I forget the book.  Sometimes I have the book but forget the beach3glasses to read the book.  I wish my kids were around so I could send them back to get whatever it is that I’ve left behind. It would make me feel like I had gotten my money’s worth for giving birth to them.

And when I finally make it to the beach, unpack, grab my hat, unfold the chair, put up the umbrella, get out the book, apply sunscreen, what’s the first thing I do?

I face the beautiful ocean.

Grab that small bag.

Turn around and head back for the bathroom.

I need to find something to complain about ~ fast

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I need to find something to complain about ~ fast

happy8I’m happy. No….really, it’s not good. There is nothing worse for a writer who has made a career out of complaining.

Acceptance is the key to my happiness. I’m still juggling, still busy, but without kids at home to suck the life out of me, I’m busy with things that I choose: volunteering for 2 non-profits, cooking classes, piano lessons, writing…you’re bored already, aren’t you? I’m not complaining, but are you laughing? I didn’t think so.

To find the humor I decided to go back to when the complaining started.

happy3Remember 16? You complained about your mother, complained about best friends who liked you when they were in your company but talked about you when you were out of sight. You complained about boyfriends who liked you on Monday but then suddenly liked your best friend on Tuesday. Good times!

25-30 and humor is easily found. Complaining is front and center. You’re on your own and happy to have a career. Maybe you’re married to your soul-mate (the most ridiculous description ever), possibly you have a family. But let’s be honest as we reminisce…you have a few days when you think; maybe I’ll just change my name and keep driving. Smiling? I thought so.

At 40 you’re tired, stressed, and the bathroom scale lies. I was the Queen surrounded by a court of willing and friendly participants who excelled in taking complaining to an art form.

At this age you complain about who spends more time driving, complain about practices and competitions, complain happy9about the college process. It’s been years since you wanted to wear heels, you wonder why you ever thought he was your “soul mate” in the first place, and you’re worried you are becoming your mother. Nobody you know is happy. Its side-splitting hysterical.

And then even though you’re worn out, slightly blind, slightly forgetful and slightly lumpy, the complaining just stops and you’re suddenly no longer tired and remarkably happy.

Which totally ruins the image I have worked decades to achieve.

I’m happy that I’m well past the age of 16 and don’t need to act as though I like you if I don’t. At first it was happy5thrilling to have 650 Facebook friends, but then I accepted that if I didn’t like you in high school, college, or at work I don’t need to like you now.

I accept that no matter how hard I work out I will never be a size 2 and I’ll never look good in neon. I’m suddenly happy wearing black or gray. It’s a timeless look I’m after now: elegant, sophisticated. If I have a craving for lime green, I’ll mix a margarita.

I accept that no matter how much I spend on face products, no pore reducing, line eliminating, plumping, firming, puffiness extinguishing, bleaching, peeling, hydrating concoction will change that fact.

I accept that according to most beauty experts minimal make-up is the way to go at my age. I’m happy with this advice, but not because I read it in a magazine: I simply can’t see well enough to put it on.

I’m VERY happy and VERY accepting that it’s been proven dark chocolate and wine are good for the aging process. That it’s better to be a little overweight and with higher blood pressure then to lose weight and have lower bloodhappy6 pressure as we age. I kid you not….read the 90+ study (http://www.mind.uci.edu/research/90plus-study/). All these years worrying…who knew I was on the right track?

I’m happy and no longer complaining because with child rearing in my rear view mirror I can go out to dinner and a movie during the week, every station on my car radio is mine, my mascara is where I left it, and as long as I avoid looking at myself from the side there isn’t much to complain about.

I LOVE MY LIFE!

Am I happy? Yes!

Is it funny? NO!

My writing career might very well be over.
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55 ~ the Good, the Bad, the whole milk latte

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55 I think my mother’s more depressed about the fact that I’m turning 55 than I am. When someone asks the ages of her children and she says she has a daughter who is 55, a quick calculation would make my mom…well, pretty darn old. So yeah, she seems a bit depressed.

I’m trying what I have always suggested my kids do, which is to come up with a good vs. bad list to turning 55. Maybe this will help me embrace this birthday. Maybe this will deter me from putting an eye lift and liposuction on my Christmas List.

The Good. I can sleep in because I don’t have to wake up to make breakfast or lunches for kids at home. The Bad? I can’t sleep. If it wasn’t for infomercials on juicing, doo-wop music collections and rotisserie ovens, I don’t know what I would do with myself at 3 in the morning.

The Good. I’m hot. The Bad. It’s not hot in a sexy way.

The Good. I got over being over-the hill when I turned 30. That was the most shocking birthday for me. Growing up, anyone 30 was practically decrepit. They wore weird sweaters, were married, wore way too much make-up, and were thick in the middle. The Bad. I seem to own a lot of weird sweaters, I’m married, I wear a lot of make-up and I am thick in the middle.

Now as far as that “thick in the middle” aspect of turning 55, the good is with no children at home to suck the life out of me, I have a lot of time to work out so most mornings I get dressed and head to the gym. 2 hours of either spin and step classes, or pump and step classes 3 days a week. 1 day a week I take a Pilates mat class.551

The Bad.

It’s not working.

I have cut back on carbs. My weight remains the same. I have cut down on up sugar. My weight remains the same. Given up soda, desserts (well…sort of), and watch my calorie intake. My delusional friends tell me that muscles weigh more. But 30 pounds of muscle? It’s why I refuse to give up wine. I can still drink myself sexy.

The instructor in my Pilates class wants our abs back to their glory days. He instructs us to hold in our cores: to clench as if being hit with a basketball while we do planks, side-planks, and sit-ups. I clench. I hold it in. But when looking down, hanging off those clenched muscles is still a stomach.

Hence, the wine.

DD Blend 004The Good. Upon turning 55 I can use my AARP card and receive a free donut with my coffee at Dunkin Donuts. The Bad. I have no will-power and eat the donut.

Always.

I make myself feel better by getting a latte made with skim milk but that’s sort of like ordering a Whopper with a diet coke. I’ve done that too.

My solution is I find at least 1 person a day who looks worse than me. Then I stand next to them.

Many people remark that 50 is the new 30 and they’re happy to tell you that they loved their 50’s. But I’ve noticed these people are in their 80’s. And then there are those who say to me, “but you look 45” as if that should make me happy.

So you’re probably thinking this gal has no problems and she should just be thankful for the life she has. You’re right, and I am. But it’s like an out of body experience when filling out a form where they are asking for your age and you have to scroll down to 1958. It takes a REALLY long time to get there.

The Good. Lot’s of celebrating yours truly. On the actual day my mother cooked me a fabulous birthday dinner. My husband took me out for drinks and then a Bonnie Raitt concert. And to cap it all off, my best friend surprised me by inviting 10 of my very best sleep deprived, memory challenged, sweaty, sugar craving, near-sighted friends to celebrate with me at a local restaurant. And we all ordered dessert.

In weighing the Good vs. the Bad, I’ve decided there’s enough Good to forgo the eye lift and the lipo…for now. And if I don’t look down at what’s growing over my belt I suppose I’m content to be 55. I’m going to eat a donut whenever the heck I want and maybe I’ll even order my latte with whole milk… just to be able to walk on the wild side again. 553

RECLAIMING MY BRAIN

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I’m on a mission to reclaim my brain.

Previously I wrote that I’ve been feeling memory challenged. Memory of names, words on the tip of my tongue that I can’t remember, where I left my phone, keys, glasses, etc. Being assured by my doctor that it wasn’t the onset of early Alzheimer’s, I was told to pretty much deal with it…”it’s part of the aging process”, he said.BRAIN2

“F… that,” I said.

In my younger years when I wanted to learn anything I reached for something I could touch. Flash cards used for multiplication and addition (obviously that didn’t work, but that’s another blog), cookbooks when I wanted to learn a few recipes.

That was then.

This is now.
I pick up my iPhone and go shopping at the APP store. And there it is…Lumosity. An app suggesting I could “reclaim my brain”! It’s a brain trainer. Sort of like an exercise trainer but nobody is yelling at me to get down lower in my squats.

Finding Lumosity gave me hope. Clearly I wasn’t the only person who wanted to find their brain or why would there be an app for it? Others must be walking around in a cloud wondering where they parked their car too. Maybe this app could help me feel like I wasn’t having a senior moment 24 hours a day.brain6

I started with the SHAPES game used for memory. It claimed to help you “manage business meetings where lots of ideas are discussed”.

Managing a business meeting? The closest I come to managing a meeting is discussing who will do what chore in our family. I don’t need ideas. I need someone to take out the garbage. I skip to the next game.

The BRAIN SHIFT game also claims to help with memory and can “make you a better listener at work and in relationships.” WHOA! I don’t need to be a better listener. I want people to listen TO ME! And as for relationships , I don’t need any more friends. The ones I have know what they’re getting and still like me. They too are walking around in a cloud wondering where they left their glasses and their cars. Where’s the training on Lumosity for that, is what I want to know?

I decided to go on their website and sure enough, all those looking to reclaim their brain are in their 20’s. It’s like 18-year-old models selling wrinkle cream to 50-year-olds.

But I knew for sure that this app clearly wasn’t written for me when one of the statements said, “I need to improve on projects – although I can easily switch between them, it’s hard for me to maintain focus on one of them for long”.

You’re 20 years old and you can’t focus? BRAIN1

Clearly this person was not a 50+ year-old mother. Mothers switch between projects the minute they get up in the morning until the minute they go to sleep at night. We don’t need an app to help with project management.
Friends my age aren’t dealing with managing meetings or relationships. We want to remember what we had for dinner last night.

You think you have lost your brain at 20? I at least have an excuse… It’s called MY LIFE! “What’s yours?” I scream at the iPhone.

Maintain focus? Are you kidding me?

You haven’t even been married yet! Now there’s a mind numbing experience.

You haven’t had kids yet who think you were born to serve…them!

You haven’t yet been an executive at a fortune 100 firm making money with a wonderful office and a secretary before you decided to give it all up for the card you get once a year on Mother’s Day.

What I realized was that I deserve to be forgetful! I’ve earned it. I’ve done nothing but schedule activities, play dates, meals, concerts, sleep-over’s, sports practices, competitions, juggle 14 balls in the air at one time, and drive, drive, drive for the past 20 years. MY BRAIN IS FRIED FOR A REASON.

So what if I’m forgetful. I never once missed a game or a concert. I was successful without an app.

So I decided I am going to reclaim my own brain with no help from the app store.

I will park in the same lane at Shop-Rite so I always know approximately where my car is. I will have multiple glasses scattered around the house, I will force myself to put my keys in the same pocket of my purse and on the same counter in my house every time I drive. BRAIN4

I need to give myself a break.
I need to embrace my fogginess.
I’ve earned it.

I’m losing it….Really.

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I’m losing it….really.

I have become a list maker. I used to make lists to remember who had to be picked up where and when, dates to turn in various school forms, pizza day at Bragg School, birthday cards to buy…You know, those important things that us
“stay-at-homes” live for.Clipart Illustration of a Red Pencil Marking Of Items On A Check

Now I make lists just so know I have accomplished something by the end of the day because without my list I wouldn’t remember what I accomplished on any given day.

I was getting concerned that I had the early stages of dementia until I realized that all my friends are memory challenged. My girlfriend forgets a lunch date but it’s OK! I forgot to pick my dad up from his doctor’s appointment and I DROPPED HIM OFF THAT SAME MORNING! My other girlfriend can’t remember where she put the book I lent her. It’s OK! I can’t remember even having read the book although I must have loved it because I’m running a neighborhood book group to discuss it.

Today, when getting together my friends and I find ourselves in competition over how forgetful we are. We face the same challenges with a common theme: where’s the keys, where’s the scarf, where’s the wallet, where’s the glasses. Although we laugh, there is still that nagging little voice in the back which says (sort of loudly)…maybe this ain’t so funny.

I actually downloaded the Lumosity app onto my phone which promises to “train your brain for better function.” (More on this in my next blog). When someone is looking over my shoulder I switch over to the NYTimes app so I appear to be smart.

I looked up the symptoms of dementia:

1 A group of symptoms affecting intellectual and social abilities confused

Well, surely I have that one covered. It’s hard to sound intellectual and excel in the social scene when you are flipping your words as in, “I think I will go to the car and get the heat seated”, which really translates to “I think I’ll get the seat heated.”

2 Memory loss

I literally can’t remember why I am standing in a particular room on any given day. I know that I went there with a purpose I just can’t remember what that purpose was. Then, 3 hours later when I’m getting into bed, that’s when I’ll remember.

3 Problems with at least two brain functions, such as memory loss and impaired judgment or language.

(refer to answers number’s 1 and 2)

4 Dementia can make you confused and unable to remember people and names. foot in mouth

I have decided I have way too many friends and this is the reason I can’t remember names anymore. I don’t need any more friends. So I have decided to close the gate. My friends are the ones I currently call friends. The rest of you – don’t bother me.

5 Changes in personality and social behavior.

See the last remark in the answer to number 4

So I went to go see my doctor about this and he said it’s an age thing. REALLY? Something else that us 50 year old women now I have to deal with along with insomnia, weight gain, and feeling like we’re hot but not in the sexy way?

DR: Anyone can forget some details but people with dementia forget the entire thing.

ME: Good…I will forget what my thighs used to look like.

DR: People with dementia are prone to placing objects in odd places.

ME: I found clean wash cloths in my freezer. (I kept this to myself).

Long story short…I’m not worried anymore since nobody that I know can remember anything and we are relatively happy. My 80 year old mother who is still working, still going, still doing reminded me, recently, after having misplaced my glasses for 3 days, that my glasses may be in my bathrobe pocket. THEY WERE. Maybe dementia missed her generation and settled on ours. Or maybe we all just have way too much time on our hands.

I continue to train my brain with the lumosity app daily, but only after I find my phone.

My newest perfume is Ben Gay

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My newest perfume is Ben Gay

overhill2When all you do is roll over in bed and then have to deal with a herniated disc you know without a doubt that the slow decline has begun. That you’re on the other side of the hill, the train has left the station, the ship has sailed, that….oh forget it…you know what I mean.

I had every intention of joining the ranks of millions who had vowed to lose weight for the New Year.  Knowing my “start date” I ate and drank everything in sight before the big day. I signed up at my gym for a month of step, pump, CX, and RPM classes.  I replaced dips, cookies, fried chicken and wine with lots of fruit, protein, and vegetables. Then I heard, “POP” and I needed a crane to lift me into a standing position.

I guess this is the beginning of the decline. I have vowed to go down kicking and screaming, but that’s a little hard to do when you can’t bend over, roll over, turn left or turn right without wincing. Actually, I’m still OK with the screaming part. It’s the kicking I’m currently having a hard time with.

My kids, home for the holiday, were so concerned they took a video of me trying to get out of the chair. As they were laughing I could so relate to those animals that eat their young. If someone tells me they saw me on YouTube I will disown them.

I have used so much Ben Gay in the last week that if you don’t wear a mask when entering my house your brain will be instantly numb from the fumes.

craneMy husband has started to complain about the pervasive smell of menthol so I switch it up every other day and use Biofreeze. It’s important in a long-term marriage that you appear to care what your partner thinks.

The chiropractor who has become my new BFF suggested that when I stand, I raise a foot up onto a book.  Hello! I need a crane to stand and I have to bend to get the book on the floor, so clearly that’s not going to work.

He suggested I sleep on my right side.   Unfortunately I’ve been spending so much time on my right side that now I can’t feel my right shoulder.

The good news is my sinuses are clear from the fumes.  The bad news is that if someone lights a match I may explode.

I was told that with a herniated disc I need to adjust my life accordingly.  What exactly does “adjust my life accordingly” mean?  According to the 20 year old in my head (who doesn’t yet have weight, vision, memory, or body issues), or the 54-year-old who is living la vida not so much loca?

And how do you adjust your life when all you did was roll over in bed?  Does it mean that I have to avoid rolling, that I need to sleep standing? Why is this happening?  Don’t I get a say? Is there an age limit on throwing a temper tantrum?temper

No wonder we’re all on some form of Prozac.  Who can deal with this aging stuff without being medicated? I suppose I could drink a little more wine, but have you seen the sugar content in wine? I’m on a “get healthy” kick, remember? Prozac has fewer calories.

This morning I opened my eyes, actually making a mental plan on how to get upright.

  1. Slide to the side of the bed,
  2.  Check to see if my concerned darlings are anywhere around with their phones,
  3. Slowly place 2 feet on the floor,
  4. Bend knees and slowly rise to a standing position.

I haven’t done this much planning since my wedding.

Lo and behold I have very little pain and actually pass on the Ben Gay.  Maybe it’s just an Advil and ice pack day.  Advil and ice….what has my life become? It used to be that when I said ice, I also said gin, tonic, and lime.

I put my new sneakers on and my new workout clothes. I grab a carrot and I simply go for a walk.  A very slow walk.  Do you think it’s OK that secretly I want to trip the young runners as they go by? “HEY” I want to scream…”you too shall be slowly walking one day”! Perhaps I have anger issues too.

tripping

I finally feel well enough that I put the Ben Gay away.  I’m sure I’ll need it again because as they say, “you’re not getting any younger.”  And for all those people who say they wouldn’t do 20, or 30, or 40 again.  That they are so happy being 50….STOP SNIFFING THE Ben Gay!

Role-Reversal

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I can’t ever remember a time growing up that my parents asked me how to do anything. It was always the other way around with me asking them for help, and they always knowing how to do it.  Not to take anything away from their brilliance, but things were a lot simpler back then. No iPhones, remotes, or apps. The television, stereo, and lights had one switch/2 options: on or off.  So it was simple and didn’t  require a password, a download, or a PDF file. I thought my father was brilliant simply because he could switch the sound in the stereo from one speaker to another.  Your parents were supposed to be smarterfather with child than you.

Today, my house and my life come to a grinding halt if I can’t get in touch with one of my kids. It’s complete role-reversal with them being brilliant and me not so much. They are being the all-knowing parent, me the naive child.

I don’t enjoy feeing simple-minded around my kids. Everything is complicated AND it’s all connected which makes it even worse.  My DVD is connected through the Xbox which is connected to the television.  This means that if I want to watch a movie I need one of them to turn the TV on for me.

Sometimes, when I’m home alone I sit in a dark room hoping if I concentrate hard enough the television will turn on by itself.  Friends are impressed by how many books I read, but really, if I could get the TV to turn on I wouldn’t read that many books.

The lights in the family room come with a programmable remote control.  It’s called “SmartHome” and it’s a multi-room lighting control kit. Once again, you need an engineer’s degree to complete the simple task of turning the lights on. The kit includes an eight button keypad.  The instructions say, “plug into an outlet and connect to your router which can then be accessed from any web-enabled device.” ARE THEY KIDDING ME? I JUST smart mom remoteWANT TO TURN A LIGHT ON AND I DON’T WANT TO ASK MY KIDS HOW TO DO IT.

I want a remote called “SmartMom” which could make me, well…smart.

My kids are very patient with helping me. Their generation was all born “on the grid”.  Their first word spoken was probably “synch,” and they can complete any task involving electronics and technology at such lightening speed that it doesn’t pay to follow or try to learn myself.  By the time it takes me to find my glasses they have already downloaded, uploaded, liked it on Facebook and hooked me up with some cloud that I’m still trying to get a handle on.

Even trying to impress them with apps on my phone backfires.  “I have Pandora” I tell them.  Only to be told that Spotify and Tunein Radio are far superior to my hokey little Pandora app.  “Yeah, well I downloaded the Torch app and now I have a flashlight on my phone… So there!”  They are speechless.flashlight app

“And furthermore, we were allowed to play tag even though not everyone could be “it”, and not everyone got a trophy but we still felt good about ourselves, and we could make eye contact and HAVE A CONVERSATION with another person without texting!”  Now they are looking at me like I have lost my mind, but I don’t care. I’m tired of feeling inadequate. I want to feel like my parents got to feel….superior, omniscient, and brilliant.

My daughter recently got an iPhone 5.  We were standing in line at the mall and she said, “I can’t figure out how to post a picture to Facebook from this phone.” I literally ran someone over to help her.  Imagine…me helping her!  “LET… ME… SHOW…YOU…HOW… TO…USE…YOUR… iPhone,” I practically screamed so that all could hear and be totally amazed by me, a mere grown-up helping a child with something electronic.  And so it came to pass that I did help her.  To add to my new feeling of superiority, the young cashier said  he had never seen it happen before and was truly impressed.  Feeling pretty cocky I told him that I even had the torch app and could use my phone as a flashlight…and then I lost him. But for a brief period, I was brilliant and it felt amazing.child

After leaving the mall I tried to get into my car and realized I couldn’t find my keys.  I was practically in a panic trying to think on which counter I had left them.  It was then that I noticed my daughter with a smile on her face that seemed to be growing.  Slowly she pulled my keys out from one pocket, and then my reading glasses from her other pocket.  “…Just so you don’t think you know it all” she said.

ANNOYING

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Based on the many phone calls I’ve been receiving since I started this blog I am of the opinion that we are all cranky.  Everyone has an idea for me on what to moan and then write about with lists of things they find annoying.  I like annoying.  I’ve been annoying my whole life and now I get to write about it.

Annoying is when I go to a salon for a facial and walk out with $250 worth of products promising to tone, tighten, lighten, and firm my dull, loose, age-spotted skin. After clearing out my medicine cabinet of the arsenal of products from my last facial which promised pretty much the same results, I am now armed with a sack of new products promising to fight everything about my face these specialists tell me I shouldn’t like. The problem is I can’t remember what the application instructions are for the 32 products I just purchased.
Is there a consequence if I use my morning recovery complex in the evening? What will happen if I exfoliate for dermal repair on Tuesdays and Thursdays instead of Mondays and Fridays? What if I lose interest after a week? I absolutely need a spreadsheet and it must be taped to the bathroom mirror.

Annoying are designers using 20 year old models to try and get me to wear jeggings in bright red or orange for the Fall season, jeans below my waist, or skirts above my mid-thigh . Anyone who is 50+ does not want jeans below their belly button for reasons I don’t need to elaborate on, and we will wear pants in one color and one color only… black. If we are really feeling adventurous, we may try dark brown, but red and yellow? Are you kidding me? When designers can make 50 year old models that are 5’3”, are 15-20 pounds over their glory days weight, and have more rolls than the bakery section at Shop Rite look good, I’ll buy the product. I’m not impressed they can make Angelina Jolie look good….try making women like me look good.

Annoying are all the plug-ins I own. I am drowning in cords for my phone, my navigation system, my iPad, my iPod, my Bluetooth, my Nook. I remember when all I ever had to plug in was the iron. It never had to be recharged, uploaded, downloaded, synched with the toaster and I never lost it. The iron didn’t need to be programmed and I didn’t need an app to install it. The iron didn’t need a password to operate, didn’t need to know if it could save my location or push notifications to me. It ironed my shirts. Period. End of story.

I find it annoying that despite the spreadsheet on my bathroom mirror and the $250 worth of products I’m still referred to as “ma’am” when I’m out at a restaurant. I secretly want them to say, “here’s your table babe”, and not, “here is your table, ma’am.” I want to scream, “listen buster… ma’am is somebody your mother’s age” but then I look at him and realize that I’m probably older than his mother, so “ma’am” it is. This summer I went to a Mets game (talk about an annoying team) and I was asked to show ID when I bought a beer. Seriously, I almost kissed that vendor. I walked back to my seat thinking, damn girl you must look good, until I found out that they asked my 80 year old father for ID too. Yup…”ma’am” it is.

Annoying is that lately, I notice I can’t remember why I am standing in a particular room. It’s not like it’s a room that there is much to think about either…It’s an unfinished, dark, basement. “Think “I tell myself, “think, think, think…there must be a reason you are standing in a dark, unfinished, basement you fool!” And then the light comes on…the freezer, yes I came down to get something out of the freezer. Now if only I coud remember what it is I plan on doing with the food that I got out of the freezer. I will check the spreadsheet in my bathroom. Perhaps it’s something for my skin.