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 |  A Baby-Boomer STILL alive and living in senior housing...
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The random thoughts of a Baby-Boomer STILL adjusting to life in senior housing (after five years)... Almost exactly nine months after World War II ended, one historian writes, “the cry of the baby was heard across the land.” More babies were born in 1946 than ever before: 3.4 million, 20 percent more than in 1945. This was the beginning of the so-called “baby boom.” In 1947, another 3.8 million babies were born; 3.9 million were born in 1952; and more than 4 million were born every year from 1954 until 1964, when the boom finally tapered off. By then, there were 76.4 million “baby boomers” in the United States. They made up almost 40 percent of the nation’s population. - www.history.com |
| Ugh! This is what I woke up to this morning (two hours of tossing and turning and only knowing the first few lines…grrrr): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICkWjdQuK7Q I sincerely hope someone will come up with a device that I can wear while sleeping that will explain my dreams. I wonder if it’s something I eat. Growing up, my parents always said not to eat cheese before going to bed: it would produce nightmares. Okay, I followed that advice. Not that this song is a nightmare, but when it runs on a loop in one’s mind, it gets VERY close to that category…ugh. Now, tell me – I’m a gay old man – why in the Hell would I dream about an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka dot bikini? I’m waiting. ... Still waiting… ... You see? It doesn’t make sense. I long for the day when I wake up naturally…no strange song floating through my head. I need help. FAST! Life is good. |
| Ugh! Still temperate weather in this part of Pennsylvania…just wonder when the agonizing days of August will arrive. A few spritzes yesterday, nothing down-pour-y; the temperatures were at a comfortable level, although it was humid. I drove off to the store to pick up some peanut butter – my jar was nearly empty and I knew it wouldn’t last until marketing day with Mom/Dad…and I loves me some peanut butter sandwiches each day. I approached my car and noticed bird droppings on the hood. Last week, when I returned from marketing, the only spot left in The Home’s parking lot was underneath the trees. I don’t like to park there because the trees seem ready to topple in a strong wind. Nevertheless, I parked there…it is that or park on the street, which I don’t like to do. The birds seemed determined in their aim…all the droppings are concentrated – they must have a group get-together, “…let’s bomb the black car.” I guess I could wash my car, but I haven’t done that since 1973 – I rely on the weather to take care of business…it’s worked since 1973; why fix something that doesn’t need fixing? I’m wishing for violent storms with downpours to clean my car of the droppings. My one hope is that it’s not Ms. Sparrow and her Sparrow-ettes that dirtied my automobile. When Ms. Sparrow and her “children” appear on my air conditioner, they leave nothing behind except their sweet chirpings – they’re either kind or constipated. I appreciate their style. Here at The Home, parking is a right (for tenants) and at the same time a premium as to how close to the front doors one can legally park. The management people use up parking slots Monday through Friday, despite the posted “rules” of the parking lot: “Parking is for residents only. Visitors must park on the street.” Well, the management people (six) take up six parking slots during the day. That’s unfair to those of us who rely on those parking slots. I check the obituaries each day, and when I see one of my neighbors is now demised, I mentally think, “Did he/she have a car?” I know it’s a terrible thought, but it makes a difference. An empty slot in the parking lot means I don’t have to park underneath the trees. Life is good. |
| Ugh! August has been kind so far in this part of Pennsylvania…not hot and humid during daylight hours, and cool enough at night to sleep with merely the window fan running. YAY! I have high hopes for upcoming September. Crazy Diane showed up at my door yesterday. *knock knock* “Yes?” (me) “Do you have a potato I could borrow?” (CD) “Umm…” (me) “Only until Friday.” (CD) I had three red-skinned potatoes I was planning to use for meals for myself. I felt guilty and said, “Yes. I’ll be right back.” I retrieved one of my potatoes and offered it to her. She accepted it and said, “It’s not boiled. What am I supposed to do with this?” *sigh* Another day of Life at The Home. Despite it all… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I rarely watch live TV; I have a TiVo DVR and record my shows…that way when I watch them, I can fast-forward through the annoying commercials. But, once in a blue moon, if something is occurring in real time and TV has coverage, I’ll watch. This happened the other week when the South Korean airliner crashed in San Francisco. I watched live TV for the first time in months. Reporters were on the scene and delivered stories that were mildly intriguing. But then came the commercial break. The commercial lasted two minutes. It was for a smoking-cessation product. “Okay,” I thought, “some people may benefit from this and it might help them.” The first five seconds of the commercial touted the benefits: decreased desire, quit smoking, no drowsiness, ask your doctor – replete with video of a middle-aged woman frolicking with her dog in a park or backyard. The next minute and almost three quarters (while the middle-aged woman continued playing with her dog) was spent with the voice-over very rapidly stating, “Do not use XXX if you are sensitive to light; if you experience mood changes, anxiety, or dangerous thoughts like homicide or suicide, contact a medical specialist immediately; if you have skin reactions to the medication like boils, itching, or rash, contact your physician right away; contact your doctor if you exhibit signs of heart attack; do not operate heavy machinery while taking XXX; common side effects include nausea, difficulty swallowing, or trouble with dreams; other side effects are constipation, diarrhea, spontaneous bleeding, temporary blindness, speaking in tongues, loss of hearing, temporary paralysis, muscle tics, hallucinations dealing with grasshoppers, unconsciousness, stroke, coma and/or death.” YAY! Sign me up! NOT! I’ll continue my smoking – it seems WAY safer! I understand we live here in the U.S. in a litigious society…but really. Where else in the world does a company spend five percent of the time touting their product’s benefits and 95 percent of the time saying how the product could adversely affect someone? Crazy. Still… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Saturday afternoon, I watched TV and for whatever reason (I’m at the age I no longer question things I think about), “Gary, Indiana” seeped into my grey matter all of a sudden (for the record, I live in Pennsylvania – several states away from Indiana). I thought, “That’s odd,” still with no clue where the hint came from (I was watching a show concerning penguins). Anyway, I Googled “Gary Indiana” and came up with this short clip from the movie, “The Music Man” from 1962. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjP2O9Qe4Ek Then I had a flashback. Each spring my high school had a talent show to showcase students with so-called “talent.” There were two shows – the auditorium could accommodate only half the student body at a time, and it was mandatory ALL students attend the annual talent show, much to the chagrin of most of the students – oi... Dancers pirouetted and tripped over their feet, guitar players strummed, flautists fluted, singers sang, and kids from the drama club acted…and, then there was me. I appeared on stage three-quarters of the way into the show, alone on stage, with just a spotlight on me. My “stage name” was Poindexter Hinkelmist (which loosely translated to “Poindexter chicken manure”). I sang “Gary, Indiana” a cappella…in front of (in each show) 400+ bored students. I did some serious sweating as I belted out the words, off-key I’m sure, but in each show I received a standing ovation. I have come to believe the realization of those standing ovations – I was the worst act in an interminable two hours stuck in an un-air-conditioned auditorium and my fellow students were merely rising from their sweat-soaked chairs for a brief moment of coolness…and perhaps I offered some comic relief. I cannot sing aloud…although I sing in my mind all the time – I wake up with songs in my head each morning; from where they derive is a mystery to me. I appreciate good singing. I did a major disservice to little Ronnie Howard with my rendition of “Gary, Indiana” but, you know what, I enjoyed those standing ovations – even though I’d made a fool of myself. “The Music Man” is a good movie; it’s one of my favorites. And each time little Ronnie Howard (formerly known as Opie; now known as Ron Howard – film director extraordinaire) sings “Gary, Indiana” I transport myself back 40+ years. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I found an article online this morning detailing complaints about travel from around the world. This probably could have been written by our very own Complaining Connie here at The Home: “I think it should be explained in the brochure that the local convenience store does not sell proper biscuits like custard creams or ginger nuts.” “It’s lazy of the local shopkeepers in Puerto Vallarta to close in the afternoons. I often needed to buy things during ‘siesta’ time -- this should be banned.” “On my holiday to Goa in India, I was disgusted to find that almost every restaurant served curry. I don’t like spicy food.” “We booked an excursion to a water park but no one told us we had to bring our own swimsuits and towels. We assumed it would be included in the price.” “The beach was too sandy. We had to clean everything when we returned to our room.” “We found the sand was not like the sand in the brochure. Your brochure shows the sand as white but it was more yellow.” “They should not allow topless sunbathing on the beach. It was very distracting for my husband who just wanted to relax. “ “No one told us there would be fish in the water. The children were scared.” “Although the brochure said that there was a fully equipped kitchen, there was no egg-slicer in the drawers.” “We went on holiday to Spain and had a problem with the taxi drivers as they were all Spanish.” “The roads were uneven and bumpy, so we could not read the local guide book during the bus ride to the resort. Because of this, we were unaware of many things that would have made our holiday more fun.” “It took us nine hours to fly home from Jamaica to England. It took the Americans only three hours to get home. This seems unfair.” “I compared the size of our one-bedroom suite to our friends’ three-bedroom and ours was significantly smaller.” “The brochure stated: ‘No hairdressers at the resort.' We’re trainee hairdressers and we think they knew and made us wait longer for service.” “There were too many Spanish people there. The receptionist spoke Spanish, the food was Spanish. No one told us that there would be so many foreigners.” “We had to line up outside to catch the boat and there was no air-conditioning.” “It is your duty as a tour operator to advise us of noisy or unruly guests before we travel.” “I was bitten by a mosquito. The brochure did not mention mosquitoes.” “My fiancé and I requested twin-beds when we booked, but instead we were placed in a room with a king bed. We now hold you responsible and want to be reimbursed for the fact that I became pregnant. This would not have happened if you had put us in the room that we booked.” I smiled at some of the comments and shook my head at others. Here’s to a good weekend to everyone. Life is good. ____ carlton607 - looking to free-up brain space |
| Ugh! Now we’re in August – my least favorite month of the year. It seems to last three months instead of one…the days are hot, hazy, and humid: interminable. Yuck. And it has 31 days! Ugh! Yesterday, here at The Home: *knock knock* “What now?” I hit “pause” on the remote, got out of my chair and looked through my peephole. I saw nothing. So I went back to my chair. A few seconds later: *knock knock knock* I hit “pause” on the remote, got out of my chair and went to my peephole again. Nothing. While I was peering through the peephole, I heard, *knock knock* - so I opened my door. On the other side was Bertie, a LITTLE old lady who lives on the second floor (I live on the third). “Yes?” (me) “Connie told me I should ask you if you have some hemorrhoid cream I could borrow.” (Bertie) What is it with my neighbors wanting to “borrow” things from me: a hot dog, tuna, hemorrhoid cream? I’m assuming it was Complaining Connie rather than Silent Connie who recommended my assistance…grrr. (me) “Umm, no, I don’t. Sorry.” (Bertie) “Do you know anyone else I could ask? I really need some and don’t have any.” (me) “Sorry, no.” (Bertie) “Okay.” (me) “Good luck.” I closed my door and made sure the lock was secured. One day in my Life at The Home…aren’t you envious? Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday was quiet here at The Home…nice weather (bright skies, low humidity, temperate). Larry was splayed out on a chair in the lobby…since the weather necessitated it, he wore a shirt (thank goodness); this was a rare occurrence – Larry rarely follows the dictates of weather when it comes to his semi-wardrobe. “Hello.” (me) “Look out.” (Larry) I put my key into my mailbox. “Look out for what?” (me) “You know.” (him) I retrieved the cable bill from my mailbox. I considered ignoring him, but played along. “No, Larry, I don’t know.” “Oh, you’ll know,” and he winked at me, “…in due time.” *shudder* As I left the lobby, he said, “You’ll know” again. I climbed the stairs to my apartment thinking how demented/perverted Larry is. I ground my coffee beans and dumped the grounds into my coffee maker. I removed the pot to fill it with water, turned on the spigot, and heard a sputtering sound followed by silence and no water. Darn. So, now I’m thinking Larry might be a harbinger of woe. It turns out the borough people were working on the water inflows and it resulted in 30 minutes of no water – I happened to attempt to use it in that timeframe. 15 minutes later, everything was back to normal. How can Larry be so creepy and right at the same time? Today on the menu (read Crock-Pot) is pork, sauerkraut, and cranberries. Yum! Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday was a beautiful day – bright sunshine, low humidity, moderate temperatures; a welcomed gift from our northern Canadian neighbors. I turned off the air conditioners and opened my windows all the way. I was in a good mood. Although I prefer rain and grey skies (I should really consider moving to Scotland), this relief from the blasted heat and humidity of the past few weeks was nice to experience. I took a bag of trash out to the dumpster. Outside the front door of The Home sat Complaining Connie in her wheel chair with billows of cigarette smoke rising upward. I was dismayed. I thought, “Uh-oh, here goes my good feeling.” “Hi, Connie.” (me) “What’s good about it?” (CC) *sigh* “It’s a nice change in the weather, don’t you think? No air conditioning…” (me) “Yeah, if you like arctic temperatures in summer.” (It was 76F) “I just wish Obama would do something about this.” My mind went blank for a second…did she just blame our president for nice weather? What gives? I proceeded to the dumpster, deposited my bag of trash. I walked past the puffing-away CC and said, “Well, have a nice day.” (CC) “Yeah, yeah. Obama’s gonna pay for this come next election.” I inwardly smiled because there will be no next election…he’s in his second term, and according to The Constitution, he can’t run for a third term. I contemplated, for a brief second, to counter her about her lack of knowledge, but ended up opening the door, and coming back to my apartment – grateful I didn’t live with Complaining Connie. What a sad, angry, despicable individual she is…she gives senior citizens a bad name. I did manage to enjoy the rest of my day, despite an encounter with Complaining Connie. Life is good. |
| Ugh! During my welfare-check phone call with Mom/Dad over the weekend, we (I’m instantly put on speakerphone at their end) discussed how Mom talks to everyone she comes into contact with: the mail man, the check-out clerk at the grocery, bankers, strangers, and neighbors – we all laughed because whatever she says, she leaves her correspondents with a smile on their faces. I’m much shyer; I speak when necessary – not Mom…she talks with everyone. I suppose some people would find that annoying (and if it wasn’t Mom, I would probably be in that camp: “Lady, bug off! I came into the store for a carton of milk. I don’t have time to talk with you.”) I joked that Mom would be able to talk to Adolf Hitler or Mother Teresa if the occasion arose. “Oh, hi! What have you been up to?” (Mom) (Adolf Hitler, wiping sweat from his tiny mustache while placing pork chops into his shopping cart): “Oh, this and that.” (Mother Teresa, twirling her rosary while placing a small bag of discounted rice into her shopping cart): “Oh, this and that.” In each case, Dad would intervene and say, “C’mon, we have to get moving.” Dad’s impatient. Mom would say to Adolf and Teresa, “It was nice talking with you. Have a good day.” And Mom/Dad would check out of the grocery store…and Adolf Hitler and Mother Teresa would be in their aisles with smiles upon their faces. What the heck did she say to amuse those two? And in the car, on the way home, she’d ask, “Who was that? I can’t remember.” Mom is old-school; she knows how to chit-chat. I never learned that skill growing up (unless I have a Scotch or two inside me); call it insecurity, call it stupidity – I never caught on. Now I’m too old to learn how; but Mom has it down pat. Watch out for Mom when you go shopping. (If you do encounter her, though, let me know what she talks about with you that leaves you smiling when she walks away.) Life is good. |
| Ugh! I got hungry for cucumber-onion salad yesterday. I don’t know where the craving came from; it just appeared. I went to the farmers’ market and purchased a cucumber and a large onion; and a jug of vinegar. Came home, washed my cucumber, serrated it with a fork (so it looks restaurant-quality when sliced), sharpened my knife, and sliced away. I was amazed at how easily the knife sliced through the cucumber, and I thought, “I wonder how many slices I can get out of this.” (I like to challenge myself now and then on slow days here at The Home.) Slice, slice, slice – the slices got thinner and thinner the more I sliced…slice, slice, slice…I was on a roll and thought, “…maybe I’d qualify for ‘Master Chef’ on TV.” For some reason I counted them (yeah, I know). I ended up with 114 slices – from ONE cucumber! I was pretty impressed. Next came the onion. I peeled it and tried the same thing with seeing how many slices I could get out of it with my newly sharpened knife. (It was a REALLY slow day here at The Home; cut me some slack.) Through onion tears and runny nose, I got up to 54 with half an onion to go when I saw red in the whiteness of the onion slices that I was so proud of... I thought, “Hmm, that’s not good.” I placed the knife down, wiped my eyes, blew my nose and that’s when I saw all the blood (and almost gagged; I don’t like blood). I sliced a good inch-long slit into the ring finger on my left hand. I rinsed my finger off, and yowza! It stung! Ouch! I contemplated a trip to the emergency room, but I bandaged my finger and finished slicing the onion. I decided not to be Master Chef for the rest of the onion slicing and ended up with 10 more fairly thick (compared to the previous) slices. Mix, mix, mix the cucumbers and onions; pour on the vinegar; put in lots of fresh-ground black pepper, and voila! I have a summer-time salad now for at least a week (it improves with time; vinegar is a natural preservative, household cleanser, and fantastic odor-remover - although I don't care for its scent, it does its jobs; my Pennsylvania-Dutch mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother were all right; it works). I think next time I’ll use my food processor to do all the slicing for me. But, to tell the truth, I was impressed with 114 slices out of one cucumber…and 64 for the onion. I’ll test me vs. food processor sometime. Stay tuned...I'm positive there are more "slow days" in store for me here at The Home. Happy weekend all! Life is good. |
| Ugh! I went to the lobby here at The Home to retrieve my mail yesterday. Larry sat in a chair, clad in tartan Bermuda shorts, no shirt, no shoes, (it’s still summer here in Pennsylvania) (and thankfully) no Burger King crown. “Hello.” (me) (Larry) “I guess you heard.” (me putting my key into my mailbox) “Heard what?” My mailbox was empty. Yes! No news is good news. (Larry) “The new king has a name.” (me) “Oh, I haven’t heard.” (Larry winked) “Yup, it’s George Alexander Louis.” (me) “That’s nice. I had a feeling they’d choose George.” (Larry) “The initials spell ‘gal’: George – G, Alexander –A, Louis - L. I think we have a new queen on our hands instead of a king.” I wanted to say, “Larry, get a life,” but, I shivered, and all that came out from me was, “Oh.” I climbed the stairs to my apartment, which thankfully is on a different floor from Larry’s. I wonder sometimes how his brain operates. Although, in a strange way, I admire his creativity. “Gal?” Life is good. |
| Ugh! This is what I woke up singing this morning: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ceyoPY0uUms it’s a short clip (1:01) from the Broadway version with Daniel Radcliffe (Harry Potter). I could only recall the first two lines…arrgh. I have no clue from where the song arose in my psyche…what in the heck did I dream to evoke that? I worry sometimes that I’m not well. Yesterday was grey, overcast, occasional downpours, which resulted in local flooding, a few booms of thunder and flashes of lightning – my favorite type of day. Mama Sparrow and her Sparrow-ettes did not appear in the drops of rain pounding on my air conditioner…I missed their serenade. To pass the time, I watched a documentary on meat. Yes, that was the highlight of my day. Ninety minutes of beef. I kept nodding off, but I pay Netflix a monthly fee; I wanted to get my money’s worth for July. For dinner last night, I made a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. It was good. What a difference from the previous day when a future king was delivered to the world. I suppose life has its ups and downs. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, yesterday, here at The Home, I woke up to the news that Will and Kate had arrived at the hospital in London. I brought up a live feed on my computer and watched it for 10 minutes (one cigarette and a cup of coffee) – no audio, just the visual. The visual was a door. After 30 minutes of watching the door, I went on to other things: shower, breakfast, New York Times crossword puzzle, caught up on other news headlines, all the time with the live feed of a door on my computer monitor. Six hours passed, and I still saw the door. I like to be part of history; I like it especially if it’s happening, as in actually taking place…this live-feed was anything but – I can’t fault the door; after all, it’s there serving a purpose...but I do have a beef with the media – why focus on a door? I can see a door through the peephole of my own apartment door – Andrew’s door is directly across the hallway from mine – although his is plain compared to the London door. At least Bernie, who lives next door to Andrew adorns her door with a picture of bleeding Jesus now and then and her routine “medical necessity” updates written on Post-Its. I realized I was experiencing more door activity through my own peephole here at The Home than the door in London. I’m not a mother, nor female, so I have no clue what labor is like (nor do I care to know), but I would think once the contractions begin, it’s just a little time until the tyke comes shooting out of the birth canal. During my daily welfare-check phone call with Mom/Dad, we discussed the impending birth (and how they were bored by the live video of a door). I asked Mom how long she was in labor when I was born. Silence. After about a minute, “Hello?” (me) (Mom) “I’m trying to remember; it was so long ago [*sigh*]…Dad drove me to the hospital, I had you, and then we came home after five days.” (Dad - they always use speaker-phone mode when we talk): “It was two hours.” (me) “Only two hours? I’ve been watching my computer for over six hours.” I heard from Dad, “No, it was ‘a two hours.’” Speaker-phone isn’t always clear. (me) “That’s what I said…two hours. That was cutting it close.” (Dad – in a louder voice) “No, I said ‘a few hours,’ not two.” After a second, (Mom) “Who’s on the phone?” *sigh* Late yesterday, the announcement was made: a son. I wonder if the media will still be fixated on that door waiting for Will and Kate to emerge with infant monarch in their arms. I have nothing against doors – but really, must we broadcast a door and watch it. At least add some audio to the broadcast. I blame myself for not having a life. I’m happy for the third-in-line to be king. Life is good. |
| Ugh! My birthday passed here at The Home relatively uneventful…I visited with Mom/Dad, ate a piece of pineapple-upside-down cake that Mom baked for me, and received a “care package” of four more slices (in my freezer for later consumption). It was a nice, quiet, joyful visit – unlike some of my past birthday celebrations (no moon landings, daisies, police activity with resultant citation for skinny-dipping, etc.). The weather was hot, humid, hazy – typical July for this part of Pennsylvania. We talked about when I first came home from the hospital way back in 1953, and how Mom/Dad rented an apartment in a converted barn. For the longest time I thought my crib was in the old pig sty. Dad cleared things up for me Saturday: my crib was in the old chicken coop. (Not really sure that makes me feel better...) In other lame news from my Life at The Home, Mrs. Roper got her scarf stuck in her mailbox again over the weekend. This is the third time I’ve witnessed it. I would think she would learn her lesson: either no scarf or throw it over your shoulder when retrieving your mail. This time didn’t require the maintenance crew to free her, however; she was able to extricate herself with minimal difficulty. Why she wears a scarf in sultry summertime is a mystery to me. All in all… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Tomorrow I turn the big 6-0 *whimper* and, I enter my SEVENTH DECADE of life *sob* My tentative plans are to cry, I mean, smile broadly, and wait for my birthday greetings from Mama Sparrow and her Sparrow-ettes on my air conditioner here at The Home. I am surprised I made it this far in life…as I type this, I can recall some memories of birthdays past: the moon landing on my 16th birthday way back in 1969; for my 17th birthday, I felt no one would remember it, so I ordered a bouquet of daisies to be delivered to our house (Mom/Dad were upset at me for spending eight dollars on such an “extravagance” – I ignored them); sitting in a Pizza Hut on the eve of my 21st birthday waiting for the clock to change to midnight so I could order my first, legal beer; getting arrested at 3 a.m. on my 25th birthday for skinny-dipping in the river (the citation was for “indecent exposure;” I was a tad bit hurt by that classification – I thought I looked pretty good). That’s four out of 59 birthdays I’ve already celebrated. Sad that that’s all I can recall…I do recall my birthday two years ago (it’s not really worth mentioning, but I remember – these words are to prove I can recall things): Mom/Dad invited me for dinner; we ate, then drove through the countryside with lots of memories being shared along the way, to Rita’s for ice cream and Italian ice; my sister and her family showed up – it was a hazy, hot, humid evening, and we chatted and laughed, chatted some more and laughed at family stories (even the youngsters got involved with questions and remarks!), and our ice creams and Italian ices melted and were consumed. It was an ice cream stand in a small borough, yet it was memorable (probably only to me – after all, it was MY birthday). Tomorrow (my actual birthday) I will visit with Mom/Dad (Mom’s already baked my beloved pineapple-upside-down cake, replete with Maraschino cherries – read a previous blog entry about my cherry experience); today, the plan is to try to contact my sister to see if she and her kids will be able to attend the small gathering at Mom/Dad. I retain a rich memory of other events in my life. I suppose as time goes on and our brains fill with more recent information, it’s understandable (?) that I can’t recall everything on a moment’s notice. I don’t recall a “bad” birthday, although being arrested while naked comes pretty close to a bad birthday. So as I enter the race to the big 7-0, here’s hoping I finish. And Happy Birthday, to me *whimper* I no longer skinny-dip – the river is too far away. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I guess, in my dotage (two days before my 60th birthday), I’m acquiring strange interests. Like, for instance, I’ve been Googling “flash mobs” over the past few days here at The Home (NOT “flash mobs at The Home” – that would be very bizarre, unless one considers us waiting in the lobby for the mail man to leave after delivering our mail.) Each time I view a flash mob I am impressed that ONE individual came up with the concept to do something; then with cooperation (Twitter and Facebook, email, cell phones) ended up with an event that was memorialized. Sometimes one idea is all it takes to change our world. I’ve viewed several You Tube clips: this one I enjoy because I recognize the old Wanamaker’s Department Store in Center City Philadelphia, (before it became Macy’s): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wp_RHnQ-jgU I recognize the perfume counters (the sales ladies used to stand just inside the revolving doors, and one got spritzed by them upon entering the store), I recognize the world-famous organ (the store literally vibrated in my memory), I recognize the balconies, I recognize the Christmas tree (and possess fond recollections of Wanamaker’s’ annual Christmas water-and-light shows; the sales floor was filled with elementary school children on a field trip – I specifically recall them all singing/shouting “Frosty, the Snowman”), I recognize the Wanamaker’s eagle in the first few moments of the clip, and, it’s good music! I’m not sure why I’m so interested in flash mobs and mass dances (okay, truth be told: I love a good song and dance, like on the Broadway stage), or in this case, a random act of culture that involves hundreds…maybe because I grew up (and still feel) “out of the loop.” It’s enjoyable to see folks taking part in something with many others – I’m most impressed by the synchronicity. I’ve always felt alone, even in huge crowds (Times Square in NYC on New Year’s Eve (1977), Mardi Gras in New Orleans (1986)) but I blended in somehow; that’s what I tell myself, anyway. Inclusion sure as Hell beats the alternative: exclusion. Feeling alone is not a fun experience. My family are doing the best they can; for 44 years, I’ve been “tolerated” by two family members, “accepted” by two, and to the rest, I just “am.” Sad, but reality visits and I have to live with their thoughts/beliefs. But, you know what? I’m not changing (what is there to change? Really? I’m too old.) I am who I am – I’m too old to change now. And… Hallelujah! I’m happy…today is market day for Mom/Dad and me – Dad has an appointment Friday morning, so we shifted our schedule. See what a good son I am? I’m adaptable…and I enjoys me a good song-and-dance video clip! Life is good. |
| Ugh! *soft knock-knock* on my apartment door. I hit pause on my remote control and listened, not sure if I’d heard a knock or not. *soft knock-knock-knock* I got out of my chair, looked through my peephole and saw Crazy Diane from the second floor here at The Home. “What now?” I wondered. I opened the door. “Hi, Diane.” She one time asked to borrow a hot dog. “Do you have a can of tuna fish I could borrow?” (her) “Umm, no, the one I have I’m planning to use.” (me) “Oh, okay. My cat is hungry.” (her) “Sorry.” (me) I closed my door and thought how selfish I was – I felt guilty: how could I deprive a cat of nourishment? Crazy Diane probably enjoys her cat, but if she can’t manage an eating regimen, maybe she shouldn’t have a cat. Then I thought, it’s merely a matter of time until I’m in her position. Late in the afternoon yesterday, I pulled my can of tuna from the cupboard. I walked down the stairs to the second floor and knocked on Crazy Diane’s door with my can of tuna fish in hand. After several moments, her door opened. “Hi, Diane.” (me) “Here, you can have my can of tuna.” I offered it. She looked at me. “Tuna? What do I need with tuna? Just go away and stop bothering me.” And she closed her door. Sigh. “It’s just a matter of time,” I told myself. This is what I woke up to this morning: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_g3kkGH8Mo it’s a song from my very favorite movie of all time, “Funny Girl.” I don’t know what triggers my mind to wake up to this song, but it happens every few months. I wake up to one line from the song: “Hey, Mr. Arnstein, here I am.” I’m puzzled as to why; it just happens. I’d REALLY like to remember the dreams that result in my mental-humming upon awakening. I think I might know why I dreamt this song last night: there is no rain in our forecast for the foreseeable future…so that must have been floating around in my grey matter as things got processed. Anyway, it’s a good song to wake up to. Barbra’s good to wake up to any day. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday, as I checked my mailbox in the lobby here at The Home, I ran into Larry, who was scantily clad: Bermuda shorts, wife-beater t-shirt (accentuating his voluminous belly), flip-flops, and a Burger King crown (I wasn’t aware they still make them). I said, “Hello” and moved on to my mail box. “It’s exciting, isn’t it?” I heard from behind, from Larry’s vicinity. I extracted my mail, looked quickly at the return addresses, and replied, “Not really. Just some bills.” “No, I mean the royal baby that’s due any day now. You know, they said on TV, no matter the sex, it’s the next queen, right?” I didn’t mean to be rude, but I probably was because I said, “Umm, I think the baby will be the next monarch, not necessarily a queen.” Larry made a clicking sound with his tongue, winked at me, and said, “But it could be a queen either way.” I shivered and walked to the stairwell to climb the stairs to my apartment, wiping away the uncomfortableness along the way. Yikes! We need people like Larry in our lives to remind us to smile now and again. A smile doesn’t hurt, it’s painless. And it burns calories! (Incidentally, this is today’s wake-up song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XE2fnYpwrng I think I can actually explain this one; last night I watched the weather report as the last thing before turning off my TV; the forecaster mentioned our FOURTH heat wave of the summer so far – the forecasted highs for the foreseeable future contain lots of nines. Ugh!) Life is good. |
| Ugh! So Friday morning, I left The Home to pick up Mom/Dad for our weekly excursion to the grocery store and farmers’ market. Outside my apartment door was a box with my name/address on it. I brought it inside and used my pocket-knife to slit it open (even though it’d make me late to pick up Mom/Dad – I was curious); I didn’t recall ordering anything online, however, maybe in a senior moment I had done so. I read the return address on the box: The New York Times. I thought, “Oh, this must be a gift for my new subscription.” Inside was a hardcover book. The title, “The Times of Your Life” had my name on it – in gold lettering – not just my first and last name, but my entire name, meaning my middle name, which few people know (because it’s a family name). I thought, “That’s odd.” And then I thought about security issues online: how did the New York Times know my middle name? What else do they know about me – obviously they knew my home address, but what else had they gleaned from my experiences on the Web? It is a hardcover book containing the front page of the New York Times on the day of my birth and every birthday since then (well, to 2012 – I haven’t experienced my birthday yet this year; it’s still a few days off, which, for the record, I am dreading). I’m a news junkie…this is WONDERFUL! Over the weekend, I started reading each page of the book. I LOVE the New York Times; the pages in the book are copies of the front-page only – when I finish reading an article, it says something like “…continued on A-6…” Of course, there is no page “A-6.” The quality of the book is amazing: I don’t need a magnifying glass to read the words (the reproductions are incredible!); the paper is heavy stock; and I get to find out what happened in the world the day before my birthday each year since my birth. Yes, the day before my birthday. As a rule, newspapers publish news, which means it has already happened. All of the front pages are reporting news from the day before my birth date anniversary. That which actually happened “on” my birthday each year is reserved for the following day’s newspaper’s headlines. A minor point in the grand scheme of things. So, missing are things like the moon landing…the first one happened on my birthday; but the July 20, 1969 edition of The New York Times has a BIG headline about the lunar landing module “approaching the moon”…not the actual landing. That headline appeared July 21, 1969 – a day later – after it happened (ON MY BIRTHDAY!). Later, this past Friday, I learned, through a phone call from my sister, that the book was a gift to me from her and her kids. I was touched. I hadn’t realized how much I mattered to them that they would seek out something so meaningful to me. I asked, “How did you find this?” My sister, matter-of-factly, replied, “Sarah [her daughter; my niece] Googled ‘birthday gift 60-year-old man’ and this came up.” I’m now officially an “old man.” Sigh. But, through the thoughtfulness of my younger sister and her three children, I have MANY pages to read what was in the news on my birthday each year. I’ve agreed with myself that even though each news story is a day old, I get a feel for what was happening in our world each year throughout my life. And the reading of the articles is a fantastic history lesson for me…I’m hooked. I’m a happy “old man” camper here at The Home. (I’m up to my seventh birthday front page – and am amazed by what I lived through without knowing it – it’s merely a matter of time until I read news articles about events I can recall). Thank goodness for a young sister and nieces and nephew – maybe I do mean something to others? It could happen!? As an aside, this is what song I woke up to this morning: http://www.dailymotion.com/video/x67qu4_the-drifters-under-the-boardwalk_music#.... I’ve said before, I think dreaming is merely our brains processing information of the previous day and deciding where to put the memories in our grey matter for later recall. Apparently, I’m getting old and it takes a few days for my brain to process information (I wrote about the New Jersey shore last week and how my birthday was celebrated there). And, for the record, I was never, ever under the boardwalk. I wonder what dream I had to trigger that song. Sadly, I have no recollection of it. But it is a good song; as the teenagers on American Bandstand would have said, “…it has a good beat and you can dance to it.” Life is good. |
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no pun intended!