Monday, July 27, 2020

TRUE CONFESSIONS

I've discovered that writing a blog makes you introspective. So does being stuck inside with absolutely nothing to do. Anyhow, I began thinking about how we all do things we're ashamed of, things we wish we could change. So, as a public service, I'm listing some of mine in the hopes that they will make you feel better about yourself.

 

I exhume snacks. In an attempt to stop myself from eating too many cookies, I have often poured the remains of a bag of Oreos into the kitchen trash can. Within a half hour, I'm feeling deeply remorseful, so I stumble back to the garbage and make a desperate effort to salvage as many cookies as I can. (Ideally, the ones not near anything moist.) 


I know this is pathetic. But the only way to prevent myself from this doing this is to take the cookies to the sink before tossing them, hold them under the faucet, and drown them. This doesn't seem fair to the Oreos.

 

I spot the differences. This particular obsession upsets me to no end. I'm talking about those pairs of images that appear in newspapers and magazines with titles like "Can You Find 10 Differences?" Whenever I see one, I immediately mutter, "Oh, truck," except I don't say "truck." I try to turn the page. 


But let's say it's a picture of a guy throwing a Frisbee to his dog. I immediately notice that the dog's collar has changed from red to blue. And I further realize that the Frisbee is smaller in the second picture. So before you know it, I've grabbed a pen and I'm circling things. And then, when I fail to find all ten, I start sneaking peaks at the upside-down answers because a) I don't want anyone to see the unfinished puzzle and think I was too stupid to finish and b) I've convinced myself that if you read the answers upside down it's not cheating.

 

I read things that are not meant to be read.

You know the previews that pop up on your screen before you can watch the movie that you actually want to watch? And you know how something like this appears before each one?



 


I read the thing. Every. Single. Time. As though I might run screaming from the theatre if I suspect I'm not a card-carrying member of the "Appropriate Audience."

 

I am an accomplished actress on dog walks. Sometimes, when I am walking my dog in the nearby prairie preserve, she decides to relieve herself at the very beginning of our hour-long trek. Now criticize me if you will, but I really don't want to walk for an hour on a hot day clutching a steaming bag of dog poop. 


Unfortunately, people will beat you with sticks if you don't pick the stuff up, even if you ARE in the middle of a prairie. So if anyone has witnessed my dog doing her thing, I make a show of walking briskly over to the poop, crouching down with the bag, and grimacing distastefully for authenticity. Then I grab a rock to give the bag heft, stand up, and spin the bag closed. The dog and I continue our walk. And yes, I know this is wrong.

 

I fake self-control. I do not approve of drivers who slow down and stare at the scene of a collision. So when I realize a gaper's block has formed, I put my hands firmly on the wheel, look straight ahead, and resolutely drive past the scene of the collision. The only problem is, I still slow down and I am totally looking out of the corner of my eye.

 

(By the way, something similar happens when I'm out for a walk on a warm day and well-built male joggers run by without shirts, their skin glistening. I force myself to keep looking straight ahead, but... And yes, I know this is unacceptable on many, many levels.)              

 

I have bad newspaper habits. My husband and I still get a newspaper, and I still read the comics pages. And not only do I read the comics, but I often read them before I read any articles or columnists, which, given the current state of the country, I tell myself is entirely justified. But if I'm being really honest, I never do get to the articles.

 

So there you are. You may no longer respect me, but I hope this has made you feel better about yourself during these difficult times.

 

 

Sunday, July 19, 2020

MANAGING EXPECTATIONS

I've decided that the best way to move past middle age is to acknowledge that there will be changes in what you do and whom you do it with. This is called managing expectations.

 

For example, remember Saturday nights? (This was during a magical, long-ago time when there was still somewhere to go on a Saturday night.) There were bars and concerts and theater and parties, and we all felt like failures if we got home before 1 AM. That began changing when kids and babysitters became a factor, of course, but we were still able to remain functional and reasonably vertical until at least 11.

 

Somewhere along the line, though, we realized that a movie followed by dinner had become our preferred mode of entertainment. That wasn't too terrible, but a few years after that we started aiming for 5 o'clock starting times. We noticed that there suddenly seemed to be quite a few walkers in the aisles and that most of the audience tended to yell "What did he say?" a lot, but we chose to ignore those details. 


And it's not just entertainment that's changed. Remember when bedtime was exciting and sexy and involved interesting apparel from places like Victoria's Secret or Frederick's of Hollywood? (Ok, so I never shopped at either of those places, but I DID get the cuter sleepwear from Target.)  Well, nowadays, I head to the bedroom, pull on the t-shirt thingy that passes as my nightgown, make a stop in the bathroom, slip into the king-size bed, realize I should probably go to the bathroom one more time to play it safe, and finally flick off my light.

 

Shortly afterwards, my husband arrives and completes his own bathroom ritual, which involves an extended reading period in what he calls "the office." Then he comes into the bedroom, pulls back the comforter on his side, and the room goes dark.  

 

"Come here, you," he says. There's a soft rustle as he moves closer and reaches out for cuddles and kisses. He may say something like, "You feel so soft," or "You're so pretty." Then, after a time, he whispers "Good night, sweetie" and follows the endearment with an affectionate hug.

 

Which would all be really, really nice, except that he's talking to the dog.

 

Not that I'm bothered by this. She's been sleeping in the channel between us for years, and she really is a sweetheart.  And usually, after the tender moment between the two of them is complete, my husband stretches over her with a second kiss for me, along with a cheerful "G'night, Hon." Minutes later, he is snoring happily and, after wiping a few strands of fur off my face, I am too. And so's the dog.

 

So, basically, all three of us are quite content. Like I said, you just have to manage expectations.

Tuesday, July 14, 2020

CONSPIRACY THEORY

Not to brag, but I broke my own record today. In just under four hours, I lost my glasses, my phone, my purse, my keys, AND my car. 


Now, you may think it's hard to lose a car. Especially when you know that you parked it directly across from the second cart corral in the Jewel lot, in the row that leads straight to the propane tanks. But when I came out again, the car was gone. 


I sighed, gave a half-hearted glance up and down the propane-tank row, and then pressed the panic button on my key fob. A horn blast led me two aisles over. And there was my SUV, looking smug.

 

"Well played, Car," I said grudgingly. "Well played."


I no longer blame myself for episodes like this. Sure, I used to think I was losing my mind (along with everything else), but now I know it’s not me. It's my stuff. I strongly believe, and have believed for some time now, that so-called inanimate objects are actually alive. They think, they feel, they observe…and they are evil. 

 

Take my three dozen pairs of Walgreen's readers, for instance. Actually, they are not so much evil as they are immature. I have them scattered around the house on the not unreasonable assumption that I would then always be able to find at least one pair when the need arose. But every single one of them goes into hiding the moment I even consider reading something.


After at least twenty minutes of pointless searching, I finally whimper, "Ok, guys. You win." And that's when I hear dozens of little plastic giggles, and one pair pops out from its hiding place. But it's always the one with the outdated prescription and scratched lenses.

 

The worse offender, though, is my purse, which may in fact be a sadist. The moment I go looking for it, it begins teleporting. I head to the kitchen table, where I'm certain I set it down a few minutes prior, and Purse is not there.  I go to my desk in the study, but Purse is not there. I check the inside of the refrigerator because I know Purse has a sick sense of humor, but no, nothing. I begin wandering from room to room, whimpering "Puu-uurse. Puu-uuurse. Come out, Purse. Please?"

 

That's usually when I hear my husband calling.

 

"Hon? Your purse is on the kitchen table."

 

"No, it isn't."

 

"I'm staring at it."

 

"I don't care. It was not there three minutes ago. So it cannot possibly be there now."

 

My husband sighs and brings it to me. You see, Purse always makes itself visible to him, just to mess with me and make him question my sanity.


"Dammit," I mutter, grabbing it from him.


My husband just pats my head. "Don't worry, hon. I'll always find Purse for you."

 

Which is good. Unless someday I misplace my husband.

Thursday, July 9, 2020

INCURABLE CONDITIONS

Many of us have noticed that the older we become, the more pill bottles we have. And thanks to those bottles, most of us are able to function somewhat normally. Unfortunately, there are a number of lesser-known disorders for which there are very few known treatments. These include:

 

Sudden-Onset Chocolate Deficiency: a debilitating case of tremors that can usually be alleviated with 2-3 slices of Portillo's chocolate cake (including the frosting that remains on the inside of the plastic cake cover). If cake is unavailable, two sleeves of Double Stuf Oreos may be used as a substitute, as can Hershey's Syrup injected directly into a vein.



Critical Calendar Dysfunction: a form of amnesia that manifests as a complete inability to remember birthdays, anniversaries, colonoscopies, and other crucial events.  The condition appears to be resistant to all calendar-based remedies, including, but not limited to, iPhone reminders, Facebook notifications, and your mother's hourly voicemail reminders about her upcoming birthday.

 

Pizza Preference Impairment: the inability to recall the difference between deep-dish, pan, and stuffed pizza. Tragically, this disorder is often combined with a tourette's-like blurting of "For godssake, they're all just fat pizzas!" PPI has caused tremendous tension between my husband and me, since he believes these three types of pizza are from completely different food groups, and that I am a Philistine for not understanding this.

 

Rice-a-Ronitis:  a form of anxiety that leads to compulsively checking directions on the Rice-a-Roni box to confirm how many tablespoons of butter and cups water to use, no matter how many times one has made it over the past 40 years. (2 tablespoons of butter and 2½ cups water, unless, of course, you're making the family size.)

 

Repetitive Bladder Distress Syndrome: a selective disorder that presents at climactic moments during a TV show and roughly three minutes before the end of any movie. This disorder can actually be life threatening, as it often causes the person who is in charge of the TV remote to mutter "I may have to kill you."

 

Canastavitis: a disability that renders the sufferer incapable of tracking the cards played or picked up during any and all card games. In my case, the problem first manifested during a particularly competitive game of Go Fish. My skills have not yet improved.

 

Acute Fairway Glaucoma: a condition that makes a golf ball appear to vanish the moment it leaves the tee. This illusion occurs even if the player has only managed to hit the ball three yards, and even when the ball is neon orange and embedded with a special chip that makes it scream "I’m over here!" upon touching the ground.

 

Screen Glow Psychosis: the compulsion to storm up to complete strangers who are texting in a darkened theater, grab their phone, and smash it on the floor. Luckily, theater closures related to the pandemic have "flattened the curve" on this psychosis.

 

So there you have it. If you suffer from any of these disorders, at least you now know that you are not alone. And you probably have also realized that it's best to stay far away from me.

 

 

 

Monday, July 6, 2020

THE SHREDDER INTERVENTION

I'm sure this has happened to you.


Someone you care about, deeply, is planning to do something foolish, something you're certain he or she will bitterly regret for years. You wonder if you should intercede. But you decide no, it's their life.

 

In my case, the person is my husband, and the crisis began a few weeks ago. That's when he told me he needed a shredder.

 

My heart began pounding. "A what?"

 

"A shredder.  You know, for shredding paper."

 

"I know what a shredder is. What I don't know is why you need one."

 

He looked at me patiently. "I told you before. I need to get rid of all those old client files when I move out of my office." He put on his Serious Professional Voice. "For reasons of privacy."

 

"How many files do you have?"

 

He paused, considering. "Maybe 40 years' worth."

 

Now, this shouldn't have surprised me. Some other time I'll tell you about the alarming state of our basement, where he has stored not only thousands of magazines, but also dozens of warped LPs and hundreds of hermetically sealed bags of Happy Meal toys.  

 

I tried to reason with him. "There are places that will do shredding for you, you know.”


And that's when he got that look, the one you see on the face of a three-year-old who is determined to pour his own milk into the cereal bowl.

 

"I wanna do it myself."

 

Having once read an article about this behavior (granted, I read it when my kids were 3 and 7), I knew I needed to "respect his need for autonomy." So I shut up. Not long afterwards, he returned from Office Depot, proudly carrying the Ativa® 14-Sheet Super Micro-Cut Shredder. He said he chose it because it was "designed for maximum security." Personally, I think he was excited by the LED light that glows during the shredding process.

 

Not long afterward, the noises started.

 

Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p     Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p    Z-Z-Z-r-r-p    Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p

 

I crept into his den and found him sitting on a chair, walled in by boxes of client files and feeding his hungry machine. The shred bin was already filled with millions of pieces of confetti. Pieces that I knew were destined to blanket the carpet when he tried to empty the bin.

 

He pointed proudly at the confetti. "Look what I did!"

 

I tried to make enthusiastic noises in an attempt to be supportive. But I couldn't help myself. "You realize you could be shredding for the rest of your natural life, right?"

 

He only smiled. "It's actually kind of fun. Like, I'm finding the names of my very first patients." He paused. "I think they're all dead."

 

So this is our life. Day after day, night after night, he sits in his den and shreds. I hide in the family room, watching Netflix with the volume turned up, desperately attempting to block out the hideous sounds of  Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p    Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p    Z-Z-Z-r-r-r-p. 


At one point, I found a Groupon for the Paper Tiger, a place that would shred 300 pounds of paper for $16.95. My husband muttered only, "Don't talk to me."


Then he shredded it.

 

I finally accepted this new normal, and I watched in relief as the number of boxes dwindled. And then...then he told me that there were dozens more in the storage shed.


I may have to kill him.

 

Friday, July 3, 2020

YOU'RE ONLY AS OLD
AS (OTHERS MAKE) YOU FEEL

You know that optimistic maxim, "You're only as old as you feel"? Well, I like that phrase a lot because it places me solidly in the under-thirty demographic. 


You want proof? Well, I have never met a theme park I didn't like. I know what TikTok is. I frequently think about exercising, and I hunt for jeans and shirts in Forever 21. Finally, I have a sizable and inappropriate crush on certain parts of Chris Hemsworth. (Imagine what you will.) 

 

So why does the world keep trying to burst my bubble?

 

Now, this plot against me—and others of a certain age—has been pretty insidious.  For me, it started in my forties when I noticed that publishers had started using a small, fuzzy font on menus and in magazines. Even more perplexing, the print somehow seemed to become more visible the farther away it got.  Eventually, I found that I could only read things that other people were holding. This annoyed many of them, especially when I asked if they could turn the page.

 

Then, at 50, I inexplicably began receiving AARP magazines. Now, I wasn't yet retired, I hadn't asked for them, and I didn't want them. I also found I got depressed because every famous person on the AARP covers made me say something like, "Ohmigod! When did Bruce Springsteen become a geezer?"  Even worse, saying "AARP" aloud was a disturbing reminder of the noise I was beginning to make after eating certain foods. 

 

The campaign continued. At 55, I started getting mailings from places like Sun City. (Print mailings, of course, because they obviously assumed that no one my age could possibly be tech savvy.) Now THESE ads were sneaky. They featured perfectly coiffed women and dashing white-haired men, all slim, wrinkle-free (their faces, as well as their clothes), impeccably dressed, and not wearing glasses. Each pamphlet was a sort of siren's song, beckoning me to come live in a magical land of designer golf carts, nightly Beatles Sing-Alongs, and ukulele clubs. 


"Come," the sirens whispered, "Be with others of your kind. You'll be happy here…" They almost got me, but I'm now fairly certain that the whole thing is a cruel ploy by younger people to get rid of us and make the rest of the country more aesthetically pleasing. Kind of like that old Twilight Zone episode where people who looked different were sent off to a "special" place, never to be seen again.

 

When I turned 60, the world stopped being subtle. At the stroke of midnight on my birthday, Facebook ads began encouraging me to consider Life Alerts and walk-in showers. I should mention that my husband was receiving similar attack ads, except his tried to reassure him with phrases like "Men, you don't need Viagra." And no matter how many times we hit "Don't show this ad" and screamed "We are not 90 years old, dammit!" more ads kept sprouting up in their place, like hydra heads. I tried switching to Instagram, but the ads have sniffed me out over there, too.

 

At age 65, the mailings morphed into helpful introductions to funeral homes and enticing offers of burial plots. On the bright side, 65 also brought Medicare with its free medications, a development that at first seemed to be a very good thing. But it's just possible that this so-called "Medicare" is simply an attempt to put me and my husband into a permanent drug-induced state where we will no longer question our reality. (Yes, that's a Westworld allusion, inserted to prove that at least I haven't succumbed to binging the Hallmark Channel.) I'm not sure about this hypothesis yet, but I will remain vigilant.

So, this is what I've been up against, and I am just one of many hundreds of thousands. But we are stronger than some of you think, young people, and we are determined. We will continue to fight the good fight until the Sun City police come to forcibly take us away.