Again and Again

  

          It’s happened again.

            And again and again.

            I think it’s called confusion. Or not paying attention. Or perhaps just plain old getting older.

            Once again, I confused the tube of toothpaste and the tube of Preparation H. No, I won’t admit which way this happened.

            The frequency of such situations is increasing.  I walk around the house looking for my keys, only to realize after a frantic search that they are in my hand. 

            This happens with my glasses as well.  I move papers, books, pots, pans, towels sheets and more, then find the glasses on top of my head or in a pocket. 

            And the cell phone?  Oh, my goodness.  I believe it has feet and just walks away to trick me.  We have a home phone, i.e. land line, primarily for use as a fax, but I believe it has been used more often as a locator when I have to call my cell phone just to find it.

            Oh, and then it gets worse.  Later, I look at the cell phone and see that I have a missed call.  I check for a missed call, just to find it was my own call from the home phone! 

            And, by the way, I can tell you this: toothpaste seems to have certain healing properties!

Taking a Break from the Phone????

I don’t like to talk on the phone. Never have. As a matter of fact, I detest being on the phone.

Why? I have absolutely no idea.



That’s the reason it shocked me when Mom and I ended a phone call a few days ago and I realized we had talked for about an hour and a half.



An hour and a half? That’s about 88 or 89 minutes longer than most of my phone conversations.

This was a special situation, though.

I’m getting three little books ready for publication, and Mom is serving as “editorial consultant,” i.e. typical mom.

On this particular day, we were going page by page over the phone, talking about corrections, changes, suggestions and so forth. It was a somewhat complicated procedure because I had made some minor changes, just enough that our versions weren’t exactly alike.

After about an hour, Mom asked, “Why don’t we take a break, go get something to eat, then come back to this?”

And that’s when she realized this wouldn’t work; we weren’t in the same place. We weren't even in the same town!

She said she had been thinking of several places where we could go grab a quick bite to eat before returning to our work at hand.

That’s something rather difficult to do when you’re over 100 miles apart, don’t you think?


~~~~~~~~~~~

Memory Day????

In case you missed it, Monday was National Memory Day.

Memory Day isn’t an observance like Memorial Day or Labor Day. It’s a time to concentrate on your own memory, I think. Or perhaps it’s a time of recollection and memories.

Ah, memories. I’ve got lots of those. And the strange thing is that when I start recalling times gone by, I remember the good times, the good things, the fun times. This doesn’t mean there haven’t been some times that weren’t quite so pleasant or fun-filled, but somehow, as I think back, the good memories flow first.

However, if Monday’s special day was to celebrate one’s own memory, I’m beginning to think I’m sadly missing out. My memory seems to be fading in and out.

I open the refrigerator door, but can’t remember why.

Or perhaps I’m heading home and realize I need to run into the grocery store. Then, once inside, I can’t remember what it was I needed.

Sometimes I’m driving and miss a turn, simply because I forget where I’m going.

Another frequent memory problem occurs when I’m in the kitchen. A pound cake recipe may call for six eggs. In the midst of adding the eggs to the mixture in the bowl, I can’t remember how many I’ve already put in – unless I take the exact number out of the carton and put the carton in the refrigerator, away from the ones I’m using.

These are just a few of the typical examples.

Oh, yes, there’s one more. (See? I almost forgot.)

One morning, as I went to warm up something to use in fixing breakfast, I opened the microwave door. That’s when I found the beans I had warmed up to go with dinner the night before!

 

 

 

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I Know I've Been Busy, But . . . . .

[With apologies to Jeff Foxworthy and his "You know you're a redneck if. . ." series.]

Some people get bored after the hectic holiday season.  There's a bit of a let-down for them.
I don't know what that's like.  Especially not this year. 
Yes, the holidays were busy, and they were enjoyable.
Now, though, I'm moving (have to be out of my place in two weeks and don't know where I'm going, but, hey! I've got two weeks!)  This, of course, means looking for a place, packing, tossing, donating, etc.
Monday is the start of six weeks of classes to review and prepare for the South Carolina bar exam, so I'll be in classes and studying like crazy, hoping to one day be a lawyer.   
And then there's all of the usual, time-consuming stuff.
So, this brings me to the first clue that I've been busy.
Last week, I had a sandwich for lunch.
When I went back into the kitchen after eating the sandwich, I saw what was supposed to be the inside of my sandwich (i.e. the "fixin's") on the counter. 
I had just eaten two pieces of bread with nothing inside - and didn't even know it!

Exam Time - Ugh!

Tomorrow morning I'll be taking the MPRE - Multistate Professional Responsibility Exam.  It's a legal ethics exam and required for admittance to the bar. 

I've been studying a lot, which is why I haven't posted much lately. 

We have to pay rather hefty fees to take the exam.  Once the fee is paid and the future lawyer has registered for the exam, a "ticket" for admission is e-mailed to each hope-to-be attorney. 

When I received mine, I decided to save it on the computer instead of printing it right then.  That's because I knew if I printed it several weeks ahead of time, I'd certainly lose it before exam time.  Know what I mean???

So, here it is around 8 pm on Friday, just about 12 hours before exam time.  I just printed out my ticket. 

It's a good thing I didn't wait until tomorrow morning to print it.  I thought I was taking the exam at a site in Charleston - just about 30 minutes from my house.   No, I have to drive two hours to a different location in the morning for the exam! 

Looking at this new information (to me) in a positive light, at least I will have two hours to listen to lectures on CDs while driving!

Too Old to Trick-or-Treat?

You know you are too old to Trick-or-Treat when:

10. You get winded from knocking on the door.

 

9. You have to have a kid chew the candy for you.

8. You ask for high fiber candy only.

7. When someone drops a candy bar in your bag, you lose your balance and fall over.

6. People say: "Great Boris Karloff Mask," and you're not wearing a mask.

5. When the door opens you yell, "Trick or..." -- and can't remember the rest.

 

4. By the end of the night, you have a bag full of restraining orders.

 

3. You have to carefully choose a costume that won't dislodge your hairpiece.

 

2. You're the only Power Ranger in the neighborhood with a walker.

1.  And the number one reason Seniors should not go Trick Or Treating...

*

*

*

1. You keep having to go home to pee.

No matter, have a HAPPY HALLOWEEN anyway.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Thanks to Penni for sharing this!

It's Time for a Fake I.D.

I think it’s time to get a fake ID.
Yep, one of those cards – like teenagers get when they want to pretend they are 18 or 21 or some other age. My reasons are different, though.


I was at a grocery store the other day. It was a chain that I don’t shop in much any more, but I was out of town and this one was close. I couldn’t find my old “frequent buyer” card, so I went to the customer service counter to get a new one. Like most people, I wanted to save a few cents here and there on purchases.


The lady at the counter had two stacks of papers. One was the application for the card; the second was the card application for senior citizens. She glanced at me and, without speaking a word, she handed me the senior citizens’ application!

The lady could have been at least gracious enough to ask if I qualified as a senior citizen, but, no, she just took one look – one look that said, “Oh, yeah, you’re old.”


The age qualification for senior citizen status varies from place to place. Some use 55 or 60; others might use 62, 65, 70 or even as young as 50.

By this particular store’s standards, I am NOT a senior citizen. Did you see the word “not”? I am NOT a senior citizen. Okay, so I will be in two months. That does not mean I want someone to glance at me and assume that I am.


There are definite advantages to being a senior citizen. There are discounts involved at many places.

So, why in the world would I want a fake ID? After all, the reason for the card is to save money.


Well, see, if I get an ID card that indicates I’m 80 or 85, I’d show it – and hope people would say, “Oh, wow, you really look good for 85!”


Hey, you get this age, you work for compliments any way you can get ‘em!

Can You Relate?

If you're real young, you might not understand this post.

It's about Mom - again. If you've followed this blog, you've probably a good bit about Mom.

Recently, she, The Dawg and I were at the beach. She kept walking around the condo, looking for something.

Finally, she said, "Well, spit. I can't find something."

I asked, "What is it? What are you looking for."

She replied, "I don't know. If I knew, I would have already found it!"

Makes perfect sense to me; how about to you?

Home-Cookin'

Sunday dinners aren’t like they used to be for many people, especially in the South. Families used to gather after church – often with extended families – for a big meal with lots of Southern-style “home-cookin’.”

Over the years, more and more families have changed their rituals and traditions; many are going out to eat for Sunday dinner or just picking up food to take home or perhaps just grabbing a quick sandwich. Probably because I just like food in general, I enjoy ALL of those options!


Yesterday at church we had one combined worship service instead of our normal two. Since that meant getting there about an hour earlier than usual for me, I decided to make Sunday dinner ahead of time in my favorite old standby, the crockpot.

I put in chicken breasts, French onion soup, and a variety of other odds ‘n ends, which is the way I usually cook. French onion soup makes just about anything better, and the odds ‘n ends? Well, I don’t know exactly what they do, but they help!

Silently, I considered whether or not to turn the crockpot on "high"or on "low" for the chicken to be completely cooked by meal time, but not overcooked. Finally, I decided to turn the knob to the low setting.


After church, The Dawg asked what I had cooked. As I described the food, I could almost smell the aroma of the cooked meal. I just knew this was going to be yummy in my tummy!

What a shock when we walked in at home: there was no aroma. None. Nada. Zip.

Yes, I had selected “low” instead of “high” – but I had forgotten to plug in the crockpot.

Oh, well. So much for Sunday dinner.

Family, Friends and Facebook

Why am I on Facebook?

Well, I’m not certain about the “why” but I enjoy it.

This started about three years ago when I was in law school. I resisted for a while, thinking it was only for teens and the young 20-somethings.

Soon, though, I joined in. We set up study groups that way. This was our only serious use, however -- if I remember correctly.

Since then, the “face” of Facebook has changed. There are loads of people around my age. I’ve found long-lost friends from high school, from my hometown and more. It’s enjoyable to hear from them and to exchange news and pictures. People I knew as teenagers are now grandparents.

There are word games that I use for what I hope is “Alzheimer’s or dementia prevention.”

My Facebook “friends” are of all different ages, all walks of life and from just about everywhere.

Both of my daughters are Facebook friends.

Not my son, though.

I’ve sent a request on more than one occasion.

He refuses to befriend me. He says I’m too old for Facebook.

I'll bet he'd be surprised to learn there are people even older than I am on Facebook. Actually, he'd probably be shocked to find out there are people older than I am still LIVING!!!

No iPod in Austria

Three years ago this month, I was getting ready to live in a dorm for almost six weeks. At the age of 56! In Austria.

I was to study International Commercial Arbitration at Johannes Kepler Universitat in Linz, Austria.

No, this wasn’t an Elderhostel group.

We were law students from Georgia State University, Charleston School of Law, Rutgers University, Mercer University, the University of South Carolina and Seattle University School of Law.

There were over 50 of us and 95% were in their 20s. I was the oldest in the group, without any doubt or question.

In advance of our trip, we each received a list of suggested items to take with us. One was an iPod.


I mentioned that list to my son, Tree.


He said, “Mom, do NOT buy an iPod. Do NOT. You are too old for an iPod. You would look silly with an iPod.”

Okay, so I’m out of the tune with the modern world. I did not get an iPod.


Ah, the realities of life brought to us by our children.

(These are pictures of Tree when he graduated from George Washington School of Law.)

Burial? Cremation? Or What?

I’ve always figured I’d be buried when I die.
(I guess adding “when I die” wasn’t really necessary, was it? After all, most folks don’t plan to be buried before they die!)
Anyway, when I was growing up, that was what happened when people died. There was visitation at the funeral home, then a funeral (usually in the church), and then burial (usually in the cemetery behind our church – at least from my perspective.)

For the last several years I’ve been around folks talking about whether to be buried or cremated. Typically, this has led to discussions about the high costs involved in burial.
I’ve always shuddered at the thought of being cremated but also have been turned off by the costs of burials.

After much deliberation, I finally made up my mind. I’ve decided to donate my body to the Medical University of South Carolina. (Quit laughing. Yes, I know; they might have to be paid to take it!)

So, having made this decision, I e-mailed my thoughts and plans to family members (The Dawg, both daughters, my son, Mom, my siblings.)
Now, I didn’t intend to alarm them by doing this. It’s just that a person can’t wait until he or she is dead to let loved ones know such things, right?

Both daughters responded immediately. They wanted to know what was wrong. Had I gotten bad news? Was I trying to tell them something? Oh, they were so concerned!

Not everyone was alarmed, though. I heard from Mom. She didn’t ask if I was sick or had gotten bad news or anything like that.
Instead, she e-mailed the following: “Hey, while you’re at it, why don’t you go ahead and write up your obituary?”

Strong Medicine - Again!

I felt weird when I got out of bed one morning not long ago. Nothing in particular but just an odd feeling.

By the time I got to work, the odd sensation had changed. It had become – diarrhea. You know that feeling, don’t you?

Thank goodness, it was more of an inconvenience than anything else during the first part of the work day, but the “symptoms” got a little worse as the day wore on.

Unfortunately, we were so busy at work that it was all I could do to take the rather frequent bathroom breaks that were necessary; certainly I didn’t have enough time to leave and go to the drugstore to get any kind of medicine. I didn’t eat during the day because I didn’t want to exacerbate the problem.

Driving home was treacherous. I sat tight. Literally.

When I got home, I went straight to the medicine cabinet – well, actually, that was my second stop; the first was the bathroom.

When I opened the medicine cabinet, I was relieved (pun intended) to find just what I had needed all day – anti-diarrheal medication.

It was a generic, over-the-counter medicine, but the box indicated it was the same formula as something that used to be by prescription only. “Original prescription formula” is what it said.

That let me know it was probably strong and fast-acting, exactly what I needed. And, even better yet – and quite unusual for stuff in my cabinet – the expiration date had not yet passed.

I spent the next several hours doing some much-needed research, really glad the medicine worked so quickly.

It wasn’t until I was getting ready for bed that I found out exactly how strong that one tablet had been. It was still in my pocket.

Now that’s pretty strong medicine that works just by being in a person’s pocket, don’t you think?

* * * * *

During April, which is the one-year anniversary of this blog, I'm reposting a few from a year ago. This is one of those!

Back-to-School for Seniors

Going back to school after decades is a real experience - in many ways.


I started law school two months before turning 55 and graduated at the age of 57.


Although it is strongly recommended that students not work while attending law school, especially during the first year, I didn't have that luxury. My classes were night, late afternoon and Saturday ones.


People often ask what it was like being an older or non-traditional student.


Well, here's what I noticed as the biggest difference. With those evening sessions, my classmates couldn't wait to get out of class to have a beer.

I couldn't wait to get out of class to go to the bathroom!


It's an age thing!

You think the dog ate your homework? You ain't seen nothing yet!

Hey, if you liked this one, check out my other blog at http://www.inspirationandhumor.blogspot.com.

Thanks to Helen for sharing this!

S. O. B. Month

We’ve got our own month. Yippee!

February is “Spunky Old Broads” month.

Finally, a month for me.

I am spunky. I’m old (by my children’s standards anyway.) And I’m definitely broad.
I don’t want to change the spunky; I can’t change the old, except to get older. And I probably won’t change broad, unless to get broader.

This year, I’ll be 60. And you know what? I think I really like this age. Of course, it’s just as well, since there’s not a whole lot that can be done about that.

But I’m identifying with Erma Bombeck, Maxine and others who are comfortable being middle-aged and beyond.

Things that used to bother me don’t bother me now. I know longer wonder or worry about what other people think about me. What I’ve really learned is that it’s no need to wonder what others think about us because usually they don’t.
That’s right. Usually others aren’t thinking about us at all – good or bad.

One thing it means to be a Spunky Old Broad is that I usually embarrass my children. It’s not on purpose; it’s just by being me. Of course, that’s been going on for years.

And then there’s something else about being broad. I think my 11-month-old grandson likes the broad part. When I’m holding him, there’s a whole lot more skin to grab onto around my neck than around his mother’s.

Sometimes, at a banquet or dinner, when food is already on the table, I eat dessert first. I wouldn’t have done that 30 or so years ago. If it’s a dessert I really like, I certainly don’t want to fill up on the other stuff first! See? My priorities have changed.

Life is great, and being an S.O.B. is fantastic!

A New Roomie!

Since it's Friday the 13th, I'm doing exactly what Dana suggested on her blog - posting a copy of the first thing I ever posted on a blog. Maybe I'll have good luck on what many consider a bad luck kind of day. So, here 'tis - my very first post from almost a year ago:

I thought I’d share this news with family, friends and even strangers at the same time: I’ve got a new roommate!

I can’t tell you his name because, the truth is, that I haven’t met him yet. But I know he’s here. The signs are obvious.

The way that I know he’s here is that I keep finding things in the oddest places, and I’m quite confident I’ve not put them there.

This is also why I’m assuming the roommate is a “he”; women are far too organized to put things in the crazy places he has been using.

Lately, he’s been turning on lights that I know I have turned off.

One day recently, he very obviously took my keys out of my pocketbook and put them back in the door, where they stayed overnight.

Sometimes, when I’m in a hurry and searching frantically for my keys, he secretly gets them and puts them in my left hand. Since I’m right-handed, I know that I would not be holding my keys in my left hand on my own.

One day last week, he drank the last diet Coke in the house, so I didn’t have one the next morning. Since I don’t drink coffee and diet Coke is my sole source of caffeine and alertness in the mornings, this was disastrous. And I’ll tell him so when I see him.

Another time he put a diet Coke in the freezer – and left it there. Yes, it exploded.

This morning he really messed things up. He put my clean clothes in the washing machine. The way I realized this was that the washing machine was covering a load of clothes with soapy water; when I walked into my bedroom, the pile of dirty clothes was right in the middle of the floor. Someone put the clean clothes in the machine; he had to be the culprit.

Another day he forgot to flush the toilet. Horrors!

He constantly moves things so that I can’t find them: mail, scissors, pens, even my shoes on occasion.

If only I could get him to take out the trash!

- copyright 2008 - Sherry Shealy Martschink

Introducing . . .

Introducing "my" dancers. These wonderful ladies are the St. Luke's Steppers from St. Luke's Lutheran Church in Summerville, South Carolina. They are my students - and my friends.

We started dancing a little over a year ago. The group is for folks 50+; some danced as young children; some had just dreamed of learning to dance. Tonight marks the group's first public performance, although the Steppers have entertained at church fellowship functions before. Tonight they are providing the entertainment at the "Miss Summerville" pageant, a local Miss America preliminary. The three numbers they'll perform tonight are "Charleston," "Forty-Second Street" and "Greased Lightning." Kneeling (left to right): Mary Coker, Trish Scott, Sandy Freshman, Marilyn Zielke; Standing: Carol Eberhardt, Carolyn Buscaglia, Diane Neal, Sue Thomas, Helen Hiott and Mary Smith. (Not pictured: Linda Baumgart and Dee Barrera.)

No, I don't think we'll replace the Rockettes any time soon nor do I think we'll be performing on any major network shows. The group did, however, make YouTube last year in its first-ever performance anywhere. Besides that, we have FUN!

Where's That Phone???

I called a friend today but got his voice mail on his cell phone, so I left a message.
A little later, I tried again. And, once again, I got his voice mail.
Later in the day, a call came in from a number I didn’t recognize. The friend was calling from a business phone because he couldn’t find his cell phone. He said that when I called earlier, he had heard the ringing in his car but couldn’t find the phone to answer it.
Even later in the day, I called to give him some information. This time, surprisingly, he answered the phone.
“Oh, you found the phone,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied, “but I am not going to tell you where it was.”
But he did tell.
It was on his belt – and had been all along.
And I thought I was the only one who did things like that.
For example, I’ve been known to look for sunglasses, just to discover them on my head. Or, I searched for keys that were in my hand all along.
Ah, the joys of growing older!

What Should I Call Him?

What in the world do you call a long-time dating companion when you’re, uh, older?
The Dawg and I have been seeing each other for over a year now, but we don’t know what to call each other to friends. Most terms are designed for young people, not for those of us over 50. (He just turned 78; I'll be 59 this month.)
“Boyfriend” and “girlfriend” sound awfully elementary, don’t you think? And it sounds almost ancient to say one is “going steady.” Whatever that means, if anything.
There are terms that sound right for folks who are living together, like companion, significant other, roommate, housemate, partner. But we’re not living together.
One person offered “lover” but that doesn’t sound like the way I’d like to introduce someone at a family reunion or at church.
Introducing The Dawg as “my friend” doesn’t give the proper significance to the relationship. That sounds almost too casual.
Someone suggested “special friend” – but, the truth is, I’ve got several people who are very special friends to me, not dates or anything like that, but just really good and very special friends.
Then there’s “close friend.” But that’s about the same as special friend.
Another option is “beau” but that sounds sorta like the 1890s or some time long ago. Weren’t those the guys who went courting?
I don’t want to introduce The Dawg as “my main squeeze.” After all, he’s my only squeeze.
On one or two occasions, I’ve called him “my honey.” That seemed to embarrass him.
Any ideas? If so, share 'em on this site.
Of course, if The Dawg reads all the stuff I write about him, I might not need to worry about how to introduce him. He might call me history.

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PS -- He didn't call me history; in fact, we took THE big step. I can call him hubby now, but I think I'll stick with The Dawg.