Ramblings of the Recently Retired

Getting Rid of My Stuff

2012-02-01T15:19:00.000-08:00

I’ve got to get rid of a lot of my stuff. I am a far cry from those hoarders you see on television, where family members and caring neighbors have to crawl over trash and clothing from the 1970s to get through the living room to the cockroach-infested, garbage-filled kitchen, but whenever I do my weekly “straightening up” it seems there’s more of it to move out of sight in order for the place to look good.

I get rid of unwanted mail right away, no problem. And magazines and newspapers go to the recycle bin on a regular basis. I’ve greatly improved on my closets, using the rule that if I buy a new outfit/pair of shoes/purse, etc., the older version must be donated to charity. What I do not yet have under my control are the things I collect from club meetings ~ notebooks containing meeting minutes, reports and attachments to agendas that have been generated from elsewhere (hence the hard copies); general memorabilia that I pull out while I’m working on my genealogy (three large binders contain my ancestors’ stories); and the constant regurgitation of my computer printer which produces hard copies of emails or web site articles that I absolutely must have at hand should I need to prove that I indeed do have total recall. But all of this can no longer be hidden away for lack of room and my questionable memory of where I put them. Things are getting ‘way out of control.

When my dear mother came to live with me at the age 80, everything she possessed was condensed down to several pieces of furniture, her clothes, and personal mementos. As I was newly divorced at the time and without a dining room table, chairs, her bedroom set and a few knickknacks, the furniture was immediately put to good use. Her clothes fit right into the closet in her new bedroom down the hall from mine. Her memorabilia fit neatly above her clothes in several boxes on a shelf in the same closet. Oh, and she brought me some of my stuff that I had left behind when I got married years before. At the time, I didn’t appreciate that at some point she got rid of her stuff before the movers transported her possessions to her new home and me. In just a little more than 10 years from now, I will be approaching the age my mother was when she tackled her stuff, and I fear there is not enough time for me to reach that same point of perfection ~ definitely, the clock is loudly ticking and I’m getting a bit nervous.

I recently spent the morning in the home of a fellow club member during a board meeting. All of us sat with our three-inch thick binders precariously balanced on our laps. I could not see that she had any stuff, other than about three pages of papers in her hand as she conducted the meeting. Surely somewhere in her home has got to be a room sequestered behind closed doors at all times for fear that the stuff within will spill out into the house that looks like a model home ~ because my spare bedroom would have to be the depository in my home should I hold a meeting with 15 clubwomen in my living room. But then, when I toss my stuff into that bedroom to prepare for guests, it takes me several days to sort everything back into order once again. It’s a problem, and of course after every meeting I attend I get more stuff to bring home ~ and I usually receive a certain email that I must command my printer to do its magic and produce for me in order for me to place it in one of my many important “To-Do” folders on my desk (because out of sight for me is out of mind). If I collected all the pages I’ve printed in the last two months, I’d have back an entire ream of paper ~ this time covered with thousands of little black letters of the alphabet that help keep me on top of things.

Then there is the all-important genealogy information that my children ~ actually, more than likely my grandchildren ~ will treasure for years to come just knowing that I was able to go back a couple of hundred years, or in some cases four centuries, to discover their ancestors. There are three large binders, as I said earlier, containing hundreds of pages each ~ which I believe multiply like rabbits when I’m not watching and some of their offspring are identical twins and even triplets. Whenever I break through a brick wall (a common genealogy term meaning finally finding a new or heretofore missing link in the family chain of events that leads to even more ancestors), more pages are generated by the Old Faithful printer and get placed in one of the binders.

The high school reunion I attended this past year had me going to the boxes in the attic where my four high school yearbooks and a multitude of memories had been slumbering. The reunion committee thoughtfully provided each of us a very thick and very valuable memory book that shows pictures of nearly everyone I ever knew from childhood as they once were and as they are now, along with their (sometimes extensive) biographies. There are now five books that barely need a narrative from me to explain my life in the late 1950s. They have yet to make their way back to the box in the attic. Perhaps one reason is that when I get up there I’ll find more of my stuff.

All the slides I took in the 50s through the 70s along with about 10 photo albums I consider my memorabilia and I think they are expected to survive me ~ certainly they are of some interest to my descendants? Agreed, the club stuff can go one day. But as far as the contents of my computer ~ oh, I do not want to go there! It takes me a whole morning, every few weeks, just to delete old emails. Please do not ask me about all those computer files that are each packed with a burgeoning number of documents that were at least once upon a time so very important to me. Did I mention the 2000 photos also lodged in My Pictures file that include documentation of many wonderful trips as well as my five grandchildren and how they grew?

I like to think that some of this stuff is worthy of saving. But it’s probably not. My grandparents didn’t leave much in the way of documentation of their lives, save the family bibles, and definitely never gave a thought to saving anything of their parents either (if they had, I wouldn’t have to spend untold hours unearthing so very little that barely suggests what their lives were like). Those people came in and left this world, barely documented. Why can’t I do the same?

I start to look around at friends and acquaintences and I see that I am not alone with this dilemma, which is misleadingly comforting.

Safe to say, in a mere 20 years I will be nearly 90 years old and ready for “the home.” At the very least, “What To Do About Mom?” will be a topic of conversation in my daughters’ households. What they are not aware of now ~ and perhaps, if I get going with my resolution, they won’t ever need to know ~ is that they may have to additionally wonder about “What To Do With Mom’s Stuff?” and the moving van they might be required to hire to come and cart it all away.

The Spirit of Christmas

2011-12-18T17:47:00.000-08:00

There are seven more days until Christmas morning, and for the first time in years my shopping is done! I am still writing cards, but otherwise I am just going about my normal routine while everyone else seems to be frantic (as I used to be in years gone by). At this point in my life I’ve had enough Christmases to know how to find my way through the craziness that seems to always come with the first carole you hear on the radio ~ the day after Thanksgiving.

It’s all about buying just the right gifts for everyone on your list and, whether you can afford it or not, don’t forget yourself ~ something really hot, like the latest (this week) in technology or maybe even that new car you’ve been thinking about. Go on, charge it ~ the bill will come next month, next year! Everyone is in debt ~ it’s no longer a shame, but part of life. Eventually everything will get better, but now there’s nothing like something new and snappy to make you ~ and your loved ones ~ feel good!

I don’t decorate as much as I used to ~ my children are grown and have families and homes of their own. I do have outdoor lights, but once inside there is only a small artificial tree and an occasional holiday garland creatively wrapped around a battery-operated candle.

Here in California, the weather doesn’t exactly put me in a holiday mood so it is easy to go about my normal routine amidst the crowds and not once feel like it is Christmas. This was how I felt this morning as I drove to my neighborhood Costco to purchase just three items I had forgotten to get last weekend. There’s a radio station I listen to that plays a variety of my favorite songs, and during December they throw in a Christmas song or two. Didn’t hear anything special as I guided my car cautiously through the Costco parking lot, finally finding a spot quite a ways from the store. Oh, well, the walk will do me good ~ I need the exercise ~ I said to myself as I parked and headed toward the front door. I was not prepared for what was inside.

I think everyone had the same schedule this morning ~ head for Costco! I had to slow down at the entrance because of all the people walking in. I wasn’t looking forward to the aisle traffic ~ people carelessly pushing their carts into other people or stopping dead in their tracks right in the middle of the aisle, oblivious to others. But today was different. Today, rudeness took the day off. So did thoughtlessness. Hard to believe that in Costco on the last weekend before Christmas! It was, however, almost magical ~ considering the fact that the place was packed and carts were overflowing ~ that there were smiles and manners and such friendliness that was until now practically unknown within those walls.

People were saying “Excuse me!” Strangers were chatting with strangers! I stepped over to pick up a 36-pack of green tea bottles and a man from out of nowhere rushed over and lifted it out of my hands into my cart. I smiled and thanked him; he smiled back. I got through the store in no time, and even sampled some goodies as I guided my cart through the crowd. Arriving at the front check-out counters, I noticed that every one of them was open, and employees were helping customers load their items onto the belts that carried them toward the checkout clerks. The man who helped me was friendly and chatty, as though I was the only one there. He didn’t seem to mind that hundreds of other customers were heading toward the counters, and without rushing he was efficient and I breezed through in no time. Everyone was happy!

This just never happens. Costco is a great place to shop, but usually when customers get inside they forget others. They usually don’t smile. And they certainly don’t pay attention to others needing help!

As I left the store, the last person I encountered was a gentleman checking my receipt against what I had in my cart. He looked up and smiled. “Thank you,” he said. “Merry Christmas,” I replied. “Oh! Yes! Merry Christmas to you too!” he answered. All the way to the car I noticed how nice everyone was being to one another. And when I finally backed my car out of my parking place and headed toward the lot exit, an oncoming car stopped and motioned me to go ahead.

A Christmas song suddenly came on the radio as I pulled my car onto the busy street. Maybe I never paid such attention to my trips to buy groceries before; what caused me to notice this nice experience? And then it occurred to me. The spirit of Christmas had just paid me a visit!

Golden Years? Not Always!

2011-12-04T13:17:00.000-08:00

I got a call from an old friend the other day who is retiring from her job. Actually, she is apparently being dragged, kicking and screaming, from a job she enjoys and which fills her life as she knows it. She is of the age to retire, so fortunately she has a pension on which to exist. However ~ and that’s a big however ~ it seems the pension, which her other support staff co-workers in our local city offices also have, will be barely enough to pay all her bills each month, and will not leave her enough after that to have the life style she has enjoyed over the past few years. Her Social Security benefits, she found out at her recent meeting down at the local Social Security office, will be under $500 a month because for over 25 years she did not contribute to it (as a city employee she could not, but frankly at the time she enjoyed having that extra amount to spend or salt away as she chose). And withdrawn out of that amount will be her costs for Medicare and supplemental insurance.

My friend doesn’t look old enough to retire. On top of having had a very well-done eye-lift about 10 years ago, she has kept in shape through exercise and good diet. She is attractive, fun to be around, and is generally still capable of performing her duties in the office with people who like and respect her work and personality. The fact that these are hard times in the work force is salt in her wound ~ it doesn’t change things. She cannot argue that they could no longer afford her. But the icing came when she learned her replacement is a 20-something who, while she will earn much less, is technologically much more savvy. Training her was a joke, she says.

Her situation, and our conversation about it, really affected me because my view of retirement is so vastly different from hers ~ and, I realize, everyone’s view is skewed by personal circumstances. In her case, she is seriously depressed over it. She and I used to work together and in fact we lived next door to one another when our children were growing up. Both of us have been single quite a few years, so I thought she had adjusted to being responsible for her own welfare and therefore her own happiness. I know her well, and so I assumed she would be as happy as I was over the prospect of not having to produce for others, not having to jump out of bed at an ungodly hour and figure out what to wear and how to face the workday, rain or shine. To her, this was reason alone for getting out of bed at all. She feels she has no prospects for volunteer work that will enhance her value of self and feels that she will quickly run out of “things to do” on a daily basis. Not one to watch television during the day, she fears this will be her only option to pass the time. She will not have money to travel, nor even shop for unnecessary items. She will be available 24/7 to spend time with her grandchildren ~ whom she adores, but at an arm’s distance (she often says she put in her time as chief cook and bottle washer, Brownie leader, team mom, and so on, and she had no regrets about ending that chapter when her children left for college). She loves to bake cookies with her granddaughters, and then wave goodbye so she can clean up her kitchen.

What do you do when a dear friend is so sad? When there really is nothing you can say to cheer her? I guess I did not realize how fortunate I am ~ to have planned wisely, with a lot of luck, to have a carefree life at a time when I would no longer have the ability to change my situation. I have learned that life doesn’t just “happen” to us, and I had to go through a hellish time in my late 40s and early 50s to allow myself the privilege to “see” the possibilities, and the potholes, that lay ahead. I was the ant; my friend was the grasshopper.

Fortunately, my friend’s future is not as cut and dried as she perceives. In thinking this through, she does have options, and I was able to give her a couple of pieces of solicited advice: First, get it fixed in your head that your life has changed ~ accept it. Next, be open ~ eyes and heart ~ to the possibilities that exist to improve it. Just like we now need a good jar opener just to get into products off the shelf, we need to find ways to cope with this new life ~ because it is what it is and we have to learn to live with it. But I have great respect for her and I realize we each have to find our way in our own time and on our own terms. I hope she can do it ~ she is much too valuable a person and friend to give up and be so unhappy.

Some Things I Have Learned

2011-05-05T14:37:00.000-07:00

My Feelings Belong To Me
On its face, this is of course a no-brainer. Taking a closer look, these feelings are my property. I have them due to a variety of reasons: (1) the way I was brought up (family values); (2) my experiences; (3) the comfortable way they fit. When someone doesn’t like them and, in whatever way, lets me know, I am under no obligation to change them. What I’ve decided is to consider all input. But I will only change my feelings if I choose to; pressure from outside influences is not a message to adapt to others’ feelings (attitudes, values, opinions).

Laugh And The World Laughs With You; Cry And You Cry Alone
My mother told me this is what her mother always told her. Nothing prompts the feeling of aloneness like it does when you are hurting—and it’s true. We all commiserate with another, but after we do that we go back to ourselves. Reality is harsh, but facing it is healthy. It is also a good lesson: If you always act in a positive way (put a limit to your complaining), people will enjoy being with you. I knew someone once who, every time she was greeted with “How are you?” she launched a lengthy, detailed discourse about how bad things were for her. It didn’t take long for the rest of us to get the message—don’t ask her how she is; in fact, don’t engage in conversation with her at all! She needed to complain to a professional so she could resolve her issues—instead, she was getting “therapy” for free, at the cost of everyone around her!

A Diplomat Tells Someone To Go To Hell In Such A Way He Looks Forward To The Trip
My mother would quote her father when she would give me this tidbit, and it is a favorite of mine. As I’ve been able to identify diplomats throughout my life, witnessed their special talent, and pulled off a few zingers of my own, my only footnote is: …Unless that person is an idiot and then you just tell him outright to go to hell.

Our Values Become Entrenched In Us
And, this being a fact, our personal values are not easily modified. There are movements today to change my current values. I try to be open, and often I discover that I can be comfortable with a new way of looking at things. But other times, I just cannot—it’s like trying to keep a baby from crying, the wind from blowing, the tide from rising, etc., etc. So then, I say to myself that I tried but I just don’t go along with it—period—no shame, no excuse. After a lifetime of attempting what is for me impossible change, I no longer apologize for not adapting. It’s the way I am, and that’s that. However, I never say that without trying first—that is only fair, to myself and others.

Sometimes I Just Don’t Want To
This is another version of feeling free to just say no (thank you). People ask you to head up a committee; they ask you to be friends on Facebook; they want you to contribute to their charity; and so on. You don’t want to, but you don’t know how to say no without “hurting their feelings”—or more likely, rocking their boat. Well, you just say it! No, thank you. You do not have to explain. You do need to be nice. If they keep at you after you have said “No, thank you,” you no longer need to be nice. (See my footnote regarding diplomacy.)

Examine Your Need To Please
I was born a pleaser, which, in my opinion, is a handicap. I used to laughingly explain that I was a product of Catholic school. Now my mature self realizes that being a pleaser stems from a deep need to be liked. Well, I AM liked. What I am not is a doormat. However, losing “the pleaser” hasn’t been easy. Especially when I always hear, “You are the nicest person!” “It is such a pleasure knowing you!” And the ultimate, “We want someone in our organization who is NICE to everyone!” I was extremely successful throughout my working years—I know for a fact that I moved up because I “got along” with everyone. Now I have a nice pension, which I owe in part to my going with the flow. What I do not know is, how many people along the way whispered to one another behind my back, “Give her anything—she’s easy!” or “She is TOO nice—a pushover!” and I always wonder if I would have gained more respect by being a bit difficult. Well, actually, the answer is a definite “Yes.” You have to be true to yourself and you should not be a hypocrite. But you have to learn to walk that fine line.

You Will Never Remember How Tired/Sick You Were; Only How Much You Enjoyed It
I discovered this when I was sick with a horrible cold (but no fever!) the morning of my 8th grade graduation trip, a one-day event where, just prior to splitting up to several high schools the following fall, my class would have a last chance to be together. When I went to school, you pretty much had the same kids in 8th grade you had when you were in Kindergarten—very few moved in or out over the years. Anyway, my mother was concerned that I wasn’t well enough to go—but I appreciated the importance of the day and talked her into letting me. I probably passed my germs on to everyone—my parting gift—but I will never forget how much fun that day was.

I use this piece of wisdom whenever I weigh whether I will opt to do something that I basically think is good but I have concerns about it due to fatigue or having too many other things to do, etc. I have never been sorry. The last time I used it to decide was when we were in Florence and I was exhausted from walking everywhere with my tour group. A couple of people wanted to know if I’d come with them to see the original David at the Accademia Art Gallery about five blocks from where we had gathered. Interestingly, seeing the original David was not part of the tour (we had, however, spent an hour and a half in the Uffizi—after walking all around Florence). I was sitting down when I was approached. No one else seemed interested. My feet hurt and my legs ached. Hey, I’ve seen the photo in a book, I reasoned, and I’ve seen the copy in the square. And then the wisdom I learned when I was 13 kicked in and I went—three others and I left the rest of the group and walked for about 20 minutes, and then stood in line for about 20 more minutes. Once inside, we headed straight for where David was—finally, we turned a corner and down at the end of the long corridor filled with Michelangelo’s unfinished marble statues, there was David in silent, almost indescribable magnificence. And the hairs stood up on the back of my neck, and a thrill shot up and down my spine—I still feel it as I write this. And once again, I do not remember how tired I was—but I will always remember how I enjoyed it.

You Have To Learn To Take Control
There’s a difference between being a control-freak and just plain taking control when necessary. What I’m talking about here is what to do when someone is talking your arm off. It’s incredible that I’ve encountered that rare personality who engages in a one-way conversation ad nauseum, but I actually know three such people. When I get ambushed, I purposely say absolutely nothing and they still talk on and on. Once, I was on my cell phone and we got disconnected—the person on the other end didn’t know this and kept on talking anyway (giveaway: She finally called me back and said, “I had no idea [for an abnormal length of time] we got disconnected!”). You cannot just interrupt them and say you have to get going. You cannot just slowly walk ahead while nodding your head. They do not pick up any of those vibes. They continue on, even changing the subject without a prompt or a lead from you. What works for me is just to say “Oh my GOD! I have to be somewhere right now!” and then just run off. At work, I’d pre-plan a co-worker to call me as I sat at my desk doing my work while this person droned on and on—the “call” was always an emergency and I would stand up and usually say, again, “Oh, my GOD!” A former co-worker used to call these people thieves because they steal your time—but then of course you are an accessory because you let them.

We Act In Certain Ways Because We Are Getting Something Out Of It
I learned this priceless one from Dr. Phil. The first time I heard him say it in his Texas twang, I knew it was a keeper. We can reduce our behaviors to salivating dogs—they are mostly learned. And when we get something good out of it (someone’s attention, a feeling of acceptance, etc.) we keep on doing it. We even do it to ourselves. We eat or drink more than we need to in order to give ourselves comfort. We become couch potatoes because we prefer it over the alternative, or we become the best whatever in order to be recognized. So now, when someone says to me, “Gosh, why does she act that way?” All together now: “Because she’s getting something out of it!”

SPANX (Me?)

2011-02-14T10:40:00.000-08:00

I was in Costco recently, my cart full and my list completely checked off, and as I headed for the sea of people checking out (when is it NOT crowded in Costco?) I spied Spanx. Isn’t this the latest version of my mother’s girdle? Except with Spanx, it includes the complete panty, which you must peel down in order to successfully complete your visit to the powder room stall—unless you opt for the cami version which you need only peel off your upper body at the end of the day. I use the word “peel” not from experience with Spanx. No, I’ve not yet succumbed to the lure of Spanx, for many reasons—need definitely is understood, but comfort and ability to wriggle myself out of this garment concerns me.

The last time I impulsively purchased a restraining garment and wore it—to an all-day function that did not allow me to change my mind—it was a girdle-like panty.

Oh, gentlemen, please excuse me—you are definitely not being addressed here, even though (surprise, surprise) Spanx even makes garments for you! And I don’t blame you for checking out at this time because picturing men wrestling to put on Spanx to help reduce their belly fat doesn’t appeal to me in the least!

Anyway, ladies—I bought this contraption (this was several years ago) and, because I had already chosen my outfit for this special function, I was at the point of no return as I stepped into what appeared to me to be a much-too-small pair of underpants with short legs. The arthritis in my hands had never bothered me before—most of my fingers are affected by it, but I had never experienced pain…until I started to tug and pull this unyielding item up my thunder thighs. I was all ready otherwise—makeup carefully applied, hair coiffed, watch and earrings on—so I had less than 10 minutes before I had to jump into my car and be off. Holy moley! I jumped up and down while I wondered if I had purchased the wrong size. I hadn’t—it was in fact Size Large. Has there ever been a slimming garment in a smaller size? I mean, if you wear a Size Small why are you bothering with it?

I finally got the thing on. The legs in this garment came half-way down my thighs, and I was able to comfortably slip into my very stylish slacks. Oh, yes—this was good! I put on my shoes, grabbed my purse, and out the door I flew. So far, so good. Reached my destination and crossed the parking lot to the entrance where the luncheon festivities were getting started—long walk, but no problem. I pictured myself pencil-thin in my girdle panty and I was feeling great—those extra pounds that took so much trouble to lose just disappeared with this thing on!

Two hours later, I had lost the feeling in one leg. Honestly. I remember getting up from the table to chat with a friend I had spotted across the room and realized one of the legs on the panty girdle had rolled up as far as it possibly could, cutting off the circulation. So, I made a quick detour to the ladies room and fixed it—fixed both legs, actually, because the other panty leg was on its way up also. Of course, that was only a quick fix. I had to return to the ladies room one more time that afternoon—just to readjust.

By the time I had returned to the safety of my bedroom many hours later, getting that thing off was my number one concern. I may have worn it one more time, knowing I could duck out for adjustments easily—but I had to select my occasions to wear it. I later threw it away.

So, now back to Costco and me with my full cart staring at packages of Spanx. Did I wish to try again? Perhaps Spanx has resolved the ride-up problem on the panty girdle. You don’t get to try things on in Costco, so I would have to fork over approximately $30 to find out—and risk standing in the return line with my opened package of Spanx. Don’t know about you, but sometimes as I push my cart towards the exit door, my receipt in hand to be checked off, I glance at the return line to see what didn’t work for others (and make a mental note to think twice about purchasing the same thing). She’s returning Spanx?? So, I replaced the Spanx package and got in line without it.

And then later that week I watched one of my favorite television shows, Hot In Cleveland. This episode was Sisterhood of the Traveling Spanx. Positively hilarious! Please watch this show—you can go to the web site and watch it from your computer (just Google it). And then, would someone please let me know if Spanx really works?

A New Decade—Again!

2011-01-01T09:17:00.000-08:00

When did it first occur to me that everything repeats? I can tell you that my six-year-old granddaughter acknowledged her awareness of this fact the second week of school this past September when she announced, while we were walking through the schoolyard, that everyday was the same: get up, eat breakfast, get dressed, walk to school, then walk back home again, play, do homework, eat dinner, go to bed….and then do it all over again, every day! I guess I was probably about the same age, about the time I first realized that I was going to be with myself on the day I die (this thought hit me between the eyes while reciting the flag salute one morning in first grade). Knowing that events like Christmas replay regularly every 12 months is one thing, but watching the other 11 months fly by faster each year is another—and by now, I have decided to place the holiday storage boxes in a more convenient location in the garage because I’ll soon be getting them back in the house as regularly as I fill out my grocery list.

Therefore, considering New Year’s Eve/ New Year’s Day is happening with equal regularity, I wonder what to do in the way of preparedness—since I have no tangible storage for the passage of time. Where does the time go—such a cliché! Famous people who died this year—I was shocked at how old some of them were, the teen-idols of my youth who were ageless in my mind.

Well, this phenomenon has been going on for centuries. Everything repeats! And so do we—over and over again we celebrate, we clean, we decorate, we cook, we shop, we endure….sometimes we do it exactly the same, sometimes we modify. The faces change, along with the fads, but otherwise it is exactly like last time. Even our resolutions to do it better, to change, to refresh, to basically become a different person—those resolutions repeat!

I am beginning to wonder if this is a test—how many times will it take for us to figure it out? And what will we conclude when we do? It occurs to me that the most enviable of us are those who haven’t figured it out yet, who still approach things with excitement, wonder and anticipation. I think I will do myself a favor and do a brain-wash; I am going to hunker down with my youngest grandchild—who is three and a half months old now—and see it all through his eyes. This should get me through the next six years or so, with a smile on my face and a song in my heart.

We Are All Related

2010-08-04T18:23:00.000-07:00

I continue to go back in time with my genealogy research. I have again renewed my membership in Ancestry.com (www.ancestry.com) for another three months, and have been able to break through some more “ceilings,” thanks to member connections and some research on the Internet.

While I hoped for some tidbits about great-grandparents and maybe new information on older ancestors, I was definitely not prepared for all the breakthroughs I experienced. While I have always considered my family to be good citizens and workers, I certainly never thought I would find famous people in my lineage; nor did I expect to find country origins other than Denmark, France, or Ireland.

My trust in the accuracy of my findings is mild to lukewarm the further back I go, but beyond the 15th century I must admit I am starting to question things—the primary reason being that facts were passed along by word of mouth rather than recorded in a book, and we all know what happens when information is conveyed that way. I am saying this because as I picked up the breadcrumbs in my family journey back in time (and a variety of branches within), I stumbled upon the likes of Charlemagne, Macbeth, the kings of Sweden, Finland and—the greatest stretch—Turkey! I was literally walking through the dark caves of the 8th century when these gentlemen began to show up, and my first reaction was “Whoa!” Then, of course, how could I stop? As long as I found a father or mother, I pressed on. Finally, I think it was the Turk in 100 A.D. who showed no mother or father and my longest journey ended—whew! I highly suspect there are lots of mistakes in these rafter-finds, but I must say it does give me a bit of a boost to consider the possibility of royalty in my blood—not just from one twig but several other twigs in the branches of my family tree.

The other thing that interests me is the fact that all these people who comprise my tree—over two thousand souls so far, by guesstimate—come from practically everywhere in Europe. I’ve definitely got the Atlantic crossings in the early 17th century from France to Quebec; then the mid-19th century crossing from Ireland to New York (finally ending in Michigan) of my great-grandfather, as well as the mid-19th century crossing of another great-grandfather from Denmark to Pennsylvania. But I’ve since discovered other travels of other ancestors around Europe—Germany, Sweden, Finland, Scotland, and England. I honestly know I have no ancestors from the Middle East, the Greek isles, Asia, Russia, or anywhere in the southern hemisphere—but the rest is a distinct possibility.

And that brings me to my next obvious conclusion: we really are related to so many strangers in so many lands. To be among one of the approximately two million descendants of Charlemagne doesn’t impress me nearly as much as knowing I am therefore related to the other 1,999,999.

How nice it could be if today we could make a mark on this earth similar to the historically famous people we have heard of and read about. I guess my feeling is, give it your best shot. What we all have in common is that we have been given a life and it will end. What we do with it is largely up to us. I think we all would like to be favorably remembered, but the truth is that after five or six generations we will be less than a “blip,” perhaps without even a name. I don’t want to have that happen to me—I want a descendant of mine, in 2510, to “find” me and smile.

Ninety—The New 70!

2010-07-16T11:20:00.000-07:00

The older I get, the younger the older get—get it? When I hit 50, it was the new 40. When I hit 60, it was the new 50—and so on. But NOW, this form of thinking has fast-forwarded to those who are as mobile and agile as a 70 year-old…but who are twenty years older!

I know people in their 90s, and I meet new ones nearly every day. They don’t own a walker, they live independently, and they are busy enjoying life! My neighbor down the street turned 90 about eight months ago and the rest of us are still not over it. She has a cute figure, is a fashionable dresser, and she recently booked onto a cruise from Finland to St. Petersburg, Russia—she leaves next week. My guy’s stepmom will be 92 in February, and although she has had a heart problem for years (ten years ago she got a pacemaker) she still takes classes at the local college and plays bridge—not only with two local bridge groups but also internationally, online. She and her husband, who will be 89 in January, take local trips—their favorite is Las Vegas. Her sister-in-law celebrated her 93rd birthday last month, flying across the country to a convention in North Carolina. When she’s at home—between similar trips to Texas, Utah, etc.—she is a docent at a well-known museum about half an hour’s drive away. Oh, and did I tell you all of these people are still driving—having recently renewed their licenses? I will add, however, that I make certain I don’t ride with them—no amount of vitality guarantees life-saving reaction time behind the wheel of a car when you are 90 and beyond.

On my recent trip to Napa, in the shuttle bus from the Oakland Airport to Napa—the best scenic drive for the money around—I got acquainted with a 94 year-old woman on her way home after a week in Oklahoma. She flew alone round-trip. Now, she did have a walker—but she confided to me that she only uses it when she travels. Of all the 90+ people I either know or have met, she is the only one so far who lives in retirement home. However, this is the Veterans’ Home in Yountville—also known as the mansion on the hill. To get into this retirement home (which now reportedly has a waiting list longer than Route 29, which passes by it) you have to have served your country in the military—the only other people they will consider are the spouses of veterans. She said she had the smarts to enlist in the Army during World War II. After she got out, she got her teaching credential and taught for about 35 years, eventually outliving her husband and then had the smarts to sign up to live in this Veterans’ Home which overlooks the Napa Valley. If you have been to Napa Valley, you know what I am talking about—gentle, rolling hills covered with vineyards, and wineries along the road which winds through the city of Napa all the way up to Calistoga, past St. Helena. It is just a big chunk of Paradise in my opinion. I didn’t ask her, but I’ll bet the residents get a glass of wine with each meal.

All of the 90-somethings I know are not necessarily healthy, but they are all positive thinkers and they’ve got something going on all the time. They have obviously had to modify any exercise regime, but they walk whenever and as far as they can. They have lost sons or daughters, spouses and other loved ones. They all have every reason to be bitter or depressed—I mean, it is easy to pick just one thing sad or tragic out of each of their life experiences—but they have chosen not to be. They do NOT say things like “I am only marking time,” “This life sucks,” or “I wish I could (fill in the blank) like I used to.” No, they are too busy DOING things! Each day spreads in front of them—a gift. They are survivors, fighters—tough, yet nice & friendly. They exercise their minds and they think about others.

I want to be like them when I grow up. I think if they could hear me say that, they would immediately comment, “Then start NOW.”

Going To My High School Reunion--I Think!

2010-06-28T15:11:00.000-07:00

The other day a postcard came to me in the mail to herald the 50th reunion of my high school class exactly one year from now. How nice of them to get a save-the-date out to me twelve months in advance—now I will have plenty of time to completely overhaul myself before I dare step on board with I have no idea how many sixty-eight-year-olds who once were “cool in school!”

Since I was never “cool,” I won’t have to make as much of an effort. Ha! I went onto the web site provided on the postcard and saw a current group picture of my reunion committee—none of whom I recognized, although their names were familiar. Regrettably, I never kept in touch after graduation with anyone I went to high school with. I had transferred there after two years of Catholic school—an all-girls high school in my hometown, located across campus from the all-boys high school. The girls were not allowed to be over in the boys’ buildings and vice-versa—yet, there were occasional attempts to “mix” via a sock-hop after a game but of course I didn’t know any of the boys (because I followed the rules and never went over to their building!) except for the few I knew from the Catholic grammar school I had attended for eight years and they weren’t all that mysterious to me having known them since they were about five years old. I was painfully shy on top of it, taller than most of the boys, and I didn’t feel I was pretty. Of course, the curriculum was excellent but curriculum was of absolutely no interest to me at that point in my life (foolish girl)—I wanted to at least look at the boys in class and hope perhaps one or two might speak to me! So my mother wisely allowed me to enter public school at the start of my junior year where I looked forward to each day even though I didn’t learn as much. It is the public school I attended that is having the reunion—although maybe if I am lucky the Catholic girls high school just might send me a postcard too (why do I think their reunion won’t be as much fun?).

Anyway, when I brought up on my computer screen the group photo of the reunion committee, complete with the girls’ maiden names, I went hunting for my yearbook from my senior year to compare. I have to say, time is not kind! But then, I have only to look in my mirror and then glance at my senior photo to know that. I’m telling all the eighteen-year-olds out there right now that no matter what you do—you are not going to look like you do now ever again. The kind classmates on the reunion committee understand this, however, and even say in a really sweet poem on the web site that it doesn’t matter if you are rich, if you are poor, if you are fat, if you are losing your hair, if you have a tummy, etc., etc., come to the reunion! There will be drinking, so that should help. I am thinking, after 50 years it probably doesn’t matter that I didn’t keep in touch with any of them—probably no one is going to recognize anybody else anyway!

But just in case—and because they’ve already indicated our name tags will display our senior photo—I finally have an incentive to try to look as close to eighteen as I possibly can, without the expense of plastic surgery (no reunion is worth $5,000+). And besides, on this same web site they published the 92 names of those classmates who have died over the years—cripes! I looked them up as well in my yearbook and realize I had known some of them—how sad that they are no longer around! I felt better then—after all, I may look older but at least I am still here!

So, I am thinking right now that I just might go—but in case I decide not to go, I am still going to send in my biography with a current photo so I can at least buy the memory book and find out what everyone else has done with their lives. See—I’m really not that all certain I’ll go! I am still shy, still tall, and I still don’t think I’m all that pretty.

Not Always What You Think

2010-06-26T10:52:00.000-07:00

It is funny how your point of view—even a simple impression you get—can be skewed by stuff going on in your head. In other words, it’s not always what you think it is.

I like to remember this bit of wisdom whenever I find myself in a “blue funk.” Things aren’t really that bad—it is the filter I am using that is the problem.

Now, this doesn’t work with cold, hard facts—such as your house is being foreclosed or someone dear to you just died. What I am talking about is when you wake up and have a “What’s good about it?” general response to the day that is spread out before you like a buffet. Something, perhaps a comment you heard the day before or a dream you had, has placed you to the side of the road instead of in dead center. You just don’t feel much like doing anything—and if you did, it probably wouldn’t work out anyway. When you are retired and don’t have a stress-filled job to tackle—which usually reduces the blue funk to a pin-prick—this mood tends to linger and weigh you down like a stone. The voice in your head not only plays on, it gets downright chatty and begins to sounds logical!

Like other problems in retirement—subtle weight gain to deal with, the increased need for time-management and self-maintenance, etc.—this one requires serious action. Pull this weed out by the root or it comes back, over and over.

Because time really is on your side—and is not at all the enemy—you can get a grip on it. All my life I have found myself saying, “If I ever get time, I am going to do this or that.” Well, now there is time—lots of it!

Yesterday, after a lovely morning, I arrived home with a sad mood sitting in the passenger seat of my car and it accompanied me right into the house! I didn’t know how it got there at first, but then—because I took time to think about it instead of trying to just smother it with plans to go back out shopping or watch TV or have a snack—I realized when it came out of nowhere and stuck to me like a leech. I had joined a group of ladies whom I know—not really well, but whom I have previously met at various functions—on a private tour of a lovely old home in the nearby hills. This was an 80-year old Spanish-style villa that a Realtor and member of a club to which I also belong has on the market. The ladies I shared “oohs and ahhs” with are from varied stations in life—one writes a column in our local paper, another is head librarian in our town, still another lives in a beautiful historic home on Main Street, and the rest are just like me—what I call “refined without credentials.” Somehow during this tour I must have started listening to that voice in my head which was informing me that had I not made stupid decisions I too could have lived in a better home and had a better life! And, instead, I live in a 40 year-old condo in an “okay” part of town, with a “poor” nice guy—instead of a “well established” husband who is also the father of my children—and I drive a 13-year-old car instead of a newer, more expensive model, and so on.

Yes, of course this is nonsense! But it played on and on while I listened—the gist of the message was, “You could have done so much better—you should have done so much better—and now here you are, your life practically over, stuck, with absolutely no hope of change at this point. I turned and looked at each woman as one by one they were recalling their early days and I determined that they weren’t children of divorce like I was—their parents no doubt had money and so they enjoyed lots of parties and dated the boys from the other “best” families. Their mothers stayed home and wore aprons with heels all day and baked cookies and provided towels for the pool. Oh, this voice was clearly out of control! Even my fellow “refined without credentials” ladies ever so subtly levitated off the floor before my eyes!

Well, at some point the voice of reason should come around, but so far he is sleeping in this morning! Writing about this helps me see that my perception about this is just that. But I realize that my quiet and less-hectic lifestyle invites this kind of destructive thinking—and how many others out there are having similar experiences?

Therefore, others—like me—desperately need to hear kind words at times like these. A friendly smile, a genuine gesture of kindness (not pity) toward that person beside you, can really help! Because it really is okay, you really are just like everyone else! The woman who writes the news column, the local librarian, the owner and resident of the grandest old home in town, even the owner of the Spanish villa—they all feel like crap every now and then, and every single one of them needs to know, at times like that, they are acceptable! It works even better when you fully understand, when you struggled to stand up straight and face the day this very morning. And another payoff is—it helps get you out of that terrible funk that can drag you down and possibly flatten you for good. You almost need to always do it—instead of keeping quiet, listening to the voice inside that tells you the other person could care less.

Free To Be...

2010-04-30T18:15:00.000-07:00

In the early 1970s (I think it was 1974) actress Marlo Thomas published a book and a song for children called “Free To Be You And Me,” which dealt with diversity. It was also used to promote feminism. The idea was that you can be anything you want because you are OKAY! I have always thought it was a positive thing, to give a child the idea that he or she could be whatever they wanted whether they were girl or boy, black, brown, yellow or white. But I think, like so many wonderful movements, it has surpassed its original purpose and now there is pretty much license out there to do whatever you want and act any way you want because, gosh darn it, you are special!

In this entry, I am focusing on spelling, grammar and punctuation, as well as the importance of being knowledgeable of the social graces.

Case in point—the other day I received an invitation to a wedding shower. It is being put on by the bride’s family (that is written right into the invitation) at her mother’s home. Well….I don’t think they are aware (or do they just not care—after all…) that they are already soliciting one gift with the wedding invitation and, therefore, the family of the bride is not supposed to add to that by soliciting for an additional gift by officially giving the bride a shower! But now comes another big, glaring error—the pretty, computer-generated invitation, written in beautiful script and bordered by pictures of spring flowers, says, “Bridle Shower"!!! Is the bride a horse-lover and the spelling a play on words? Will we wear western outfits and sit on hay? Sadly, no. The invitation is now a glaring faux pas on two levels. The bride, by the way is an elementary school teacher.

Speaking of school, in all the years I worked for the school district and specifically for the high school part of my duties was proof-reading letters, memos, flyers-—written by individuals who not only had teaching credentials but by many who had their masters degrees and administrative credentials. And I found horrendous errors in spelling, punctuation, and grammar—-all the time! Their excuses ranged from, “I’ve never been good at spelling,” to “Gee, spell check didn’t catch that?” Well then, you shouldn’t have been handed your degree if you couldn’t spell or use proper grammar without assistance!

And from a wide range of friends and acquaintances of all ages I have witnessed: not responding to invitations and then showing up, showing up late, and not thanking the host/hostess. Were these people raised by wolves?

In the workplace, some people call in sick about half an hour after they were due in to work. They do not call at the end of the day to say whether they think they will be in the next day—-so if they don’t show up the next day, you are to assume they are still sick. And they continue to do this after they are told to call ahead—-on top of the fact this is in most companies’ policies, it is the courteous thing to do! They become a “problem” because their supervisors don’t have the balls to approach them when they do this habitually—-let’s not offend them, they say!

I don't think my mother's generation wrung their hands over this kind of thing when they looked at other people--did they?? (I'm not counting Elvis or The Beatles!) Is this to be expected in our "golden years?" To watch the actual disintegration of ways of doing things that all our lives were important social components is very difficult indeed. I admit--I was unprepared.

Betty White

2010-04-17T18:08:00.000-07:00

Last night I watched a repeat of the Tonight Show--the Betty White segment when she was a guest on the Tonight Show in mid-March. What a delightful lady! I like to think she is in my mother’s generation (the only generation older than mine), but in truth she would have been only 19 if I had been her child! Anyway, she is currently enjoying a surge in her Hollywood career—a rarity these days for someone her age. I think she is amazing—take a look at her information on these web sites http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Betty_White & http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0924508/bio when you get a chance. Guess she has an autobiography, "Betty White in Person,” that was put out in 1987. I remember her series on television in the early 1950s, “Life With Elizabeth” for which she won an Emmy, by the way! She was only about 28 years old then. And here she is today, 60 years later, still going strong. And she is nice. And decent. And, in spite of the ditsy roles she has played so convincingly, she’s smart. She has never been glamorous, just ordinary. And so very, very funny! Of course, she has a good agent/manager and she is probably very assertive (and maybe a bit aggressive)—you don’t keep on going like she does if you are quiet and retiring. She was asked on the show I watched last night if she planned to retire and she laughed out loud—absolutely not! So, she’s got to be willing to schlep (I love that expression and use it a lot—it covers so much) and put up with a lot in order to be considered for spots. Her next “gig” will be to host Saturday Night Live on May 8 (http://www.people.com/people/article/0,,20350436,00.html). I’m looking forward to that! I think she is probably very healthy, happy and on top of everything, with such a busy work schedule. My hat is off to her, honestly. She is truly a role model for her generation (and mine).

Keep On Movin’

2010-04-15T16:21:00.000-07:00

Until I retired I never realized how old my body is. Well, there were hints that I chose to sweep aside—like the increasing difficulty getting up from kneeling or sitting on the floor without holding onto anything, along with struggling to get out of that beach chair of mine that I use in the summertime for our local concerts in the park. My excuses have centered mostly on the conditions rather than my lack of ability. Chair is too low, I sat too long, these stupid shoes, etc.

And then I joined a workout class two months ago. There is a cross-section as far as age is concerned in this evening class—a fairly equal distribution from mid-forties to late-sixties. There is one 75 year old in the class, but she is awesome so I am not counting her. Anyway, I drag myself to this class three nights a week and for one hour it is one grueling workout—but I speak for myself! And I am confessing that here only. Because after each set it seems all the others clap and cheer, while I am filled with OMGs. Well, a couple of gals in the back row with me exchange glances while they gasp for breath.

I have discovered there is a sisterhood in this back row because we don’t always get the routine right away and we are in the back row so no one will notice—I figured that out the first week. I asked one of my “sisters” how long it takes to learn the sets and she replied that the instructor keeps changing them all the time so you really have to pay attention. Our instructor is great—beautifully toned and inexhaustible. And she is around 50, so there goes the age excuse. No excuses, ladies! Unless you honestly cannot get your breath you are fine. Keep it going! She says that all the time. The music is fast-paced and she is even faster—and when the music stops she keeps going with the next routine so we will see it as our preview; thirty seconds of silence is followed by more music, and this goes on for one solid hour nonstop!

The room is ice cold when we enter, so I wear a light jacket. It is colder inside than out in the parking lot! But after 10 minutes of warm-up, I throw that jacket back against the wall where my workout bag sits because I am sweating like all get-out. This is very good, the sweating. Yep. Another good thing is learning the routines, because I am exercising my brain—which, I’ve discovered, is gradually losing ground just like my body. And I didn’t really know this before! Ah-ha. Gee. Ooops, we only do four skips before we do the ball-change and then we punch the air four times with the right arm, then four times with the left. Got it! Hey, we stopped and now she is doing something else! Okay, I’ll get it. And I do get it—just not as fast as I expected.

But then, half-way through, it is time to get out our mats. And we slowly kneel down and then finally sit with our legs outstretched. We have an excellent workout stretching our legs, which is also good for the abs—my abs ache, actually—and then we are to rise to a standing position. That’s when I say, “Oh, crap.” It is this exercise that delineates me from the pack—except for my sisterhood of the back row, and they get on all fours like me and rock from side to side as they struggle to get the heck off the floor.

So, I have learned that I have to keep moving. Walk and exercise body and mind every single day. Because if you don’t, you’re screwed. Really.

Stuff

2010-04-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

We are being buried by “stuff!” There is too much of unimportant material things lying everywhere—I see it all the time. Here at home, at my daughters’ homes, in neighbors’ garages as I drive past. To me, this stuff is not a symbol of wealth or comfort; rather, it is a symbol of excess. And it has become a burden. Direct mail brochures, delivered in our mailboxes, show us that we can have attractive wrought iron dish racks beside our sinks or small statues and fountains in our gardens. Hang this or that on your walls, buy 100 shoes for all occasions—in short, add comfort to your already comfortable lives! For the children, make certain they have everything so that they will somehow be smarter and happier—that is supposedly the best thing we can give them, and it is our duty to do it! And speaking of our goals for the children, when did being smart and attractive with few needs and all wants satisfied become what everyone has to have in order to be accepted? And if we are accepted, we of course will be happy...won't we?

The old saying, “Money does not buy happiness,” while still true, is too general I think. Money is important to have in order to realize the basic level of comfort—a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, food in our stomachs—and in that respect it does provide us with peace of mind, a close cousin of happiness. But as I go along in this life, I am learning that material things don’t bring happiness (hearing this and knowing this can be two distinct experiences).

I honestly believe I was happier when I was barely making ends meet. Granted, I was just able to make ends meet—and that gave me a sense of relief so that I could concentrate on my emotional state of mind. And when I thought about where I was—sitting on a ledge somewhere near the top of the pit I had in the recent past fallen into—I appreciated how far I had come as I climbed up and away from fear and desolation. And that made me happy!

And now I have too much stuff! My goal this month is to go through my closets (I now have my clothes in three closets—summer and casual in one, dress-up and winter in another, and in the third closet I have the what-if-I-need-this-someday clothes.) to not only organize them but to weed them out. But I like having something to wear on any occasion, so this will not be easy! I remember when I was first divorced I did not buy anything new—not sweaters, pants, jackets, shoes, purses, nor even underwear—for over one year. I never even went to the mall. My girls had cast off some of their clothes, which I then went through and pulled some tops for myself. I have to say, I weighed about 20 pounds less than I do now so I looked good in the few outfits I had. I took my old shoes to have them repaired and I bought shoe polish. I mixed and matched until I was dizzy. And I liked what I saw in the mirror. So now I am realizing that if I would lose those 20 pounds not only would I ensure a more healthy body, I would not need so many clothes—I buy more clothes because I think that I am just one shopping trip away from finding something that will make me look better.

And then there is the old trap of having the latest thing on the market. We just bought a flat-screened television. The old television was not broken—although the built-in speakers were threatening to go out on us at any time, which proved to be a common-sense reason to go shopping for a new television. The screen is larger and very, very clear. But I must say, there aren't many quality programs on television these days. So we watch the news in high-definition, wide-screen, along with a few nature programs and a couple of sitcoms. And when people come over, there sits our flat-screen television set to prove we are not living in the 1970s—living in the 1970s is a fate worse than death, socially speaking.

And then there is the food! On average, Americans eat about three times as much per day as they need to in order to survive and be healthy. I am painfully aware of this in my journey to lose these 20 pounds. I compare today to my childhood—and I am certain the 1940s and 1950s were more bountiful than fifty years prior to that. I cannot remember eating other than three meals a day, except for a snack after school. I did not start grabbing a large bag of potato chips and munching on them in front of the television until I was about 17. In grammar school, I can remember my stomach growling just before lunch—there was a thrill of anticipation that very soon I would open my lunchbox to see what kind of sandwich my mother had made that day and have a cup of cold milk from my thermos. There was always either a banana or an apple in the lunchbox as well, and maybe a cookie or two. We did not have “snack” at our mid-morning recess—that was the time we ran around and played. After lunch, I didn’t eat again until I got home around three o’clock—and then it was a small healthy snack, usually accompanied by my favorite orange drink, “HiC,” which came in a large can (I don’t know what was in it because ingredient labels were not then required; it didn’t taste like real orange juice—but it was good). By dinner time I was famished again—my mother would cut up some raw vegetables for me to munch on while I waited for dinner to be ready. I always drank milk, not sodas, and never had chips or candy (honestly!). The saying in those days: “Eat to live, don’t live to eat.”

Today, I have the opportunity to eat out at least two or three times a week—and it is tempting! I really have to work at not stocking my pantry shelf with salty snacks and cookies, along with boxed meals—the kind where you add water or milk or soup.

Within the past forty years, we have everything at our fingertips. Heaven forbid we should have to get up and walk to get anything! Telephone ringing? Reach over and pick up one of your cordless phones (if you didn’t leave it in the bathroom). Research? Internet. The big game? Television. A cooked meal? Micro-waved packaged dinners, frozen packaged dinners, take-out. Communication and Internet access? Cell phone/iPhone. Raining outside? Drive to the corner. Hot out? Turn on air conditioning/dip in the pool.

And we are drinking more, taking more medication, hiring more therapists, divorcing more, gaining more weight, and having more plastic surgery. “What is wrong? Fix me!” we cry. Damn.

The more we have, the more we have to display it, maintain it, clean it, store it, donate it. That’s what we have when we get more stuff—after the honeymoon with it is over (and that is usually a customary two to three weeks, but may be shorter depending on the cost).

To really win and feel the happiness, we have to get past the pressure of having something we really don’t need. Not long ago, while waiting for my guy to finish talking to a computer salesman at Best Buy, I wandered over to their appliance department looking for an energy-saving, top-loading washer like the one my daughter bought a couple of years ago. A young saleswoman approached, asking if she could help me. When she led me to the washing machine (sitting beside an energy-saving dryer) I had described, I chatted with her about the fact that I still have a dryer from the mid-eighties and that my washing machine is about 17 years old. I looked at the sales tags on the new appliances—obviously it costs more to get a new machine than it did nearly two or three decades ago, so seeing the total figure of nearly $2,000 wasn’t a surprise. But then the saleswoman said something that brought me up short. She absolutely marveled at the fact that my appliances were still in good working order. Then she told me that these two new appliances have been built to last 10 years. Okay, so my old machines are not so efficient and I am spending a few more dollars a year to run them—but they are working and they are paid for! I smiled and did the old “weight scales” maneuver—held out both hands and lifted them opposingly up and down: “My current working machines, paid for. New energy-efficient machines costing over $2,000 with a life-span of 10 years. Which to choose? Hmmm.” When my old machines stop working, I will go shopping—but not until then.

Now, I did replace all my old, drafty windows in my condo early last summer. But not only are they saving me heating and air conditioning costs, they have added to the value of my property. And, I received a healthy tax credit! And these windows will last until they tear this place down. This is the kind of material stuff that is smart to buy.

I am still driving my third car (third car in 45 years), which is a 1997 Honda Civic that I bought used in November of 1999. I stopped driving my previous two cars when they were involved in fender-benders and were not worth the cost of the repair. I seriously would love to own a “fun” car like a convertible, or the latest model of a luxury car—but spending money on buying a car is not efficient! And my car gets me to where I want to go. Would I honestly be deliriously happy if I drove around town in a new car every three or five years? Nope.

I do believe in spending money on travel, however. It is one of the few materialistic pleasures that actually transforms you. And you don’t have to worry about the upkeep (well, except your body....).

See a similar article I just read on the subject that refers more to packratting but it's interesting: http://www.paulgraham.com/stuff.html.

Senior Discounts

2010-04-11T10:58:00.000-07:00

When I became 55, I was able to take advantage of my local movie theater's offer to let me in for a few dollars less than the general audience. Some of my friends--specifically those who were digging in their heels and screaming "Hold back the dawn!" at the thought of admitting they were getting older--pooh-poohed the idea of announcing "Two seniors for the 7:40 show." Well, all I could determine was that I was getting in cheaper than they were and the high school student who was sitting on the other side of the ticket window could have cared less. The only regret I had was that I was not "carded." And I didn't look 55 (everyone told me so)! I was so honest that I even waited until my 55th birthday had passed before I summoned the courage to request the senior discount--and then the teenager just punched in "senior" and I got my ticket without fanfare. Kind of disappointing....for a moment.

After I turned 65, I began noticing that if I bought at certain stores on Tuesdays I would receive a 10% discount. Well, isn't that nice. Considering markup, it's nothing--but think of it like this: everyone else is paying 10% more. Another grin on my face as I leave the counter.

And then just the other day we planned a visit to Big Santa Anita Canyon, a local hiking spot. I looked it up on the Internet to get an idea of what we'd be in for. We are not hikers, so we were attracted to this place because it was described as "easy, for beginners," and we will eternally be beginners in the hiking world. By the way, we ended up going there and it is quite beautiful with a picturesque 50-ft water fall two miles in. In order to park in the lot at the gate we had to purchase a day pass and hang it on the rearview mirror. Following the link for the National Forest Service, which offered information about where we could purchase this pass, I discovered there is a Senior Lifetime Pass available for anyone 62 years and older for $10. This is a pretty good deal, since the ordinary person/car must spend $5 for a day pass or $80 for an annual pass. If the ordinary person is permanently disabled there is a free lifetime pass after you can prove it to the National Parks office in person. Anyway, back to the Senior Lifetime Pass--you need to go to the local office in person and show your I.D. (http://www.fs.fed.us/passespermits/senior.shtml --the link also tells you the locations near you where you can buy the pass) Only one pass is necessary per car in most places but this pass will cover a total of four adults in the car if the particular park is charging per person. Now, I can count on one hand the number of national parks I have visited in my lifetime; however, this parking pass is not just for national parks, but for all federal parks in the entire country as well. So the next time we go for a stroll in a federally-owned recreational area (there are quite a few around us) all we have to do is hang this pass on the rearview mirror and we are covered. The irony is, according to the girl who sold us the pass, not very many people take advantage of this. It's ironic because now more than ever there is an abundance of 62+ people out there who go to these parks and just pay for the day pass--over and over again (nobody will put a gun to your head at the park office to make you get the Senior Pass).

Keep on looking for these senior discounts and enjoy them!

Maintenance

2010-04-08T15:25:00.001-07:00

I am discovering as I get older, I have to maintain my body and mind more. Much more. It is not a pleasant experience! Because I no longer have to deal with the level of stress my job provided, I am burning fewer calories (but I am still eating three meals a day, an occasional dinner at a local restaurant, and an occasional glass of wine). My teeth and gums require more care now than they ever did—while I have been assured by the peridontist that my teeth are not going to fall out, I have to floss and use various other little teeth “tools” to clean along the gums and in between each tooth (this takes about five or six minutes every night, whereas for years I got by with a quick brush twice a day), and if I don’t I will eventually have to have lots of dental work done that will cost a lot of money.

I have to watch my cholesterol. I have to keep my weight down (actually, I have to lose 20 lbs.). Every other year I get a bone density scan to ensure I do not have osteoporosis. I get my eyes checked every year, and the eye doctor says that while he sees the beginning of cataracts (!!) he does not think I will need surgery for a few more years.

Aside from my health, I have to maintain my appearance. The true color of my hair is probably mostly white (I have colored my hair for nearly twenty-five years). When I was in my early thirties, I had a white streak in front, just to the right of my forehead. I colored that with a take-home product from the store. When I turned forty, my hairdresser noticed I was getting grey hairs here and there all over my head and suggested a mild rinse. It progressed from there to a more permanent hair coloring, but done so well (for a lot of money) that you couldn’t tell it wasn’t natural. In the last three years, my eyebrows have gone white—so I sweep a mascara wand over them every morning.

I notice that the upper lids of my eyes are drooping, but not enough to get an eye job covered by insurance. Actually, one of the lids is drooping more than the other. And while we are on the subject of my face, I notice I have jowls. But I must say, in spite of everything, people always (and I do mean always) lean back in shock when I tell them how old I am and say, “Oh, no, you can’t be!” I am enjoying every bit of that—but it is probably the next thing to fade.

Introduction

2010-04-08T14:12:00.000-07:00

I retired last June. After what seemed a lifetime of working, I got off the merry-go-round. The time was right: I was old enough to collect a nice pension and Social Security. Not only that, the amount that I would "bring home" as a retiree was more than my net as an employee. In this economy, it was a no-brainer!

So, I stepped off the edge and began the free-fall. But "I am flying!" has slowly evolved into "Where the heck am I going?"

I am busy. I am extremely active in two organizations. I tackle projects I promised I would do when I had time. I have lunch with the girls. I work out. I have researched my ancestry. But I am no longer challenged. I no longer experience the level of stress that propelled me to do awesome things. And I wonder, "Does anyone else feel this way?"

So I have decided to blog. I will ramble (see title!) about lots of things that occur to me as I go through the days of my new life. These days that have no real deadlines, no evaluations, no pressure. I will be positive, however--I have no complaints about the country going to hell in a handbasket (well I DO, but this is not the venue), nor will I harp on the way kids are today. I will not be like the older generation (thank God there is still a generation older than mine!). This is going to be a fun blog spot! Comment if you like, or just read (it would be more fun if you would comment).