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 |  A Baby-Boomer STILL alive and living in senior housing...
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The random thoughts of a Baby-Boomer STILL adjusting to life in senior housing (after five years)... Almost exactly nine months after World War II ended, one historian writes, “the cry of the baby was heard across the land.” More babies were born in 1946 than ever before: 3.4 million, 20 percent more than in 1945. This was the beginning of the so-called “baby boom.” In 1947, another 3.8 million babies were born; 3.9 million were born in 1952; and more than 4 million were born every year from 1954 until 1964, when the boom finally tapered off. By then, there were 76.4 million “baby boomers” in the United States. They made up almost 40 percent of the nation’s population. - www.history.com |
| Ugh! Slow day here at The Home yesterday. I was talking to one of my neighbors and she said something that I didn’t understand and I asked for clarification. It was some silly saying that I’d never heard before. It got me remembering two phrases I heard many years ago when I lived in central Pennsylvania. First – I began my career as a teller for a small savings and loan (remember them?) and during my first week on the job, after my “extensive” training was completed, Darlene yelled across the lobby to me, “Throw me a rubber!” I looked at her with wide-opened eyes and open mouth. I didn’t know how to respond, so I squeaked out a lame “Excuse me?” “A rubber. Toss me one.” “Umm, I don’t have any on me.” She laughed and said, “An eraser; toss me your eraser.” She referred to the rubber eraser that we were all supposed to have on hand at our teller windows. Red-faced, I chucked it to her. Second – as I moved up the ranks, I became assistant branch manager. Early one morning, my manager, Leah called the office. I answered the phone. “I’m going to be late this morning. I fell off the roof.” (her) “Oh my gosh. Are you all right?” I wondered what she was doing on her roof so early in the morning. About an hour later she walked in looking fine. I was puzzled until I learned that “falling off the roof” was code for a lady’s time of the month. Strange… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I heard about it not by listening to Diane Sawyer or hearing it on the radio or getting the news via text; no, Doom-and-Gloom Earl broke my reverie while I grabbed a smoke in between snow showers outside The Home yesterday by boasting, “I just heard Elizabeth Taylor died of AIDS.” “Really?” (me, suspect of his pronouncement) “Yup. It’s all over the TV.” And off he hobbled to his car. I’ve learned to take Earl’s words not very seriously; he has a knack for overblowing his “facts” and/or getting his information twisted into weird verbal presentations. This was just another of his (mis)informative pronouncements. Sad news nevertheless…she was one of the last movie stars. Bernie took bleeding Jesus off her door; now a pastel Easter Bunny hangs there. I’m hungry for an éclair. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Winter is not leaving us here at The Home. After reaching the 70s last week, snow, sleet and rain are upon us again. The sidewalks are too risky for me to get my constitutional in today, so I’ll use it as a rest day. My ultimate goal is to put in 10,000 steps a day – that will require about 90 minutes of walking. The most I’ve done so far is 56 minutes in one day (6,212 steps), so I have a way to go. I did make it up to the cemetery yesterday – quite a hike: one mile all up a STEEP hill (coming back is a bit easier – one really harrowing section then a welcoming gradual slide back to The Home). I didn’t visit the bone yard, however I did glance at some of the markers as I trudged past. The biggest monuments are way at the top of the hill; I guess the realtors’ mantra of “location, location, location” is true even in death. The view is nice from the hilltop (as long as you’re planted with your head uphill). Seeing our neighborhood spread out below is scenic; trees block part of the view so I can’t see The Home from up there. There is a sign with a phone number on it at the entrance to the property. I suppose there are a few plots left for future residents. It looks pretty crowded, though, so I’m not sure where the plottage is located. Maybe the cemetery continues on the other side of the hill? Once I’m in better shape, I’ll spend some time poking around inside the iron fence guarding the place. There is a “No Trespassing, No Hunting, No Trapping” sign on the main gate. I’ll leave my guns and traps in my apartment that day. Time for sit-ups, leg-lifts, toe-touches, twists, and bends…and then a refreshing smoke. Life is good. |
| Ugh! On one of my getting-fewer-and-fewer outside trips for a smoke yesterday here at The Home, I noticed the usual congregation of people in the lobby in the vicinity of the mailboxes (immediately after the mailman’s departure – the highlight of the day for most). In the middle of the five women towered the tall, red-wigged Mrs. Roper (I still don’t know her real name) clad in a flowered caftan with a flowing scarf tied around her neck. The problem: one end of her billowy scarf was stuck in her mailbox door. She apparently closed it a tad early and the tail of her accessory was entangled in the locking mechanism preventing the key from opening the box. Suggestions of “…bend down and try it…” and “…stand up straight and try it…” and “…should I get scissors?” filled the air all while Mrs. Roper appeared to nearly hyperventilate. She waved her hands and, in a low-register voice, said, “This is a very expensive scarf. No one is going to sever it.” Sever it? I left the gaggle and proceeded outdoors. Seven minutes later I came in through the lobby again. Mrs. Roper still stood by the mailboxes, her scarf still attached to the wall, while one of the maintenance guys knelt in front of her mailbox with a screwdriver attempting to remove the door to free her scarf. A few hours later I traversed the now-quiet lobby. A faint scent of patchouli lingered… Life is good. |
| Ugh! So I’m sitting outside in the bright, warm sunshine (76° in March, no less) on Friday and a young man walks past the front of The Home. He saw me smoking on the bench out front and approached me. “Hi.” (him) “Hi.” (me) “Is this an apartment complex?” “Uh-huh.” “Oh, I thought it was a drug and alcohol rehab.” “No, it’s apartments.” “Okay. See ya.” “Bye.” I wonder what made him think what he thought. I certainly don’t think us Homers resemble the types on TV shows like “Intervention” and “Celebrity Rehab.” Maybe Larry was outside one day in one of his outfits and the young man got the wrong impression. It could happen. I guess. Life is good. |
| Ugh! St. Patrick’s Day here at The Home yesterday…no parade or wild parties – none that I was aware of anyhow. It was the warmest day since last October. The only sign it was St. Patrick’s Day was Larry sitting on a couch in the lobby wearing madras Bermuda shorts, sandals, no shirt, and a “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” button masking-taped to his bare chest. He smiled at me as I walked outside. I didn’t kiss him. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, I got a pedometer to keep track of my walking. Yesterday was its first day – it took me a while to set it up – and I have my work cut out for me. I did my early-morning short walk: it clocked in at 1.14 miles, 21 minutes, and 2,272 steps. Today I do my longer walk, which according to mapquest is just about two miles. I’ll see what my pedometer says. Too bad it doesn’t register uphill and downhill walking. My short walk is fairly flat; not so with the longer one. I want to get rid of my pot gut before the really warm weather hits. Up until now I’ve been able to somewhat hide it with a coat. I won’t be able to do that much longer, so that’s what’s driving my recent physical fitness craze. Also, if I have to run away from someone/thing I want to be able to do it without falling flat on my face. Last summer, Sam, one of the residents here at The Home yelled, “Ya got a basketball under your shirt?” at me as I was going out the front door one day. I was shamed and embarrassed and hid in my apartment pretty much the whole summer – went out to 24-hour stores REAL early in the morning to avoid contact with others. This summer is going to be different: 1) I’m going to try to be in shape, and 2) Sam is dead. Moral: Don’t say nasty things about your neighbors Life is good. |
| Ugh! LOL… OMG… WTF... IMO... ROFLMAO… All shorthand in this day of communicating via IM and email. Another one: TMI=Too Much Information. But for me, TMI will only mean one thing = Three Mile Island. With everything that’s going on in Japan of late, TMI has entered the news reports again. Back in 1979 I lived in Harrisburg, PA so I know first-hand the panic those people must be feeling. The news us residents of Harrisburg got was scant and unreliable. To find out what really was happening we had to watch the national evening news or the morning news shows. Rumors were rampant; the word “meltdown” entered our vocabulary. It was scary. Evacuate? Stay? I stayed because of my job, but the town itself pretty much emptied out for a few days. The air raid sirens went off a few times; we were told they were false alarms. Still for about a week I had a bag packed and ready-to-go, just in case. The only problem was we didn’t know when “just in case” would occur…the powers-that-be were not being forthright, which only added to the confusion. Luckily everything turned out for the best. Let’s hope the same thing happens across the pond. No need to vacate The Home right just yet. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I think I found the source of the patchouli scent here at The Home. A woman moved into a second floor apartment a few weeks ago and the odor seems to follow her through the hallways. Yesterday I ran across her at the mailboxes in the lobby and the familiar smell lingered. She has red hair (it looks like a wig, but I can’t be certain) and she wore a brightly flowered caftan-like garment (sort of like the kind Mrs. Roper wore on “Three’s Company” if that show rings any bells) and a long, flowing silky scarf wrapped around her neck. She floated away before I had a chance to greet her. (By the way, I do like the smell of patchouli…) Crocuses (croci?) are pushing through the ground – the snow is finally all gone. But we haven’t had the onion snow yet. That’s the last snow of the season – named because it usually falls after the onions have broken the soil. It’s not a big deal, but it does throw a wrench into a nice stretch of spring-like weather. Complaining Connie and Angie have been spending an awful lot of time together lately. I wonder if romance is in the air. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I started a new walking route – it’s two miles long; I do the uphill part first, and then coast home. It takes me 25 minutes; not sure how that stacks up for fitness/weight-loss, but it’s tough. I’m really huffing by the time I get to the top of the hill. I turn left and start my journey back to The Home. Once I’m in better shape and not near cardiac arrest at the top, I’ll turn right and go up even higher – the town cemetery rests on the tippy top. On second thought, maybe I won’t venture into the grave yard – what if I pass out and just lie there until someone comes along and throws dirt over me? Or worse yet, doesn’t throw dirt over me and lets me be for the birds and vermin to peck away at me… Oi. Life is good. |
| Ugh! In my attempt to get rid of my pot gut, I thought doing sit-ups and six-inches would help. It turns out abdominal exercises do NOT get rid of belly fat – diet and exercise will do the trick. So I started walking this week. The neighborhood in which The Home is situated is rather hilly, so no matter what direction I walk it's uphill most of the way. The nice part is getting back to home base – it's downhill and the momentum I've achieved propels me homeward. Wednesday on my walk, I tripped on a section of broken sidewalk and almost ended up face-first on the pavement. I realized the sole was woefully detaching from my 15-year-old sneakers. I hobbled the rest of the way back, did my sit-ups and six-inches, toe touches, twists and bends, showered and headed out for a new pair of sneakers. Yikes! Gone are the days of Keds and P.F. Flyers – the only kinds available when I was a kid (and they only came in black, white and red). Now there are athletic shoes for every conceivable type of activity: running, walking, cross-training (I'm assuming that has nothing to do with Holy Week), basketball, power walking, jogging, indoors, outdoors, inclement weather, hardwood, grass, handball, etc. I just wanted a pair that would prevent me from tripping. I got them. For $119.97! Geez, Louise! I wore them yesterday for the first time. They're snug. Other than that I could feel muscle strain in my thighs, shins, calves, knees, ankles, feet, they felt great! It was pouring rain during my walk (I was going to use the inclement weather as an excuse, but didn't) so they got a real workout. I rewarded myself with a leisurely smoke when I got back from my first walk. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Daylight Saving Time starts on Saturday…it seems to get earlier and earlier each year. I’m not a fan of it even though it’s been around all my life. It causes me to be confused for a few days each year – in the fall and the spring. I don’t like messing with clocks; they should be there for telling the real time – not what we’re told is the real time. Again, this year there are clocks I won’t have to mess with: the one on my stove, for instance. The button used to set the time is broken so the clock has been on DST since I moved into The Home. During the winter I have to mentally adjust for the discrepancy; during the rest of the year I have to mentally figure out if it’s the “right” time or the adjusted time. My bedroom clock automatically resets for the time change; ditto with my computer. The handmade clock on my computer desk requires me to stop it for 11 hours when the time changes to standard time; when we go back to DST, I merely move the hand ahead one hour – this is because it chimes and if I move the hand too fast it messes up the chimes, so it’s easier to turn it off and wait. The clock on the dashboard of my car is tricky to reset – I have to remember to take a paper clip with me to access the little button used to change it. That usually happens a month or two into the new time period, so for those periods of time, it’s hit-or-miss when it comes to making an appointment on time if I’m driving. I think Daylight Saving Time was originally instituted to reduce usage of indoor lighting at night. Not having my lights turned on for an hour is not going to make a big difference in my already high electric bill. One extra hour of daylight means I have to run my air conditioner that much longer. The trade-off is lopsided – it’s cheaper to run a light bulb than the AC. Off to prepare myself for the coming time change… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Vera, the activities director, showed up yesterday here at The Home. The turnout was dismal: the same three as the last time – Angie, Irene and me. So much for participation… The activity for the day was a slide show. Yippee! We sat through an hour of Vera’s slides of a vacation she and her husband took to visit their daughter’s family in Arizona four years ago. She was very enthusiastic as slide after slide appeared on the wall of cacti, sand, and her grandchildren grinning into the camera. Sigh. At one point I glanced at Irene as she snoozed with her chin on her chest. I was going to nudge her awake but was fearful she would slip out of her chair onto the floor. Although, in hindsight, it would have added some excitement to the room. “And here’s one of Kyle and Amy in front of their school.” Pause. “Here they are at Olive Garden.” Pause. “This is their dog, Binky. She’s a rescue.” Pause. “This is Skittles, their cat.” And on and on. And on. Sixty minutes of mind-numbing boredom. I zoned out at about the 15-minute point and thought about what to make for dinner. Finally, the lights came on and Vera asked, “Any questions?” Silence. “Okay, I’ll see you next month. Thanks for coming today.” I went outdoors for a cigarette…without doing my obligatory, self-imposed exercises. I figured I’d treat myself. Last night I saw Angie walking Complaining Connies’ Rascal. We chatted a bit and before she headed off down the street with the mutt, she said, “I never want to go to Arizona.” Ditto. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Happy Mardi Gras. Back in 1987, my friend, Tom, invited me to stay with him for a week in New Orleans. I’d never been to New Orleans before, and going during Mardi Gras sounded like fun, so I flew down on the now-defunct People’s Airline from Newark, NJ for $98/roundtrip. I stayed at Tom’s apartment for free (treated him and some friends of his to several dinners). Arrived the Saturday before Mardi Gras; left Newark in a snowstorm (planes still took off during snow back then – not like today where a flurry grounds them) and landed in 75F sunshine. We did one parade Saturday night, two on Sunday, and from Monday afternoon through midnight on Tuesday, we did eleven parades. I got lots of beads (on Mardi Gras day itself, I arrived back at Tom’s place with 127 sets of beads around my neck) thrown from floats, along with doubloons, a plastic hot dog, two pairs of panties, a green wig, and a broken pair of eyeglasses (mine – I fell trying to catch a set of beads). I don’t remember most of the parades because of copious Hurricanes we consumed. I do recall, though, the press of the crowd – I couldn’t stand still because the mob of people constantly moving prevented any sense of stationary-ness. It was kind of scary, kind of fun… From Wednesday until the following Saturday I got to explore New Orleans in the aftermath of the big party. The plane landed in Newark after another snowstorm; it was difficult finding the car in the long-term parking lot. Mardi Gras in New Orleans, Times Square on New Year’s Eve – two things everyone should do at least once in a lifetime. I’ve done both… Now I’m hungry for some jambalaya and barbecued shrimp. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, I’m still sore from my sit-ups before each cigarette, but I’ve upped the count to 20 each time. I have noticed a small difference in my waistline: it’s still the same size, however, it’s a wee bit harder now. Not sure I like that, but there it is. In addition to my sit-ups, I’m doing an exercise I used to HATE in gym class; it’s called “six inches.” To perform it, one lies on one’s back with legs outstretched, then lifts one’s feet about six inches off the ground, and holds that for 30 seconds. I have no problem getting onto my back (since I just finished the sit-ups) and stretching out my legs. Even lifting my feet is okay. It’s the darned holding them up for 30 seconds that’s troublesome… It hurts! Everywhere! My thighs, my abdomen, my calves, my butt, my coccyx, my lungs, my head, my hair… My goal is twofold: 1) to cut back on smoking, and 2) to see my genitals again. I ordered an exercise mat from amazon…the “plush” (read industrial-grade) carpeting in my apartment isn’t cutting it. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Senior drivers – ya gotta luv em. Yesterday I was outside having my third smoke of the day here at The Home. I was enjoying the balmy 23-degree weather when one of our residents drove his car into the parking lot. When he got to an open spot he pulled in very slowly – a little too slowly, I thought. He kept inching his car forward bit by bit. I couldn’t figure out what was going on, so I just stared and puffed away. Move – pause – inches – pause… I saw he was getting mighty close to the retaining wall right in front of him and got concerned he might bump into it. Inches – pause –move – pause… BANG! CRUNCH! Yep, right into the retaining wall… I walked over to him to see if he was all right. By the time I reached his car, he had put it into reverse and was inching back out of the spot. Move – pause – inches – pause… He stopped when he saw me standing there. I motioned for him to roll down his window so I could talk to him. (I used the circular hand motion of days gone by to indicate a lowering window. I realized how stupid that was because almost all cars have electric windows these days.) Inches – pause – move – pause… He ignored me and kept backing out. I hightailed it back to the bench to finish my smoke. He got out of his car after about three minutes and slowly walked into the building. I finished my cigarette and headed inside to my apartment. I happened to look out my windows overlooking the parking lot and saw him push a shopping cart to the back of his car. He opened the trunk and loaded five cases of Budweiser into the cart. I just shook my head. I guess it’s merely a matter of time until I inherit the move – pause – inches – pause – CRASH method of driving. Without the brew… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Patchouli – the scent is in the hallways the past few days here at The Home. I can’t narrow it down to one apartment, but it seems centered somewhere on the second floor. Descending and ascending the stairwell on my forays outdoors for a smoke, I’m hit with the sweet/musk smell. It’s been years since I’ve smelled it and it brings back memories of eight-track tape players, “Midnight at the Oasis” by Maria Muldaur, munchies, peasant blouses, sand candles, and tie-dye t-shirts. I wouldn’t even know where to go to purchase it nowadays. I guess there are worse smells one could experience in senior housing, so I should be glad, huh? Life is good. |
| Ugh! Blustery outside…if I was younger I might toy with the idea of purchasing, building, and then flying a kite. But I’m not younger, so it’ll live in my mind only. When I was a kid I can recall a few times of kite flying. Nothing like in the movies, though; in my experience the hardest part was getting it off the darned ground…I’d run and run and the thing would bounce on the grass behind me, taunting me with silent cries and laughs of “…run faster…you’re not doing it right…” And if and when I did get it airborne, it stayed up for only a few minutes until it crashed into a tissue-paper-balsa-wood crumple on the ground. Sigh. Living in this neighborhood at The Home, the only things I see in the air are the helicopters flying low to land on the helipad at the hospital a few blocks away; the contrails of passenger jets taking off from Newark, LaGuardia, and JFK airports heading westward; the occasional bird; and the ever present stray plastic shopping bag that always seems to get caught in one of the trees outside The Home. March came in here like a lamb. That doesn’t bode well for the end of the month. Life is good. |
| Ugh! We had another rainy day yesterday…with a thunderstorm. I was in heaven! We lucked out here at The Home – being the last day of February, it could’ve been snow, but Mother Nature gave us a reprieve. The storms washed away all but the hardiest of dirty snow piles still lingering. Mid-morning my phone rang. I let it go to voicemail in an attempt to screen the call; it was too early to talk to someone. No message. A few minutes later it rang again. Voicemail – no message. A few minutes after that: a hard, loud knocking on my door. I answered it. It was Calamity Cleary. CC: “I saw your windows are open. You should close them so lightning doesn’t come in. I remember the time my neighbor’s sister was hit by lightning that came in through the kitchen window when she was doing dinner dishes. She got burned real bad.” Me: “Okay.” Off she went…I’m assuming to warn other residents of the impending danger inherent in electrical storms. On one of my trips for a smoke, Larry was sitting in the lobby wearing an “I  LESBIANS” t-shirt. He smiled at me as I walked past.Life is good. |
| Ugh! For the past five days I’ve had the song “Let’s Fall in Love” by Cole Porter stuck in my head. It’s maddening… “Birds do it, bees do it, even educated fleas do it, let’s do it, let’s fall in love…” I may have to change my morning routine because of it: before I get out of bed each morning, I have my little talk with God – y’know, thanks for the good sleep, happy thoughts for the coming day, assistance with life, etc., and I always end it with, “Okay, let’s do it” and that’s when the song pops into my head. And it stays there for HOURS. There are two other songs that drive me insane once I get them in my head: “Mack the Knife” by Bobby Darin, and the theme song to “The Patty Duke Show.” I know, I know, you’re saying Patty Duke – well, when I was a kid, I was IN LOVE with Patty Duke. I even wrote to become a member of her fan club and she sent me an autographed photo of her – it was signed, “Thanks for watching. Love, Patty” I’ve lost that photo through the years, but I can still see it. And when I do, I start singing, “…but they’re cousins, identical cousins, and you’ll find, they laugh alike, they walk alike, at times they even talk alike…” ARRRGGGHHH. I better stop now…”…you could lose your mind – when cousins….are two of a kind!” Life is good. |
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no pun intended!
or just need to keep the old frame greased and moving more. Otherwise, the rust sets in and gravity is like a magnet on the iron joints constantly pulling down.