Random Thoughts for Mid-December

You know you’re getting old when you find yourself using the phrase, “back in the day.”

Please tell me you do this, too: I walk into a room but I don’t remember why I entered the room. Sometimes I open a drawer and forget what I was supposed to be looking for. The cure for this malady is simple: Just go back to where you were when you thought of the idea originally and sit down. As you sit, the idea pops up from your ass to your brain.  I swear it works every time.

Much to my chagrin, I will have to start using a single space between sentences on this blog. If I double-space the sentences that wrap to the next line appear to be indented and the lack of alignment drives me crazy. So you will notice just the single-space, which we all concede is WRONG, but we also know I am thinking double-space, which we all know is RIGHT.

I could write an entire blog entry just on the SPAM e-mail I get. No, Dr. Oz, I am not interested in your belly fat blaster, so please stop contacting me about it (today alone I had 7 messages on this subject in my SPAM folder, half of the total for the day). You’re making me very self-conscious about my appearance. And whoever you are, Adriana from Facebook, I have no interest in meeting you. I am certain that I won’t be buying Viagra any time soon, and I have no plans to start smoking e-cigarettes. I don’t need a scholarship and a college degree since I already have the latter so I don’t need the former. If Yahoo really needed to reach me regarding my e-mail account, I would expect a note that was professionally written and did not contain typos and spacing problems, so I’m pretty sure the ones I have received that are allegedly from Yahoo are not actually from Yahoo. Finally, no one I know would fall for any scam requiring us to send money to Nigeria for any reason. Enough with the SPAM!

There are so many creams and lotions and tubes of ointment in this house that I am afraid one day I’ll be in a stupor and accidentally brush my teeth with hydrocortisone cream (which is also in a spray can, so I could accidentally use it as hairspray).

I always thought that coming up with names for shades of lipstick (mine is canyon ranch) or nail polish or even paint required quite an imagination. But at least these names are descriptions of something we can imagine. My question is who comes up with the polysyllabic names of drugs? What on earth is hydrochlorothiazide/quinapril hydrochloride? Taking alclometasone dipropionate? Have you tried estradiol/norethindrone acetate? No? I’ll pass, too. Coming up with “linen white” must be far easier for everyone.

The new “Hunger Games” movie is coming out, filled with high drama, fierce fighting and special effects (which only means I won’t be seeing it). Big deal. It is the Hunger Games every day at this house. Thank God for Weight Watchers, my personal heroes!

Really, what is better than coming into the house and smelling dinner cooking in the crock pot?  Yet we restrict the use of the crock pot to winter only, as if the small amount of heat it produces in the kitchen will counteract the air conditioning in the summer.  Or will it?

Each year around this time the weather starts to get colder (so we can start using the crock pot).  Yet we seem surprised by this, remarking on it in conversations with friends and strangers and reacting as if we have never experienced cold before.  And I plead guilty on all counts.

The best part of the cold weather is that I use a heated mattress pad on my bed. I turn it on to warm up the bed and by the time I get into it, it is delightfully warm. It really is the little things.

Speaking of cold weather, I am not to be deterred from making my appointed rounds — or, in my case, walks around Hillsborough. I bundle up like Heidi crossing the Alps. The other day I wore Cuddl Duds long johns under my heaviest sweatpants, a sweatshirt, a hoodie, a jacket and a wool cap. With my earphones in and my earmuffs over the wool cap, I was so warm and soundproofed that I could barely hear the sound of the neighborhood leaf blowers. A runaway bear would have to tap me on the shoulder to get my attention. Please don’t.

I have to admit that for someone who has never spent time hunting, fishing or camping, I seem to have an inordinate amount of thermal and insulated underwear. In my mind, going out for a winter walk is akin to being Jeremiah Johnson or living in a cabin in the remote woods, I guess, because I have at least three sets of Cuddl Duds or thermals. If I layer them all together I look like the Michelin Tire guy. I’m best described as “toasty warm.” Wait — that could be a nail polish color!

When I am out for a walk and I hear the BeeGees’ “Staying Alive,” I always want to strut down the street like Tony Manero (John Travolta) in “Saturday Night Fever.” I try hard to resist the urge.

Whenever I see a storefront with a “Psychic” sign, I wonder if they know who will be dropping in. And do they know it won’t be me?

My sister and I have each had trouble locating a supply of string lately. I don’t know which is more remarkable, that there appears to be a shortage of string or that we have had a discussion about this topic. In any case, I think we should contact Dr. Sheldon Cooper for his take on string theory.

There is a restaurant on Route 206 between Hillsborough and Montgomery that has changed hands more times than I can remember. There is even a suspicious fire or two in its dossier. The most recent iteration was called Tusk, and the sign remains lit even though the restaurant has been closed for well over a year. I can’t help wondering who pays the light bill for the sign and the interior lights that remain lit. This is the stuff that keeps me up at night.

Whenever I hear any song by KC & the Sunshine Band I end up with it running through my head for the rest of the day. There has to be a scientific explanation of this Sunshine phenomenon.

Speaking of songs, I have always wondered what the Chicago song “25 or 6 to 4” is about so I decided to look it up. The composer of the song, band member Robert Lamm, explains that it is more or less about the process of writing a song, which can be painstaking, and the reference in the title is just a reference to the time of day — as in "waiting for the break of day" at 25 or (2)6 minutes to 4 a.m. (3:35 or 3:36 a.m.). So now we know. You’re welcome.

Do you go to the supermarket for a few things and come out with 20 and none of them are what you went for in the first place? Me, too.

My ShopRite sells “Executive Turkey.” Just what is Executive Turkey? Can it not be purchased and enjoyed by the masses? Is this a class thing? I mean, I know plenty of execs who were real turkeys, but I don’t think any of them man the deli counter at ShopRite. Really, who comes up with this stuff?

Today’s technology has made shopping so easy — too easy. The other day I spent $100 from my bed, before my feet hit the floor for the first time. Amazon knows me, my credit card and my tastes, so they point out stuff I might want that I can buy with one click. (Why does my sister need ideas for every occasion? Amazon knows me better than she does.) When my order is delivered, I get an alert on my phone to let me know the package has arrived. Then the hard part begins, as apparently I am supposed to get my butt off the recliner and open the door to retrieve it and then open it all by myself.

I heard the announcer on TV this morning say, “For the first time in history,” and my thoughts immediately went to “It’s raining men.”

A woman in my aqua aerobics class who was playing behind me in volleyball informed me the other day, “Honey, you have a lot of gray hair for someone your age. Really, you have a lot of gray.” OK, first of all, I’m 64 years old, so I am entitled to some gray. Second, I am letting my hair grow it so I can decide if I want to go gray. If not, I can always color it. Thirdly, who looks at the back of their own head? So how gray is it, I wondered. And finally, who says that to someone? Just an elderly woman with Sophia Petrillo tendencies and no filter!

I thought I was just having problems telling black from blue, but now I can’t tell brown from green, either. I thought women didn’t have color-blindness.

I hereby declare that no cards should be allowed to have even a modicum of glitter. Christmas, Birthday – whatever. Why did anyone think that glitter, which scatters all over as soon as you open the envelope, was a good idea?

In speaking with several of my girlfriends lately, I have noticed the glee with which we tell shopping stories. For us, shopping is a competitive sport – competitive not with each other (we relish every victory), but in the great satisfaction derived from getting a really good bargain. We stalk our prey, wait for the right moment to pounce (a sale, of course), come armed with all of the requisite coupons, rebates, rainchecks, gift cards and Kohl’s cash, and bag our prizes with relish (not the kind you put on a hotdog). And we can’t wait to brag about how much we saved. In fact, buying something NOT on sale would drum a woman right out of the shopping corps. Shopping as sport – that’s what it’s all about.

Please tell me there is a 12-step program for people who cannot stop tearing out those perfume strips from magazines and the Macy’s flyers and keeping them. Not that I know anyone who does that, but just in case it should come up in conversation.

Speaking of Macy’s, you know my issue with the Macy’s One Day Sale that takes place on two days. Now Macy’s has made Super Saturday into a three-day event, starting Friday and ending Sunday but still called Super Saturday. If I were Monday or Thursday, I’d have my nose out of joint about being left out.

Some days, when I haven’t washed my hair because I am going to wear a hat and go out for a walk or go to the pool for aqua aerobics, I pull on the sweats and walk out the door and think that if my mother were alive, she’d tell me that I looked like “shit on a shovel.” The Wisdom of Sylvia Gordon. Sounds like a great book, doesn’t it?