Seems Like Old Times - October 2009

Today is my birthday, and this date also marks the beginning of the last year I will be in my 50s. 50s! I remember turning 50 and feeling grateful to be alive. But at the same time I knew that 50 felt a bit over the hill. Now, what I would give to be 50 again? I already have some friends who have turned 60 and others in their 70s. But it is different when it happens to you – which for me will be October 28, 2010. Sure, I know that 60 is the new 50, but 50 seemed pretty shocking at the time. And while the alternative to aging isn’t preferable at all, it seems odd to be what used to be considered old.

“They” say you are only as young as you feel, and that’s comforting for some of us. I can still run around in sweatshirts and jeans, driving my convertible and wearing a baseball cap. Yet, there are plenty of signs that age is creeping up on me. If you are anywhere near my generation, you have probably seen the signs yourself.

Can you picture yourself in any of these situations, or have these already happened to you?

You read the obituaries every day just to see who you know – and to make sure your name isn’t there. You also want to verify that these people are much older than you.

You belong to AARP and so do your friends, and you discuss articles you read in the AARP magazine. You’re really into it if your BFF goes to the AARP Annual Meeting and claims, “We had a lot of fun.”

When someone you know loses a parent, you can commiserate from personal experience. But secretly you are thinking, “She still had parents?”

You go to an event of any sort and you’re more concerned with how many rows of stairs you have to climb than whether the seats are good.

You want to get home before it gets dark. And going out after dark? Boy, that better be for something really special.

When you drive and there is the least possibility you might get lost you turn down the radio, as if silence will magically guide you to your destination.

When you give directions to someone, most of your landmarks are places that don’t exist anymore or have different names – “You turn right after where Johnny’s Diner used to be. It’s on the same street as Mary’s parents used to live.”

Every gathering of friends includes a segment of the conversation devoted to ailments – yours, mine and someone else's.

You can get a recommendation for any kind of doctor you need just by asking your friends. Someone will already have what you have or know someone who does.

You are older than the people running for president and VP (except for John McCain).

You or your friends are grandparents. How did this happen? Aren’t the kids still in pre-school, you wonder?

The baseball players getting into the Hall of Fame are younger than you are, and you remember when they were rookies.

Ira is no longer that nebishy guy from your Hebrew school class but is now part of your “retirement income.”

You realize that with your orthotics in your very plain, flat shoes you are this close to wearing orthopedic shoes and those stockings that roll around your ankles. Can the Eleanor Roosevelt look be far behind?

You make noises with virtually every move you make – getting up from a chair, lifting something, etc. – that sound like your father used to make.

You watch the TV commercials for pharmaceuticals and are sure you have all the symptoms of every disease and condition they cure. Once I walked in on a commercial for some kind of condition and thought for sure I had that, too, until I realized it was for prostate problems.

You can name all of the TV series 82-year-old Cloris Leachman has starred in, because you have seen all of them, and not in reruns.

You watch exercise shows that include sitting on a chair and tapping your toe (see “Sit and Be Fit” on PBS).

You remember when gas cost 32 cents a gallon, stamps were six cents and a movie was 50 cents – and you talk about this to your children, grandchildren or much younger friends, who find it (and you) boring.

You remember when Alaska and Hawaii became states.

You remember when Joan Rivers’ face actually moved. And you notice when people have a little too much cosmetic surgery – not that you’d rule out just a bit for yourself.

You remember when only drunken sailors and bikers had tattoos, and you find it a little disconcerting to see someone with gray hair and a butterfly on her ankle (or worse).

You decide that the gray appearing in your brown hair merely adds a sparkle to your blonde highlights.

You go to the supermarket to get eggs and you come back with two large bags – but no eggs.

You talk to yourself, but you figure that’s OK because no one listens to you anyway.

When you hear the U2 song “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For” it reminds you that you never did find whatever it was you were looking for, and you only hope that you will remember to look for it again.

You go into a room but don’t know why (see previous item).

You see the Senior Citizens bus zipping around town and wonder what route it takes.

Your technology IQ, which once was admirably high, now lags behind the typical 8-year-old. Texting is a big challenge.

You can’t complete even one song on “Guitar Hero.”

You remember the original versions of songs that kids hear as covers (and they are amazed that they existed before).

You find that kids not only don’t remember that Paul McCartney was in the Beatles, they don’t even know him from Wings.

You buy vitamins for people 50+ on blind faith, because you can’t read the tiny print on the label. (In my case, I buy them at Costco, where the bottle is large enough to have wheels on it and the pills are the size of a sub sandwich.)

You attend a lot of reunions, and all of them are for at least 25 years. The people you meet all tell you that you haven’t changed a bit. (Please, I beg you, don’t tell me I looked like this in high school!)

But at least I haven’t resorted to using the term “my lady friend” – yet.

It doesn’t matter that I run around in a convertible, air flowing through the hair on my head (or upper lip), baseball cap and leather jacket on. I haven’t quite reached old age, but even with macular degeneration, I can see it looming large ahead. And if you are too young to appreciate this now, trust me – someday, you’ll understand.

I hope I remember all this next year, when I turn 60.

Sleepy Time - September 2009

Have you ever had one of those days when you can’t keep your eyes open and you are overcome with that “I can’t wait to go to bed” feeling? Unfortunately, these days for me have turned into “I dread going to bed.” I am in one of those cycles where I can neither fall asleep or stay asleep, despite the comfort of my hotel-named “Heavenly Bed,” the presence of sleep-inducing (daytime only) recliners (one in the bedroom, one parked in front of the TV in the family room), open windows, ceiling fan or air conditioning and enough activity to keep me tired and longing for a good night’s sleep.

Oh, I can sleep. If I am in front of the TV and there is a great game or program on, chances are that I will fall asleep (conversely, if nothing I want to watch is on, I’ll be wide awake; go figure). Put me in a movie theater and I’ll fall asleep just as Meryl Streep accuses Father Philip Seymour Hoffman of molesting a student in “Doubt.” I fell asleep in the opening credits of “The Aviator,” the movie about Howard Hughes. I completely missed Cate Blanchett’s Oscar-nominated performance as Katherine Hepburn. I fell asleep watching “Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon,” and “Il Postino,” and let me tell you that you should never sleep during a movie with subtitles. You can at least kind of hear the movie while you are sleeping, but reading subtitles is impossible with your eyes closed. I even once fell asleep in an airplane before we took off. And since I retired, I have enjoyed countless cat naps, so it isn’t like I can’t sleep. I just can’t sleep when and where I am supposed to sleep.

Just about everyone I know gets up at least once during the night for a visit to the bathroom. My problem is that instead of just going, I debate the merits of the trip: Did I wake up because I have to go or should I go because I am awake? Thankfully, I live alone, because no human could take being subjected to the tossing and turning that follows, or the continuous loop of “SportsCenter” playing in the background while I try to dull my senses back to sleep. Further debate ensues: Should I stay in bed or move to the recliner? Do I need a blanket? I wonder what the weather will be today. Should I turn off the alarm and skip aqua aerobics? Should I just get up and get my day started? How many words can I name that end in “ment?” What’s on?

Given all of this internal conversation, it is no wonder I wake myself up. One morning I was up well before 6 a.m., a time I could never arise when I needed to for work. By 7 a.m., I was dressed, went downstairs and out the front door in search of the Sunday paper, for which I found myself too early. I tried the downstairs recliner and then the couch. I must have slept, because for a moment, I opened my eyes and didn’t know where I was.

The doctor wants to know if I snore or have sleep apnea. Good question. I don’t think so for the latter, but snoring is possible. It’s just that no one is here to confirm or deny any potential physical problem. I have thought of putting a tape recorder on the nightstand, but the thought of having to listen to myself sleep – or not – is enough to, well, bore me to sleep. Vicious cycle, huh? So I don’t know whether I snore or have sleep apnea, and, after reading this, I doubt there will be a line of volunteers willing to help me find out.

I know the drill: Get up and go to bed at the same time each day, relax and do nothing strenuous right before bed (check), don’t drink coffee after dinner (since I don’t drink tea or coffee, that’s not an issue for me), don’t take naps during the day (let’s not be unreasonable, OK?) and, as my mother used to tell me when I couldn’t sleep as a kid, think pleasant thoughts.

Perhaps some of this problem is caused by the many steps it takes to get me to bed. There is literally a last step: My bed is so high I have to use a stool to climb into it. That’s after the moisturizing, washing my face (which always wakes me up), brushing my teeth (ditto), using the hand cream, putting on the wrist splints to combat carpal tunnel problems in both wrists and strapping the dorsal night splint on my right foot and shin for my plantar fasciitis. No wonder I am so wide awake by the time I turn in.

I know that eventually I will get into a better routine and enjoy sleep again. But when you wake up and your first thought is, “When can I take a nap today?” you know it will be a long day’s journey into night.

Mom - August 23, 2009

It was 20 years ago today, only I am not referring to Sgt. Pepper. It was 20 years ago today that the Great Sylvia Gordon became the late, great Sylvia Gordon. And what a loss for all of us.

You may never have met my mother, but if you know me, you know her. Her witticisms often seep into my conversation (mostly with attribution). While Dad was the kind and sweet one in the family, Mom was a little less, shall we say, subtle. Dad would strain to find something nice to say about a stranger. Mom would say, “Get me a stick and I’ll kill it,” when she spotted someone who looked particularly odd.

While she meant well, Mom somehow managed to pepper her conversations with my sister and me with insults and threats – luckily, empty ones – that, by their very tone and her dry delivery, we couldn’t take seriously. When we had the temerity to criticize her, her standard reply was, “Maybe your next mother will be better.” (More than once I inquired about her imminent arrival.) If we questioned her for demonstrating favoritism, she would quip, “To tell you the truth, I can’t stand either one of you.” I know, I know, today she’d be cited by DYFS, but we got the idea. And, in fact, her kvelling (look it up) over our achievements, small or large, showed that she was proud to be our mother. Once I remember asking her to stop talking about me, since everyone in her mah jongg group seemed to know every detail of my life. Now I find myself doing the same thing, albeit with no mah jongg group as my audience, in talking about my nephew. Oh, that she could have lived to see him. At 5’6”, he would tower over her diminutive 4’11” frame. Rarely has so much power been shoehorned in such a small package. I never realized how short I was since I was taller than Mom and nearly as tall as Dad. Yet I looked up to them in so many ways.

Mom was born in 1916 and graduated from high school at 16, during the Depression. Like others of her generation, living through those tenuous times was the defining experience of her life. Despite the unemployment of the era, she managed to get a job as a bookkeeper. There were times growing up when they lived in a cold water flat in Jersey City. She was a tough woman and never took any crap from anyone (sound familiar?). She was a big success in business, earning a good salary before getting married and having me. Her experience in the working world set an example for me even before I was born. The trials of people who lived through those times led her to a long-standing devotion to Franklin Roosevelt. Like Maude on “All in the Family,” she would always see him as a hero, the man who rescued the country from economic ruin.

Also like Maude, Mom had the deepest voice you can imagine. Countless times my friends would call the house and say, “Hello, Mr. Gordon” when she answered the phone, only to hear her say, “This is Mrs. Gordon,” much to their chagrin. It didn’t really bother her, though, because we could get a laugh out of it, and she loved to laugh. No matter how many times she saw Lucy in that candy factory or stomping on those grapes, she’d always laugh out loud. Dad would walk through the room and ask how we could be laughing over something we’d seen so many times before. She’d just give him a look and, with the timing of Jack Benny, an appropriate comment. We watched Lucy, Milton Berle, Jackie Gleason and Jack Benny. When each of them died, I felt I lost a member of the family.

Mom loved to read, and when I was a kid, she’d go to the library at night with me in tow. Although the children’s section of the library was closed, she knew all of the librarians by name and they’d let me explore the empty room and select my books. I always felt privileged to be able to check out a book when no other kids were even allowed in. Mom was a voracious reader, and she’d lie across her big bed before dinner nearly every day and read for a while, mostly while we wondered if dinner would be burned. Mom fancied herself a skilled baker, but she never claimed to be a great cook. My childhood memories are full of lamb chops and mashed potatoes and chicken that seemed to take hours to cook. Most important, Mom made me thousands – literally thousands – of Bumble Bee Tuna Fish sandwiches, and she would do her best to satisfy the tuna craving that she couldn’t understand.

Life was pretty uncomplicated when I was a kid and Mom’s advice was usually simple. If I couldn’t sleep, she’d tell me to think pleasant thoughts. If I had nothing to do, she’d tell me to go out and play. Inevitably, I’d find someone for a game of jacks or hopscotch or Monopoly.

Mom taught me so many important things. She taught me a second language: To this day I remember many of her juicier Yiddish expressions, some of which fit so much better than their English counterparts. She taught me about respect – respecting others and earning respect yourself. She taught me to do your best – always.

Through Mom, I learned the value of a dollar. No one can teach the value of money better than someone who lived through the Depression. I learned that women are every bit as good as men. They deserve whatever men earn, as my mother had. I learned to be direct, but not unkind. I learned the value of education, of reading, of the joy of laughter. I learned the impact of a well-turned phrase, delivered wryly. Even now, my friends will quote my mother from time to time, or, in certain situations, inquire, “What would your mother have said?” When I would work late at J&J with a group in a conference room, we would occasionally call her on the speaker phone and she would never fail to make us laugh.

Sylvia Gordon is gone 20 years now, and though I haven’t seen her in person for all that time, I can truly say that not a day goes by that I don’t think about her, or that one of her pithy sayings doesn’t run through my head. I probably didn’t tell her often enough what she meant to me, and maybe I didn’t even realize it myself until it was too late. But somehow, I think she knows. And when I get sad because she isn’t around, I remember that she taught me to think pleasant thoughts. So I think of her laughing, and I smile. Thanks, Mom.

Small Bites - July 2009

Nothing major on my mind this month, just a lot of little things, ranging from annoying to amusing, that I thought I'd share for this month's entry. Treasure or trash as you see fit.

How proud I am to live in New Jersey these days. First the supposed “Real Housewives of New Jersey” airs on television and now the Garden State is the home of the “perp walk” by elected officials (and a few alleged money-laundering rabbis). In a government plot just this side of Abscam, the feds nailed a bus load of New Jersey’s finest, including the 32-year old mayor of Hoboken, in office for just a few weeks, but in time to allegedly accept a bribe from an undercover scofflaw playing himself as a crooked developer. My mother always told me that the motto of Hudson County was “Vote early, vote often,” and that you could continue to vote even in the afterlife. My old boss, Jim Murray, used to say that anyone who seeks office should be prevented from getting one. He might have had something there. Congratulations to my native state for perpetuating the stereotype that all housewives are Carmela Soprano and all elected officials are on the take.

I watched the finale of “The Bachelorette” while my sister debated the merits of watching “The Real Housewives of Atlanta” to follow her addiction to “The Real Housewives of New Jersey.” Those Gordon girls are clearly lovers of highbrow entertainment.

If I ruled the word, the roads would be planned properly, construction crews wouldn’t be out on the highway at the worst possible times or standing around scratching themselves, elevators and escalators would be located where handicapped people could actually access them (and they would be functional at all times), parking lots and decks would be well lit and redesigned, and architecture done for design would be done for function, too. I guess I’ll have to come back as a civil engineer or architect.

I think my hair has a mind of its own. On the day I have a haircut scheduled, it taunts me by looking its best. On days when I see no one, it always looks great, but when I have to go somewhere or look good, my hair may have other ideas. If I wake up and think about not washing it before my water aerobics class, I quickly change my mind when I realize I look like a cross between Kate Gosselin (the back) and Robert Pattinson (the front and top), which, trust me, is only a good look if you star in a hit movie.

If you are waiting for a service person to come to your house and you are given a range of time (say, 9 to noon), the chance of his arrival at the earliest time increases dramatically if you are not there. If you are at home and eagerly awaiting his appearance, he will arrive at the latest possible time.

Here’s a problem I have because I live alone: Making an ice cream cone. With just two hands, how do I hold the cone and put away the container? I buy the flat bottom cones (do I hear the strains of Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls” playing in the background?) and have to stand my finished cone on the counter, hoping it doesn’t drip or fall over while I put away the ice cream. It’s not like I can leave it there and put it away later. Sometimes a spouse would come in very handy. And a tall one to change light bulbs would be particularly useful. Meanwhile, I’ll eat the ice cream in a bowl, thank you.

Speaking of ice cream, have you read the package information lately? The lighter varieties have only 140 calories per serving, which is quite acceptable. However, the package says it contains 14 servings. 14? Are you kidding me? Who gets 14 servings out of what is now less than half a gallon of ice cream? So now I feel guilty and indulgent. That will teach me to read the package!

How does the inside of the soap dispenser get dirty? After all, there’s soap in there, right? Just don’t tell me it is mildew, which defeats the whole point of the soap.

Why does the throw rug next to my bed continue to retreat under it? Was there an earthquake I missed? It is on top of the carpet, so it can’t easily slide under the bed, yet it does. I don’t get it.

Whenever I have a 30% coupon from Kohl’s, I buy 30% more than I need. At least.

Why do we as women always have to justify what we buy? I live alone, and yet I justify to myself what I buy. I’m so bad I caught myself telling the cashier at Kohl’s that I had saved enough during their sale to get the shoes for free! Like she cares. And then, if someone compliments a woman on what she bought when she wears it, she has to explain it: “Oh, you know, my old one was just in tatters, and there was this sale…” “I wouldn’t have bought it, but I know I can wear it with so many things. I’ll get so much use out of it.” Our friends will agree and encourage us, too: “You can even wear that with your fill-in-the-blank.” Men are different. They do less shopping than restocking. The old khakis are old khakis, so they get new khakis. They buy a new tie because the old one had a soup stain, or because they need a new suit for a wedding or a job. Women are recreational shoppers, but we still have a story with every purchase: “You won’t believe how much I saved on this,” we proclaim proudly.

I was diagnosed with osteopenia a few months ago (which I was sure had something to do with paninis at first). Turns out it means I am thisclose to osteoporosis. So now Sally Field and I are both on the once-a-month dose of Boniva. I try to be environmentally friendly, but I am no tree hugger. Still, I can’t help noticing that the box of three – count ‘em, three – Boniva tablets contains individual packages the size of those used for cold relief tablets, except the cold relief tablet package contains 12-18 tablets, while each Boniva package has one. The three individual packages come in a box the size used for the old floppy disks – holding at least 12 disks. As if this incredible waste of packaging isn’t offensive enough, there is the whole process of Boniva liberation. The tablet has to be removed from the box and then extricated from the tight plastic blister pack that protects it from people with osteoporosis who need to take the damn thing and can’t get it out of the package! I think that if you can accomplish this impossible mission easily, maybe you don’t really need the product.

Remember when expiration dates on coupons were years away? Now they expire within weeks. I faithfully cut them out and then end up throwing them away because they expire by the time I am ready to use them. I suppose I could try to manage this task better…

When you live in the suburbs, you can count on hearing one thing about three quarters of the year: Someone is always mowing the lawn. This sound can be annoying (when it happens too early in the day), unsettling (when you have allergies) or wonderful (when it is someone mowing my lawn).

You can’t tell me that my nails don’t grow faster in the summer. I feel like I should be filing them at every red light. I draw the line at toenails, so don’t worry if you see me on the road with a nail file in my hand.

Don’t you hate it when someone pulls out in front of you and then doesn’t drive as fast as the speed limit? It’s even worse when someone pulls out, cuts you off and there’s no one behind you. They couldn’t have waited?

One good sign about driving is the 4-way stop sign. People actually seem to know how to handle themselves at these kinds of intersections, allowing the person on the right to go first or taking turns in relative civility. Perhaps the apocalypse is not with us quite yet.

Can You Dig It? - June, 2009

By Tina Gordon

I know it seems like sacrilege, and I’ll probably suffer the 21st century equivalent of whatever non-Amish people do to shun others, but I just have to admit something: I hate gardening.

Don’t get me wrong. I love flowers. Feel free to send me a dozen roses anytime. Even carnations will do. And I love gardens. I love taking pictures of flowers and gardens. I’ve been to Longwood Gardens and Presby Memorial Iris Garden and the Grounds for Sculpture, where there are flowers and sculpture. I lament the passing of Duke Gardens and the lovely greenhouses there. I truly love all these places, the color, the smell and beauty of nature.

I just don’t like to get dirty.

I’ll admit it, in case you had any doubt, or in case you just don’t know me well enough: I’m not a nature person. I love living things – unless, of course, they get into my pool, my basement or my yard, or if they knock over my garbage cans or crap on my windshield. I love the shade of the trees, though, as an owner of a pool, I now consider the falling leaves Public Enemy #1. I see little bunnies hopping around the yard and I picture them getting caught in the pool filter. OK, maybe saying I love living things is a bit of an overstatement. How about this: I tolerate living things. I do love the beauty of nature. Not that I want to sleep under the stars, pee in the woods, or use any form of manure to grow vegetables. The way I figure it, my people wandered around the desert for 40 years so I could enjoy indoor plumbing, cable TV and 24-hour room service.

Growing plants and flowers is what everyone seems to do, so I make my meager attempt at it. But I hate hauling 40-pound bags of dirt in the back of my Mercedes (you should see the look on Gracie’s face when she is treated like a truck…), I hate kneeling on the ground, digging holes and planting. Now I have switched to container gardening, and even there, I can work up a pretty good whine. I have to remove the old, dead plants from last year and replace them with the new plants, hoping they will survive the neighborhood gangs of deer that look at them as a salad bar. And then there is the guilt. Maybe it will rain, I reason, so I won’t have to water them. If there was a DYFS for plants, I’m sure someone would turn me if for being a bad mother to mine.

The challenge with planting flowers is finding annuals that you like that bloom throughout the season, or perennials that last but don’t take over the entire yard – or anything that the deer will reject. The tiny lamb’s ear plant I kindly gave to my sister a few years ago is now a monstrosity that stands guard over her entire front walkway, and, short of removing it entirely, no amount of cutting it back will reduce its middle aged spread.

At my last house, I had extensive landscaping done, and I took particular joy in growing hollyhocks. Each year they would bloom again – never where they were the year before. When I moved to this house two years ago, I learned that the previous owner was quite the gardener. My neighbor said she would be out manicuring the garden with cuticle scissors (personally, I think she should have done a little more work on the inside of the house, like cleaning the dryer vent so it wouldn’t catch on fire…). For me, just seeing her green plants and rocks with weed block looks dull. I’d like to spice things up with bursts of color – but the lawn guy tells me to forget it. The deer will get whatever you plant, he warns. One of my friends, determined to foil Bambi and her gang, sprayed some sort of natural concoction – garlic and other odious elements – on her plants, only to get herself in the face and end up in the emergency room. So the whole scenario spells danger to me.

Besides, I hate to get dirty. I wear the gloves, the chlorine clothes (why ruin two sets of clothes when I can dedicate one pair of pants, shoes and a top to both the pool and the garden?), the hat, and I give it the old college try. Come to think of it, one of my part time jobs in college was working for the Rutgers Agricultural School, as it was then known. I tell people I was a researcher, but the truth is that I washed glassware, picked asparagus berries and sorted out their seeds for the real scientists. Somehow I knew even then that my career as a migrant worker wouldn’t amount to much.

This year I decided to try to grow tomatoes on the deck in a pot. (I couldn't fathom the upside down hanging kind you see advertised on TV). And I now have a tiny basil plant that I hope will yield enough of a crop to eat with the tomatoes. Minimal yield, but minimal digging.

Once upon a time I had a real vegetable garden. I grew juicy, red tomatoes, which I tried to pick before the rabbits and deer ate them. I had zucchini the size of baseball bats and basil with roots from here to China. Eventually, tired of putting out what amounted to a bunny buffet, I built a fence that could best be described as ramshackle. I even fenced the top of the garden. That discouraged the deer and their friends from snacking on my hard earned produce. But, as you might imagine, picking anything with a fence on top of it became a challenge, so I gave it up in favor of flowers. Besides, I live amid farms, one of which is down the road and sells fresh vegetables. I figure that buying fresh fruits and veggies there – after the farmer has done all of the dirty work – is my way of contributing to the local economy while keeping my hands clean.

And now, despite my somewhat limited love (tolerance) of nature, my need for color amid the greenery and my desire to grow things on my own, I have to face facts: I don’t need bushes that attract butterflies and I’m not going to buy bird feeders so birds can come near my house and crap in my pool. I don’t want to be stung by bees or see those obnoxious bug zappers or bags of beetles hanging in anyone’s yard, especially mine.

OK, now that we have established the fact that I hate gardening, I have to run. I need to water the plants in case it doesn’t rain.