Losing My Mind..and Everything Else

Well, my blog is a little late this week because my family was in town, but boy, is my house clean!

When my husband and I set out to clean the house in preparation for the family’s visit, we thought the house was in pretty good shape. We had done our routine cleaning a week or so earlier.

Then it turned into one of those really serious cleanings.  You know, where you rearrange the furniture to allow for more seating, and you put things away that usually don’t go away, and you actually clean off the top of your dresser?  Honestly, we even made the bed two days in a row.

So in the process of a serious cleaning like this, you discover things in and about your house.  I found a long-lost pair of clip-on sunglasses underneath the nightstand in my bedroom.  I was so happy to see them I never even stopped to wonder how they ended up in the bedroom.  I never wear my sunglasses to bed, or even in the house.  Of course, my clip-on sunglasses (which, for some reason, you can now only find in chain drugstores) come and go.  The surest way to find the ones that I’ve misplaced is to buy a new pair.  So perhaps it was a game – maybe this pair purposely decided to hide in the bedroom (“Ha!  She’ll never find me under the nightstand…”).

Then I discovered that I had a screw loose.  No, no, not a figurative screw loose (that goes without saying), but literally there were screws loose on the toilet, making the toilet seat slide back and forth when in use.  I thought this might be a tad too exciting and adventurous for some of our older family members.  No problem, I thought.  I’ll just tighten the screws. 

How hard could that be?  Well, let me tell you.  I went to what I thought would be the logical place to find a screwdriver- the toolbox. None of our half dozen screwdrivers were in the toolbox.  I looked all over.  I looked in both miscellaneous-stuff drawers (hey, it’s not all junk in there), but there were no screwdrivers there.  I looked under the nightstand to see if they had joined the clip-on sunglasses.

I have come to accept the fact that socks disappear, one at a time, leaving just one sock behind to taunt its owner.  I will never understand where they go, or why I have a drawer full of mate-less socks that I can’t seem to part with.  Perhaps I am just a cockeyed optimist, thinking that the wayward socks will find their way home to join their mates and become a part of my functional wardrobe again.  However, I do understand that this is just one of the great mysteries of life, beyond the capabilities of mere mortals to comprehend.

But now the screwdrivers were disappearing.  I gave up on finding them.  However, ever resourceful, I located an extra-large paper clip and tightened the screws in the toilet.  Not a perfect solution by any means, but sufficient.  The toilet seat was tight enough.

Later, I found some screwdrivers sitting near the closet where we left them six months ago when we installed the panels in place of the closet doors. Then my husband found the rest of the screwdrivers on his dresser which is where he left them when he fixed his toilet.

Perhaps if we put things away after we used them we'd be able to find them, but maybe not.  The next day I couldn’t find my phone charger which I had put away for the first time the day before.  So it shouldn’t be such a big surprise that I can’t find a good ending for this blog.

Having My Own Back

One thing we learned on vacation is that when you’re on a cruise, sooner or later someone is going to talk you into interacting with seaweed.

During our day “at sea” we decided to splurge on a couples massage.   Because we Ache All Over, the woman at the spa recommended the “Aqua Massage,” which involves being wrapped in seaweed before receiving a deep tissue massage.  She assured us that this would remove all the toxins from our bodies, and basically cure everything that ails us, including our arthritis.

Now I envisioned being wrapped in huge leaves of seaweed (like a California roll), but actually we were covered in a seaweed paste and then wrapped in what looked like a huge piece of tin foil (like baked potatoes) before receiving our massage.

After the massage, we got our “evaluations.”  Sasa, my no-nonsense Slovenian massage therapist, went first.  I could tell from the look on her face that she was about to deliver bad news.

 

“Your back is….” Sasa paused, struggling to find the word, “a disaster.”

A disaster?  Really? Wasn’t this a bit of an overstatement?  Perhaps Sasa did not understand the meaning of the word.  I explained to Sasa that she must be mistaken:  my official diagnosis by my physical therapist for my neck and back was that it was a “mess,” not a “disaster.”

 

There’s a world of difference there.  A “mess” is a cluttered room that needs to be straightened.  The Titanic, the Hindenberg, Hurricane Katrina, 9/11: now THOSE are disasters.  Not my poor little aching back.

Besides, if she thought my back was a disaster now, she should have seen it back in January, before six weeks of physical therapy and three weeks of treatment at the chiropractor.  What would she have called it then?  A catastrophe?  A nuclear holocaust?

 

I told her about the amazing reduction in pain and increased movement I had been experiencing, and about how my treatment with the chiropractor was an ongoing process.  I was about 4000% better than I had been and I was very optimistic that someday my back would be elevated from being a mess to being merely problematic.

Sasa wasn’t buying it, because (as it turns out) she was trying to sell me something.  She became animated and excited when she told me that she had the only answer to my problems.  If I put this seaweed bath powder into my bath I could soak in the same seaweed solution I had just had slathered on me.  If I did this regularly for long enough and used two other products, all my problems with my back would be solved!  Just for good measure she also had a cream that I could rub on my knees to rid me of my arthritis.  Furthermore, my husband needed all these products, too, even the knee cream although he has never had any problems with his knees.  The cost of all these products would total about $1200.

You know I’m not really the soak-in-a-seaweed-bath-several-times-week type of person, especially not at those prices. I decided to take my chances with my chiropractor, and all his adjustments and subjugations.  And if I had a couple of extra thousand dollars to spend on stuff to fix my back, I’d buy one of those lumbar back tables that he has in his office, which is kind of like lying on a firm wave that massages your spine, but without the water or the seaweed.

The Tale of Four Tour Guides

Every so often during our Caribbean cruise adventure, the ship docked, and we had the opportunity to explore new locales.  We quickly rejected snorkeling, diving or zip lining as possibilities, settling instead for guided tours of our shore excursions.

 “Do you know who I am?” our guide asked as we boarded our Conch Train for a tour of Key West.

Was this a trick question? He was wearing a bright yellow name tag. “You’re Bob,” I answered, confidently.  

“Engineer Bob” he corrected me.  

When he heard we were from Pittsburgh, he excitedly produced a coconut that was painted to look like a Steelers football.  I realized that no matter how far I traveled from home, quirky Steelers paraphernalia would follow me.

Bob was not from Pittsburgh, he explained, but his wife and he got married at Shadyside Presbyterian Church.  He could have been from Pittsburgh, though – Bob was sort of an every-American. It wouldn’t have surprised me if he had a collection of “football coconuts” representing every NFL team stashed away to impress the tourists.  He was an ordinary, average, animated guy, who really loved looking at and talking about Key West, and who prided himself on being the best damn Conch Train tour guide in the city.
  

Key West is an utterly charming beach town, home of Ernest Hemingway, Jimmy Buffet and the southernmost point of the United States.  My favorite fun carry-away fact from Key West was that shipwrecking had been a huge industry there when ships wrecked routinely on the coral reefs off the coast.  Divers were employed to recover whatever loot they could from the wrecked ships.  We also visited the Aquarium (in lieu of snorkeling), but there were lots of interesting things we didn’t have the time to fully explore there.

Our second stop was Cozumel, Mexico, home of the most breathtakingly beautiful teal and royal blue water – the likes of which I had never seen.  I could have spent the day just admiring the water, but we had a shore excursion to the Mayan Ruins of Tulum scheduled.  After a ferry boat ride to the main land, we were greeted by Tito, our faithful tour guide.

On our bus trip to the Ruins, Tito couldn’t say enough nice things about the Mayans.  They were the most advanced, intelligent civilization to have ever graced the earth – exceptional scientists, engineers, doctors, astronomers.  They had it all going on.  No one knew where they came from, and Tito implied that the theory that they were aliens from another planet was the only plausible explanation.
  

So what happened?  The Spaniards, that’s what.  According to Tito, the Spaniards were the root of all the evil visited upon the Mayans, and all of Mexico, for that matter.  They killed off Mayans and brought disease to the land.  At one point, I think Tito blamed the Spaniards for the fact that there was no welfare system in Mexico today. Tito also explained that there were Mayans living in Mexico today despite the Spaniards’ best efforts to destroy them.

Tito was also quite the salesman. He tried to sell us a cartouche, a necklace that every Mayan child receives at birth, with their name in silver Mayan symbols on one piece of obsidian, and the name of their protector on another.  He tried to sell us dinner for the bus trip back.  He tried to sell us on the fact that he was a Mayan.

At the ruins we learned more about the Mayans, and their shamans, and we learned that it was damn hot in Mexico –100 degrees according to Tito.  In our free time, we chose to explore a shady spot under some trees.

Ignacio, our Tour Guide for our final shore excursion to South Beach in Miami, was a soft spoken man with a great mane of gray hair, Paul Newman-blue eyes, and an undefinable Hispanic accent.  He was a gentleman among tour guides. He had a system for organizing our luggage - he boasted that in 31 years on the job he had never misplaced a suitcase.  He provided a thoughtful and informative overview of the history of the city, gave restaurant recommendations, and offered helpful tips for your tour.

Ignacio was kind enough to tell us about himself as people often inquired about his accent.  He was born in Florida, but grew up in Argentina.  As a young adult he was a bit of a nomad, traveling and living in Europe.  In 1979 while visiting Miami, he met his wife, and he had been there ever since.

While exploring South Beach on foot, we stumbled upon the Jewish Museum of Miama, where we found Sylvia Herman, a perfectly coiffed, impeccably dressed octogenarian who was a docent at the Museum. She was delighted to hear that we were from Pittsburgh, because she had grown up in Squirrel Hill, just down the road from my hometown of Swissvale.  Although she moved to Florida before I was born, we still found lots to share about the old neighborhoods.  She provided a brief but very interesting tour of the Museum which chronicled the Jewish experience in Miami.

Back on the bus, Ignacio shared some wisdom about airport travel with us.  He told us to smile at the security folks as we went through all the clearances.  After all, they have a hard time of it, and it can make a huge difference to their day and our treatment.

As Ignacio was distributing our luggage, he told us to call ahead next time we were in town and he would take us out to dinner.  We all laughed, but honestly that would be okay with us.  Ignacio was definitely the kind of guy you might like to have dinner with.

Cruisin'

After our misadventures in the airport, my husband and I finally arrived to our cruise ship with 15 minutes to spare before the ship sailed.  We were very ready for the adventure of the cruise to begin.

We found our very comfortable cabin and unpacked. We had most of what we needed in our carry-on luggage, so we hadn’t been too worried when we didn’t have time to wait for the suitcase we checked. The lady working baggage in the airport had told us that, sadly, the airline was no longer able to send luggage somewhere unaccompanied by a person, due to increased security measures.  We were told that we would have to pick up our luggage on our way back to Pittsburgh.
  

The Guest Services rep on the ship just scoffed when we told him the story.  He dialed a number on his cell phone and handed it to my husband.  The airline sent our luggage to Key West, our first port of call the next day, and the cruise line picked it up at the airport there. It seems that “increased security measures” is just a handy excuse the airline uses when they don’t want to do something.
  

We would not have the Internet for a few days while on the cruise, so I wasn’t going to be able to track my food and calorie intake.  My husband and I had pledged ourselves to relaxing our calorie consumption, while still being sensible. However, I calculated that if in a typical weekday I earned an extra 153 calories by doing 15 minutes of back and knee exercises, and taking a 15 minute, ¾ of a mile walk at lunchtime, that I had probably earned about 15,000 extra calories that first day, after all the brisk walking we did through three airports, and after my “run” through the Philadelphia Airport. Of course, this was a rough guess – I might have been underestimating the number of calories I burned.  Whatever, it was settled - I was going to have a cocktail (which I needed after the day I had had) AND dessert at dinner that night.

So we changed and cleaned up and found the dining room, where we enjoyed the first of many fine meals that we would have on the ship.  My cocktail was a Kiss on the Lips, which involved peach schnapps and mango and grenadine.  I not only had dessert; I had molten chocolate cake, by far the most decadent dessert on the menu.
  

After dinner, while exploring the ship, we wondered into a room where karaoke was taking place.  Now this was our type of ship activity!  They seemed to be finishing up one round of karaoke when we arrived and were handing out smaller binders of select songs for the next session.  My husband and I decided on doing a couple of duets – “I Got You Babe” by Sonny and Cher, and “Summer Nights” from Grease.

It turns out that we had unknowingly signed up for “Superstar Live” with the Cruise Ship Live Band and a hostess who doubled as our back-up singer.  It was like karaoke on steroids.  My husband and I were first up.  It turns out that Cher sang Bass, and Sonny was the Soprano on “You Got Me, Babe,” but we gamely sang the gender-appropriate parts.  “Summer Nights” was more in tune with our natural vocal ranges (no pun intended).

After “Summer Nights,” a young guy came up to us, and explained that his company was making a documentary about the Perkins School for the Blind who was taking their senior trip on this cruise.  He said that the students really enjoyed our performance, and they wanted to know if they could have our permission to use footage of our karaoke performance in the documentary. We were feeling particularly amenable by that time, what with the alcohol and dessert and singing and all, and we happily signed the waivers, figuring that the chance of them using our footage in the end was rather slim.

We returned to our cabin, relaxed and happy, and ready to get a good night’s sleep.  A couple of hours on the cruise ship had melted away all the stress of our very long day in the airport and on airplanes.  This was going to be a very good journey.

Drive Me to the Moon

Well, we just got back from my very first cruise, and it was everything I had hoped it would be and more.

But first we had to get there.

I don’t fly often.  First of all, it is more expensive than other forms of transportation and it has just become such a hassle.  The enhanced security checks….the strict rule about liquids that you can transport….the checked luggage charges….the flight delays….the fact that they can’t even spare a small bag of peanuts for you anymore on the flight…. And I KNOW it seems minor, but I absolutely hate taking my shoes off to get through security.

However, the ship was leaving from Miami, so we had to fly.  We weren’t able to fly down a day early, so we arrived at the airport at about 5:15 a.m. in plenty of time for our 7:30 a.m. flight.  There were no direct flights, so we would be changing planes in Philadelphia.  We were scheduled to arrive in Miami a little after 1 p.m. in plenty of time to get to the ship, which was scheduled to sail at 4 p.m.

We were sitting in the plane on the runway when we were notified that because of a thunderstorm in Philadelphia, we were now anticipating a 45-minute delay.  We did some quick figuring.  Yep.  This would mean that we would miss our connecting flight in Philly, if it were on time.  My husband called the airline who said that they had a flight going to Charlotte about 15 minutes later than our scheduled flight, and then we could take a flight from there to Miami.  It would get us into Miami at 3:15 p.m.

There was a very real possibility that we might miss the ship for our long-awaited and highly-anticipated cruise.  My husband called the cruise line.  They would have someone waiting for us at the gate, whenever we arrived.  If we missed the ship, we could catch up with them the next day in Key West, with close to $1000 of extra expense, including $600 in U.S. government fines, the hotel room and the rental car.

When we arrived in Philly, there was an outside chance we might make the original connecting flight.  We ran for the next gate – which was two terminals away.  I should mention here that I can’t run.  I can walk briskly for miles, but can’t run for more than a block without becoming very winded– and I have been this way since I was a kid.  We made it to the gate with 10 minutes to spare.  But the runway was “locked” and they wouldn’t let us on the plane.

We had about 15 minutes before the flight to Charlotte – our last chance to make it to Miami on time- boarded.  It was several gates away at the opposite end of the terminal.  My husband took off ahead of me and I “ran” as fast as I could.  We made the flight, but I was not doing well when we got there.  I felt like what I imagined people who had just run a marathon feel like.  I couldn’t catch my breath, my chest felt heavy, and I couldn’t stop coughing, or weeping from the pain.  It took me several minutes to recover.

Luckily, there was an angel disguised as a flight attendant on that flight.  She asked another passenger to change seats so that my husband and I could sit together, saying that I needed to be able to be comforted by him.  She arranged for us to “gate check” our carry-on luggage as the plane was full but she knew that we could not wait for our luggage at the next gate.  She gave us sympathy and encouraging pep talks, and said how someday this would just be an interesting story to tell from the trip.
  

We arrived in Miami a little after 3 p.m. and were greeted by a rep from the cruise line.  Once in the competent and steady hands of cruise ship personnel we were fine.  Our very happy Jamaican bus driver told us that this happened “all the time.”  Then he laughed, which is how he punctuated every sentence. We boarded the ship at about 3:45 p.m.

So, in the end, we made the cruise, but it reminded us of everything we hate about flying.  We realized that we would rather spend a day driving than flying.  We always have a great time when we drive.  We take turns behind the wheel.  We talk and sing.  The seats in the Caravan are roomy, comfortable and adjustable.   We stop whenever we want for food and rest rooms. We have some level of control over our trip.

We are already thinking about our next cruise, and only one thing is certain.  The departure port will be within driving distance of our house.

Skewing Old

I live a rich, full life.  I work full time.  I write a weekly blog.  I sing in a choir.  I perform in a musical theater production at least once a year.  I usher for the Pittsburgh Public Theatre and go to shows all the time.  I like to eat out.  I have a smartphone and a laptop computer, and I am beginning to think about getting a tablet (and I mean an electronic device when I say that, not several sheets of lined paper on a piece of cardboard).  I have 466 Friends on Facebook (who range in age from 10 to 85), and I have Twitter and Linked In accounts.

You know what else I like to do?  Watch TV.  Actually, I LOVE to watch TV, and always have. There is nothing that makes me happier than the chance to spend an evening at home watching TV.

  

I was between the ages of 18 and 49 for a while and those were some tough years for me financially.  I went from being a near-penniless college student who had rely on my parents (who were in their 50’s) for money to being a recent college graduate with a low paying job in my field (who sometimes skipped meals to make ends meet) to being a married person who didn’t make a lot of money with a growing son who needed to be fed and clothed, to being a recently divorced person in her mid-40’s who was more broke than she had ever been in the past, to being a newly remarried person with a son in college (and that cost money).

Now I am in my 50’s.  Finally, I have a little breathing room in my finances; I can actually make the occasional purchase just because I want to buy something. I actually have money to spend at my discretion.  Oh, I think I forgot to mention that I also like to shop.

I’m pretty sure my story isn’t all that unique- lots of people pretty much experience this same scenario.  So, can someone please explain to me why the TV advertising industry reveres that 18 to 49 demographic so much when people in their 50’s have so much more money to spend on whatever they want to spend it on?

I find it hard enough to understand why a network would cancel a modestly successful show that “skews old.”  But Harry's Law is a show with nearly 9 million viewers on NBC, which is a struggling network right now. It is their second highest rated serial drama.  Were they grateful for the rare hit show, starring the incomparable Academy Award winning Kathy Bates? No, actually they cancelled the show, because, sadly, most of those viewers were over the age of 49. 

They said advertisers didn’t want to pay much to advertise on the show.  They couldn’t be creative and target some companies that sell products to the over-50 crowd?  Yet, they are keeping shows with half as many viewers because those viewers are between 18 and 49, who have less disposable income and who are more likely to watch TV shows in a way that don’t include commercials than their “elders.”  And the TV industry wonders why it is struggling.

Seriously, this feels like age discrimination to me. I’m no longer desirable to advertisers simply because of my age, because there is no other reason that possibly makes sense.

All I know is I am really going to miss Harry’s Law, and so will 8.9 million people like me.   

The Rack of the Misfit Clothes

I swear I was only walking through Macy’s because I had parked my car in their garage when I needed to attend a meeting downtown.  I honestly never meant to stop.

So, I walked through the shoe department, pass the clothes and I was almost through the Clearance section when I saw it.  The rack that was marked “85% off.”

Now the “85% off” rack is a tricky place to look for clothes.  The clearance racks are full of off-season clothes, odd sizes, and clothes that just aren’t that pretty, but you can often find some great clothes at ridiculous prices, even if you might not be able to wear what you buy for six or seven months.

 

But the clothes that find their way to the “85% off” rack are like clothing versions of the toys on Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer’s Island of Misfit Toys.  Like Charlie-in-the-Box, or the Cowboy who rides an ostrich, they’re just a little bit different in a way that might make them undesirable, which is why no one bought them in the first place.  It is The Rack of the Misfit Clothes.

I couldn’t resist just taking a look.  I walked towards the rack. Then I saw it.  It was hanging, right on the end of the rack, facing out, like a beacon beckoning to me.  I’d been thinking about getting something like it for months.  It was a beautiful red winter jacket with black buttons, and the only one like it on the rack.  It had my name written all over it.

I moved closer and picked it up.  Oh.  I realized that I wasn’t in the Plus Size department, and it was only a "regular" X-Large.  Might this be the end of a beautiful relationship, before it even began?  I wasn’t willing to give up on this particular dream just yet.

I tried the beautiful red coat on.  It slipped on, it buttoned – it fit!  I couldn’t believe it.  I decided to double check with a professional.

“Hey – this actually fits, doesn’t it?” I asked the nearby saleswoman.

“Um, yes, it does,” she answered, pleasantly.

“And it is really 85% off?  It’s not on the wrong rack?”  I asked.

We verified the price.  $15.57.    It was settled. I announced that I would be buying the coat.

“There are a lot more coats on sale upstairs,” the salesperson offered helpfully.

I didn’t want any other coat.  This coat was coming home with me.

When we got to the register, another salesperson joined us. 

“Wow!  This is a really nice coat, but wait- is it a Spring coat?” she said.

“I told her there were more coats upstairs,” the first saleslady defended herself.

“Ladies, you don’t seem to understand,” I clarified, “this is the coat that I want – this coat and I were made for each other.”

I knew before I left the store that the jacket was made of some sort of extra-heavy fleece-like material, so it looked like a winter jacket but was probably more appropriate for temperatures in the 30’s or 40’s than the teens. And when I got it home I realized that the sleeves were about 6 inches too long.  Obviously the designers were using an orangutan for a model.  But this was not really a problem, because my limited sewing skills do include hemming sleeves.

So, in the end, my new beautiful winter(ish) jacket was more like a “Dolly for Sue” –the seemingly normal doll on the Island of Misfit Toys.  It just needed to find a home with someone who loved it.