The American Dream

June 2, 2017 by Leave a Comment

“The American dream”, a phrase that is seldom heard anymore, came to me as I prepared to leave for work.    For some reason, things were going along smoothly and I had plenty of time to catch the early bus and arrive to work early.  As part of my daily routine, I try to make sure my hair is moisturized.  Pouring the moisturizer into my hands, the “messy Marvin” part of me, took over and a large portion of the oil dropped onto the slacks I was wearing.  Ok, next the mad dash to get a cloth and soap to clean the growing spot on my pants.  After cleaning the spot as best I could, I then had to figure out what to wear as the previous outfit had been cancelled.   Needless to say, it took a few minutes to decide and change, using up the extra time I had before the spill.  Thus, Strike 1, a reason to…

Arriving at the bus stop, the early bus was long gone and the next bus to come just added to my disappointment after the unplanned wardrobe change.   First of all, the bus was completely full, no seats available with people standing in at least ¾ of the aisle.  But, today, amongst the large volume of passengers, a gentleman asked me if I would like his seat and today, and (I don’t know why)  I replied “no”.  Standing and looking over the passengers  on the bus, I took note of several things; young mothers with toddlers or infants with strollers that could be folded but weren’t, young people in seats with toddlers seated next to them in a seat, not on the lap of the person they are with, (these toddlers do not pay);  and the passengers who had spread out their belongings on the seat next to them to prevent anyone sitting next to them — looking at their phones preventing eye contact with anyone who may ask them to move their belongings.   I admit I have days when I challenge these people; today was not one of them.

Anyone familiar with me knows that this business of riding a bus has become a pet peeve and it changes nothing.  Most of the time I am not offered a seat, and the very day I am offered one, I decline.  I forgot to mention that not only did a gentleman offer me a seat; a woman also offered me a seat too.  Think about that!!  Humanity redeemed for just a moment.   Strike 2, another reason to…

The point of this outburst or sign of exasperation is because I feel that being a senior and no longer having a link to the “American Dream” has left me in a state of sadness and/or melancholy.  Exactly how long should one work? When does retirement actually begin, the day you leave the job you have been on for x amount of years or the day you wake up and don’t have to go to the job? Who determines what you should do now since you are home — Your children? What society says you should be doing, or can do, is it really is left up to you?   I know I have been told countless times that I should be glad that I am still working, that once I am home I will be harming myself if I do nothing, that I must keep busy at all costs. Most of this advice is coming from friends who have retired and are enjoying their retirement. Then there are the friends who “meaning well”, actually play it by ear and do what they want, when they want, and who actually have lots of days when they feel the need to do nothing — and do just that.

Here I planned to add Strike 3, but something happened that made me hesitate to call it quits just yet. Entering the subway station, I had maybe a three-minute wait and I decided to just put my earphones on and listen to my book.   Standing next to the bench, there was a young man sitting on the bench who looked up at me and asked me for some change so that he could get out of the station. Of course my first question was, how did he get into the station? He told me that he had come through the gate, (probably meaning that he did not pay).   In any event I dug into my wallet and gave him a handful of change. I have no idea of the total it would amount to. As I gave him the change I looked him in the eye and told him that if he were messing with me, someone would get him. (What does that even mean?) He looked at me, smiled, and as the train was approaching, I left him there and got on the train. I found a seat, and resumed listening to my book. Scanning the train and trying to be aware of my surroundings, I spotted a figure approaching who stood next to me in the aisle. I looked up as the same young man leaned over and said something to me, but because I had my earphones on and the audio was loud enough to hear over the train, I could not make out what he said. He then kissed me on the cheek and moved on down the aisle. That was the strangest thing or the nicest thing ever. I simply smiled, went back to my book and thought about how things happen and why.   I have to add here that there were several people who were looking at me, I guess wondering if I knew the young man, if some drama were about to take place, or what?

For some reason, that incident has stayed with me as I remember reading in the Bible that you never know how Jesus will appear (though the young man did not look especially shabby or destitute). My only regret is that I don’t know what he said to me before he gave me the kiss on the cheek.

So here I am, rethinking the actual time frame I plan to give up the joys of Metro and watch the world go by from my front yard or my window. Hanging on a little longer may be a challenge and I will keep you informed on how I am doing.

 

 

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Fashionable Rip Off

October 24, 2016 by Leave a Comment

escalator-319183_1280Okay Seniors, I have another issue for you to ponder.   What are your thoughts on fashion for seniors 70+? My question is based on the following episode and totally relevant, I think.

I have finally gotten comfortable with wearing leggings, jeggings, ( I don’t know what the difference is) etc. outdoors and decided I felt comfortable enough to wear a pair to work on dress down Friday.   I had purchased a printed pair, made out of some stretchy material (they are so comfortable) and had even matched it up with a contrasting blouse.

Going to work that Friday morning, I have to admit I did see several males looking at me, (though whose to say they may have been thinking “what made her think she could wear those?”) and I even got a couple of hellos, and trust me, this is not the norm. Arriving to work I got several compliments on my outfit that I felt were genuine and I really felt special all day.

Well, after having a pretty spectacular day, I  prepared to leave work and catch the subway, still feeling pretty good. Are you familiar with that bubble that Satan likes to burst? Well he burst my bubble real good.

I got on the escalator and was going down in peace. I  caught out of the corner of my eye, a young male racing down past my left side. He startled me and I tried to hold on to the rail as he raced past.  As he flew by like a flash, somehow I fell onto the step I was standing on trying to get out of his way. I couldn’t get my balance and just sat there holding on to the railing, taking an involuntarily ride to the bottom of the escalator.   The guy who rushed past me stood at the bottom of the escalator, waiting to help me get up, while holding my bag that had fallen.  Well, some how the pants that I confidently wore became caught in between the step keeping me from getting up. The gentleman took my arm and pulled me loose and made sure I was alright. I thanked him, assured him I was fine and went to one of the benches to sit down. Seeing the lights for the oncoming train I stood up and something made me feel the back of my pants and, of course, I had three different holes in my pants across my rear.   Fortunately, the blouse I had on did cover my rear so no one could see the damage.

When I got home I found a couple more small holes even though the pants were already totally ruined. I couldn’t help wondering if what had happened was a message to be more selective with my wardrobe. Or was it simply an accident and that I should hold on to how great my day had been, up to the point where the escalator grabbed my rear?

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Okay — Where Is the Soap?

November 30, 2011 by Leave a Comment

Is that soap?

OK, I’m writing this because I am in shock.  Knowing that you may be losing it is one thing, having it confirmed, without witness, is another.   Consider this.  I recently bought a bottle of Gain washing detergent, I love this smell.  Well, this weekend, I decided to get back in gear, because I had to get ready for work.  Soooo, I washed the first tub of clothes which is now still in the dryer.  I remember looking into the tub and being surprised that  the suds had not appeared, so my pea brain decided that the washer had not agitated enough and they would soon appear.

Wrooong!!!!!  Before the wash was completed, I looked again, saw no suds and put more detergent in the washing machine.  Thinking no more about it, the wash was finally completed and the clothes were put in dryer.   Well, this morning I did a tub of sweaters that I planned to wear this week for work.  Again, I noticed that after the washing had begun, there were no suds.  So this time I took a real careful look at the bottle of Gain, thinking about false advertisement or something.  NOT!!!!  How about this bottle of 129 fluid ounces was not Gain washing detergent, but GAIN FABRIC SOFTNER.  Does this mean I have been walking around in some instances in clothing  that may not be  so clean but sure was smelling good?

I’m on my way to the closest store for a bottle of Gain.  Wish me luck.

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All Sales Final

November 30, 2011 by 1 Comment

It’s was my favorite time at Hecht’s – Sales Time! You remember Hecht’s, don’t you? They had my favorite lingerie on sale, Vanity Fair and this time it looked as though I might be able to afford a few pairs of their undies.  So, armed with my Hecht’s credit card, my co-workers and I rushed the few blocks to the store, all the while management was in a staff meeting that promised to last at least an hour.  Government employment does have its advantages, or at least it did then.  This memory was prompted by a sudden flash-back of my running, and I mean running to the store to take advantage of a sale when the store opened.  For this particular sale I took a chance and left my duty station uncovered for what I hoped was to be for only a very short time.  My agency was located only a few blocks from the store and I got to the store in what I considered record time.

The negative thing about sales is that everyone seems to know about them.  I had plenty of company when the doors opened and we all seemed to be heading in the same direction, the basement.  Although Vanity Fair was displayed in a large bin with other brands, there did appear to be an ample quantity of all the brands on sale. It is so much fun when a lot of women are looking for the same thing. You have no arm room to sort through the garments, people are almost breathing down your back and when you finally see your size, someone else grabs it.  So you try another strategy and you go all the way to the bottom of the bin and start pulling up garments.  Finally, I see my size, grab a handful and find that I only have two garments that are actually my size.  Okay, I’ll take them, since once again I feel size discrimination is hovering over the store as I look for a certain size and only see garments that are for” little people with little buttocks.”  I pay for the two garments feeling that I accomplished something and rush back to my duty station.  I got back just in time to be available when a new project was assigned to me and for the rest of the day — I was feeling pretty good.  At home later that evening, I finally get a chance to really look at my (what I consider) high-class underwear.  I took them out of the bag, held them up and… that Charlie Fat Ass sign I seem to have on my back was blinking off and seemed to be saying, “got you again.”  In my hand I had a pair of hot pink underwear and a pair of white underwear.  The white underwear had one regular size leg hole and the other leg hole was the size of a bottle top!!!!!!!!!  Who can wear these? I’m sure you’ve guessed it…all sales were final.

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Oh For Goodness Sake!!!!

November 30, 2011 by Leave a Comment

I left home on time and got to the bus stop in time to wait for a bus that was sometimes on schedule and sometimes not.  I was early when I arrived at work and had time to sit for a few minutes, drink my coffee and checkout the NBA playoff stats from the previous night.  While sitting at my computer I happened to look at my jacket that was hanging on the coat rack.

Something wasn’t right. There was a vivid color on my jacket.  Perhaps it was the way the light was coming through the window that cast a glare or something?  In any event, I got up and took the jacket off the rack for a better look.  Ok, calling up my detective skills, I want to describe this right.  After all, I am the total avid fan of Law and Order and I know how to describe a crime scene.

On the left side of my jacket over the pocket was a series off scratches and circles of pen–like markings that covered a healthy area over my pocket and on the pocket itself.  It looked as though an ink pen ( a blue one) had been set free to roam… and roam it did.  Now the jacket had been in the closet until I had taken it out to wear.  No one else wore it, so how did this happen?  Of course I had to share this with my co-workers who were willing and able to come up with some pretty interesting scenarios as to how this could have happened.  Unable to come up with an explanation, I began seeking remedies on how could I remove the ink.  One co-worker promised to call her drycleaner friend and ask her advice.  In the meantime, I decided to go online and see if I could get some info on how to remove ink stains.

I found a lot of sites, even though most of them were advertising the detergent Biz and Tide.  One site I did find gave me the courage to go home to work on the stains myself.  Luckily, I all the items the site  listed, I had at home.  The directions were as follows: with a clean cloth and a white towel, place jacket on the towel and using rubbing alcohol blot and rub on the stain.  After rubbing and blotting the stain, rinse thoroughly and move to the next step( if the towel under the jacket gets wet, move the jacket to a dry spot); next using fingernail polish remover, non-acetone, repeat the previous step making sure to rinse thoroughly; next mix baking soda with a little water to make a past and repeat step 1, making sure to rinse thoroughly.  After the 3 products have been used, pour a little of your detergent directly onto the stains, rub in and let sit for a few minutes before washing in hot water.  I actually washed the jacket twice and there was no sign of ink stains anywhere on my jacket.

Feeling great and wanting to share the good news with my co-workers I proceeded to wear my new home-cleaned jacket to work.  However, there was no good news to share. Back at the bus stop I was going through my pocketbook to get my bus pass when I noticed that there was some blue in the same area as before on my jacket.  OK, another senior moment?  Not so, but if it wasn’t, had I dreamed this whole thing up? Did I really clean my jacket? There again were the same blue ink stains except this time they were in another area all together.  I know for a fact that when I removed my jacket from the closet, I checked it before putting it on and there were no stains.  I was getting ready to put my pocketbook back over my shoulder when I noticed that the bottom of my pocketbook was also blue.  Did that mean that whomever was residing in my closet had decided to go to work with me and was in my pocketbook?  I opened my pocketbook again and, oh for goodness sake, there, with the point opened and stuck to the lining of my pocketbook was a blue ball point pen that apparently had punctured the pocketbook and as I walked with the pocketbook over my shoulder, the movement made the pen draw creatively over my jacket as I walked; making the infamous pattern.

OK,  mystery solved– but will I be as successful as before?  Who knows?

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Way Back When

November 23, 2011 by Leave a Comment

I have a favorite set of sheets, I’m sure most of you do.  I love smelling them when they come out of the dryer smelling of fabric softener, spreading them on the bed and enjoying the clean and/or fragrant smell.  Thank heaven for automatic washers and dryers even though if I had the choice I would rather hang my sheets out to dry on a clear spring day.  There is nothing like that fresh air smell when you bring them in and nothing can duplicate that clean fresh air smell that I know of, even today.  So, what are your thoughts when you were  growing up, did you have a favorite set of sheets or did you even have sheets?  Well, what I remember is this.

I was raised in New Jersey, lived in a house with my grandmother first and then my aunt.   The family home had a backyard with a shed and what I remember most, is the clothes lines.  The key word here is clothes lines.  Do you remember Argo starch?  I do, I even  remember hearing that, back in the day, some pregnant women ate the starch right out of the box, I guess to satisfy a graving or something.  My memories are so vivid regarding the steps that were necessary to have clean, sweet smelling sheets that I really appreciate what time and change can do to a sheet in this day, thread count 500, etc.  Was thread count being used back then, I wonder.

Our clothes were washed in what was then known as a wringer washer.  You know, a round tub with four legs, that you hooked up to the sink to control the clean water coming in and the dirty water going out.  Somewhat similar to what we have today although definitely a whole lot more modern.  On the back of this tub was an apparatus that looked like a wash board.  This was where you inserted the clothes through the openings, piece by piece, to wring the water out of the clothes, the wringer washer.  Items such as blouses and shirts had to be placed in a solution of starch mixed with water, soaked, wrung out and taken outside to be hung up to dry.  Here is where it gets interesting.  The Atlantic Ocean surrounds a good part of the city I live in and when it is winter, it is cold, I mean really cold.  So, picture me bundled up to keep warm in my backyard hanging up clothes.  The sheets especially had to be folded once and using clothes pins, spread out across the lines.  This was bad enough, especially when it was in the teens and the wind was blowing.  But picture these same clothes and sheets when it is time to take them in.  Oh, my goodness, the clothes and especially the sheets are stiff as a board, hard to handle and hard to fold.  (Lets not even think about my fingers and nose).  The sheets and items such as blouses and shirts are then sprinkled with water until damp, rolled up like rolling pins and wrapped in a towel.  After an unspecified amount of time these items, sheets included, are ready to iron, yes, iron.

I’m assuming that these sheets I had to learn to iron were made out of probably 100% cotton or something similar.  In any event, ironing sheets to put on a bed to sleep on made absolutely no sense to me at all.  They are wrinkled when you iron them, your iron them and smooth them out and then you lay on them to wrinkle them again.  They looked really good when you first put them on the bed, and then…….the cycle begins all over again.

I appreciate so much in my older years, especially since I was on the other end of the spectrum when things were “a little old fashioned” and was the norm , not thinking that someday, things would be a tad bit better, fabrics with wrinkles was almost non-existent and washers and dryers, especially  now clean, steam and almost hang themselves up.  I am thankful for the experience (though I wasn’t thankful then) that allows me to be so appreciative of what is now and knowing about what used to be.  Thinking back gives a whole new meaning to the words “little things mean a lot.”

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Joy

October 30, 2011 by Leave a Comment

Joy is  . . .

Having two daughters, and not remembering the pain of birth,

Breast-feeding and loving every minute of it,

The feel of pudgy fingers on my face,

That feeling you get when your newborn grips your finger for the first time,

The awareness on your newborn’s face when she first sees you,

The sweet, sweet smell of just plain baby.

The indescribable feeling you get from just holding your baby,

The rapid beating of your heart as you gaze at your sleeping infant and realize you are responsible for this little person,

That smile on your face when you think of  . . .

The smell of and feel of  “real diapers” washed in Ivory Snow;

The anxiety attacks you get when you can’t quiet a fussy baby

Being able to distinguish between a “real smile” and “gas,”

The day you finally figure out that you must sleep when the baby sleeps, no matter what.

The feeling of panic when you have to return to work,

The thousand times you reach for the phone during the day to check on “your” baby

The surprise visits made to the caretaker even though you “trust her”

Doctor visits and preventive vaccination First needles.

Being bone tired, but not that tired.

The first day of school and you don’t think you can leave her,

Turning your back when she screams she wants to go with you

Trying to hide tears that don’t want to stop,

Breathing a sigh of relief when the first day of school is finally over.

Watching those two “beautifully daughters” over the years emerge as adults;

The feeling of pride when you share in their accomplishments,

Wanting only the best for your girls and praying constantly for their safe passage through life,

Being with them when they present you with the second greatest gifts in the world,

Watching the arrival of new life in the form of my grands, first a girl, then a boy

Going through those same precious moments with my daughters, learning to be moms,

Being included in the lives of those percious ‘little people” but this time looking through eyes a little wiser;

Joy is. Joy is  . . .  the first time your grandchild says, “grandma”.

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