A Writer Friend Responds

Click the title above to read a post about this blog from my writer friend, ERICWRITES.

The fonts are fixed!

whew. Now I can read my own page. Of course, I still need my glasses.... where the heck did I leave them?

It's Really Bad When You Can't Read Your Own Blog

Things are pretty bad when you can't read the type in your own blog. I know now that these things are originally designed by the youngsters in design, not the "older" designers like me - since choosing the "normal" size font for my posts has resulted in microscopic type that even pushes the limits of my specially-prescribed-for-the-computer eyeglasses. And for some reason, the more times I try to "fix" this here, the less it seems to change - perhaps the selection for "large" fonts is only a pacifier ... kind of like the buttons on stoplights that make pedestrians think they are really going to get to cross the street faster!

In Respect for My Friends in Law Enforcement

Another bad decision at a college. Click on the title above to read an editorial about a recent "speaker" at Rutgers University - the college that my daughter, whose father is a police officer, attends. Please feel free to post your comments or share this information.

Losing My Mind

Today, I find myself suddenly wondering about the scourges of old age, and the real possibility that something frighteningly nasty could be hiding in my genes. I’m not talking about the increasing aches and pains, the growing pharmacy shelf in my bedroom or even the facial lines or gray hair. What I am suddenly concerned about are the mental changes that seem inevitable and how severe and debilitating they may become.

I really don’t know if senility, dementia and the like run in my family. My father died at age 23 from nephritis, and my mother died at age 56 – officially from flu-induced heart failure, but in reality, it was years of alcohol abuse and cigarette smoking that killed her. Her alcoholism colored our opinions of her health status, and only recently have my sisters and I come to understand that there may have been underlying medical issues that were never addressed. For example, my own diagnosis with Graves Disease (a thyroid disease) made me realize the similarity of my symptoms to things that happened to my mother – things such as mental fog, thinning hair and dry skin. Could she have had an undiagnosed thyroid problem?

And now, as I realize I am not that far away from the same age my mother was when she died, I find myself re-examining her mental state during the last few years of her life. Was it the alcohol that made her so forgetful? Was it years of abusing both her body and her brain the contributed to the “fading away” of her persona? Or, was it the signs of early onset Alzheimer’s, just compounded by her drinking?

This concern hits home for me on a day when I arrived at work without either pocketbook or briefcase – nothing but my keys in my hand. Over the past few weeks I have found myself occasionally staring at the computer screen trying to remember just what it was I was going to work on. Last night I put down a glass of water and seconds later, could not remember where it was. Little tasks at work are slipping through the cracks as I find myself asking, am I losing my mind?

There is an advertisement in the local paper for an assisted living center that asks the question, “If today is Tuesday, why is Dad taking Thursday’s medicine?” A quick check of my pocket finds that I actually have my little pillbox marked “Thursday” with me.

Unfortunately, it’s Wednesday.

I Can't Believe I Heard This

Some things never seem to change. I'm almost 50, and well-educated people are still making stupid sexist remarks. Read why I think the president of Harvard should resign.
http://www.noreensdigitaldreams.com/Jan2005.html

Store Wars

The small town I live in serves as the hole to the doughnut that is the town that surrounds us. Ours is the older community, with a defined downtown, historic buildings, and a diverse population. The town that surrounds us, once nothing but farmland, is now populated by upper-level suburban homes and at least eight age-restricted, gated communities. While I loath the idea of stereotyping the residents of these communities, it is still very true that many of them consider themselves somehow privileged and in charge. Nowhere is this more apparent than at a certain shopping center.

Heaven protect the young mother who enters the grocery store with a baby in the cart or a child in tow. Rather than friendly, grandparent-type shoppers, she is more likely to encounter hostile seniors who resent the small space the store devotes to baby food and diapers. They consider this grocery store their social domain, and often plant themselves in the middle of an aisle making it impossible to pass. Any attempt to politely get by is met by angry looks and sarcastic comments. The more children you have with you, the stronger the reaction.

More than once, and certainly more times than can be chalked up to coincidence, I have been virtually run over by a little old lady pushing a shopping cart. This is a trick they especially like to play while waiting in line behind me. It seems that my cart, loaded with tons of food for feeding 3 teenagers, annoys them.

The same thing happens in the small Chinese restaurant and pizzeria. Show up there at a certain time of day without a senior discount card, and the stares are icy. “Don’t seat us next to those children,” is a common request. Even thought my three children are college age, they are still getting the “you don’t belong here looks.”

I’ve come to the understanding that those who live in gated, age-restricted communities become so insulated that they actually become agitated and afraid when faced with people who are not in their peers. As a whole, they have a sense of entitlement that somehow translates to believing that they alone should be patronizing the stores and restaurants near their communities. In fact, even though I now stand on the doorstep of 50, I am not yet included in the group.

Not too long ago I was in the grocery store with my 19 year old son. As we opened the trunk of my car to deposit our bags, a gentleman of about 70 or so approached us.
“What kind of car is this?” he asked.
“A 1997 Plymouth Breeze,” I replied.
“Wow, its really in good shape,” he said. “I hear they don’t make Plymouths anymore.”
“No,” I answered. “Daimler killed Plymouth.”
The man laughed and I was about to get into my car when a petite lady of about his same age began shouting at me.
“Leave him alone!” she screeched. “Don’t talk to him!”
My son and I could barely keep ourselves from bursting. I held up my hands in a gesture meant to show that I did not have any intention of continuing the conversation. The woman continued to berate me as I got in my car. Then, she yanked the man by his arm, hissed something about not letting him out of her sight, and dragged him off. Apparently, it’s not only the groceries that are off limits, it’s the menfolk too.

I’m thinking of spending my 50th birthday in that shopping center parking lot, perched on the hood of my “hot” car, flirting with all the gated community men. I might even buy some groceries.

Humor

Quick Intro

Here it is, 2005, a year that will mark the 50th birthday of Disneyland, the 50th anniversary of the opening of the first McDonald's, and, the most unbelievable of all - the 50th year of ME. Prepared for it or not, my mail will shortly be deluged with solicitations from AARP, coupons for fiber products and dire warnings about my lack of estate planning. Born right smack in the middle of the baby boom, I know that I am not alone in this. Suddenly, the plot of the movie "Good Company" seems less a farcical comedy and more a documentary. So, in order to face this demon straight on, I'm going to do what any good writer worth her thesaurus would do - whine and complain about it in print. Or at least online.
Stay tuned!