Another season, another reason to vacate Florida for the cooler climes of the northeast.  As lovely as it is to have the good fortune to spend the winter months where scarves and gloves are not required, I feel equally fortunate to be able to leave when the temperature and humidity are responsible for an unending succession of bad hair days.   I’m happy to say we survived another transition, arrived safely, and have been busy resettling, and wondering why we keep shlepping all this stuff back and forth!  Oh, well.  So, you now have my excuse for not coming up with a new essay at this time.  But here’s one from 2016 that’s as true today as it was then  with a few updates.  And the grandkids referred to below? They’re now driving themselves to the beach, hopefully with a tube of sun block.

                                                         Summer Is a Bummer​

Admittedly, I’m not a big fan of nostalgia.  My capacity for fondly recounting the good old days is about half a cup.  Sure, I have pleasant memories of growing up in the 40s and 50s, but I’m not about to initiate a petition for the return of Howdy Dowdy or lobby the fashion industry to bring back poodle skirts.

And, while I do miss Archie and Jughead, I don’t get sentimental when reminded of what the price of gasoline used to be, or that a movie ticket used to cost 25 cents.

While I pride myself at being a forward-thinking kind of gal, I must confess that this past Memorial Day weekend, the unofficial start of a new season, and the hot weather, did combine to trigger images of childhood, and a good, old-fashioned, unfettered Summer!

Whatever happened to the summers of my youth?

I really do miss them.  I miss the anticipation of them.  The arrival of June, the end of school, the extended hours of daylight, more time to spend outdoors.

While I still enjoy the extended hours of daylight, my appreciation is now more often from behind a screen door.   Summers used to be carefree.  Now they are hazardous to your health.

It’s hard to enjoy summer when you are repeatedly reminded of all of the risks that come with warm weather.  How can I possibly find the same pleasures of the season when I feel I must carry my garbage to the outdoor bin wearing a hazmat suit?

When did summer become dangerous? Blame COVID-19, global warming, or the thinning of the ozone layer, but daring to walk out the front door unprotected feels like extreme risk-taking behavior.  Perhaps that’s why I experience an adrenaline rush if I go to my mailbox without a hat on.

And the beach? A real downer.  My inner child longs to run freely in and out of the water, and build elaborate sandcastles complete with moats.   But my outer older person threatens with more age spots and/or a trip to the dermatologist if I don’t remain under the umbrella.   Among my beach equipment is a tape measure to ensure that I am at least six feet away from the nearest beach blanket.  And mask-wearing does result in a weird suntan.

Would I consider a drive in a convertible? Never.  At least not until the sun goes down.  And even with the top up, one is not safe.  I’ve learned that bad rays can penetrate glass.  Therefore, I’m seriously considering window treatments for my car.

And when it comes to applying sun protection, perhaps someone can help me with the proper protocol.  Do I apply my sun block before or after I rub on my skin moisturizer? If I apply my moisturizer first, will that prevent my sun block from working? But if I apply my sun block first, will that prevent my moisturizer from plumping up my wrinkles?

In any event, there are now two layers of lotion on my face before I even put on my makeup.  It’s no wonder that I walk around for the rest of the day feeling like a stick of butter.

And remember when mosquito bites were simply that? Annoying little itchy bumps that would subside in a couple of days? Since malaria was not a serious threat for those of us growing up in Bensonhurst, mosquitoes, while never our friends, were not to be feared.  And insects did not dictate how we dressed.

But in summer I am told that I must be cautious about the Zika virus.  I have been warned to cover up and use insect repellent.  Tell me, do I spray this on before or after sun block and skin moisturizer?

One expert even suggested we wear mosquito netting to cover our faces.  Hey, why not? It’s the perfect fashion accessory for the surgical mask worn to protect us from air pollution and Covid.

And in the good old summertime, who ever heard of ticks? Ticks were a sound made by my grandfather’s pocket watch.  But I must also cover up and spray to prevent Lyme disease.  So that’s me, in 90-degree weather, walking my dog in an outfit that looks like I’m about to embark on a ski vacation.

Maybe I should invest in that hazmat suit after all.  I wonder, is it a one size fits all, and does it come in a choice of colors?

I admit summer still has some pleasures.  I do look forward to fresh picked corn, luscious tomatoes, and
juicy summer fruit.   However, please don’t mind if I graciously decline that outdoor picnic for the safety and security of a screened porch.

But as I watch my grandchildren from said screen porch thoroughly enjoying their summer, and their mother chasing them with a tube of sun block, another thought occurs to me.  Summer hasn’t changed at all.  I have.  Summer has always had its perils, but to be concerned about them was the responsibility of the adults.

I can recall my own mother’s hesitance to venture out from under the umbrella when she reluctantly consented to go to the beach, something as I child I could never comprehend.  Today, that shade-seeking grown-up is me.
​

It could have been worse.  To arrive at my happy place, I could have turned to drugs or alcohol.  Or consuming entire packages of Fig Newtons in one sitting.  But instead, I was drawn to something far less expensive and much lower in calories.  Over time, I’ve evolved into a crossword puzzle junkie!

We all need our moments of Zen, a time of peace and tranquility when we can make the world disappear.  For some, it’s a warm bath with scented candles, or a relaxing massage.  For others it might be meditation and\or yoga.  Or any combination of the above, like meditating while immersed in a warm tub surrounded by scented candles and doing water yoga.  Personally, I prefer showers, and not having to clean the tub after achieving the desired state of grace.

I’ve been drawn to word puzzles since I was a child.  Growing up in cramped quarters with little opportunity for privacy, even back then it was a way to get lost inside my own head.  I remember using my allowance to purchase books of rebus puzzles.  You remember those, the brain teasers that use a combination of pictures and letters to arrive at the answer, usually a common phrase?

But since college, it’s been crosswords.  I would hide the newspaper behind my notebook and work on the puzzle if I was bored.  I did this until I was outed by my economics professor, who smirked at me, and then gave me the answer to 5 Down.

Since retirement, my appetite for solving crossword puzzles has increased proportionately to the additional spare time I now enjoy.  I just love tuning out the world and focusing all my cognitive energy on the black and white squares of a fresh challenge.  Even when I’m being tested to come up with the name of some obscure saint from the 11th century, I’m completely and utterly relaxed.

Crossword puzzles aren’t just recreational but are highly educational.  Over the years, I’ve learned so many interesting things.  For example, do you happen to know the national bird of Hawaii? Well, I do.  Or the alternative to a truncheon? Or what to call a small whirlpool? Or a chalcedony variety?  I know these concepts hardly ever come up in casual conversation, but I’m so much better prepared if they ever do.

Some puzzles are more difficult than others.  For example, the New York Times puzzles increase in difficulty from Monday through Saturday.  (The Sunday puzzle may be bigger, but equal in difficulty to, let’s say, Thursday.)  The progression of difficulty in The Wall Street Journal is the same.  Some Saturday puzzles can be particularly daunting.  I’ve often put the paper down and returned to it later.  Even the next day, at times.  I stare with intense concentration at the blank squares, and it is then that some cognitive alchemy occurs.  And suddenly, I know what I didn’t know before.  It’s like staring at the pieces of a crime board in a police procedural.  If the detective stares long enough, and hard enough, he will suddenly know who did it!

But inherent in not knowing an answer is an ethical dilemma.  I have stared for two days, and still nothing.  Is there any research regarding the maximal time for staring before it no longer produces a result? In that case, may I consult Google? Or is this (gulp!) cheating? At least when you look something up, you learn something.  That’s what I tell myself, anyway.

Not all puzzles are fun.  Some are downright annoying.  Like the creator was trying too hard to be cryptic or clever.  Too many cross references or overused reliance on Brian Eno. (I wonder how he takes to being a common crossword clue just because his last name conveniently has three common letters?)  Those, I will give a shot, but if I’m really bothered, I admit I do walk away, silently chastising the author.  Which is about as productive as yelling at the TV screen, but it’s all part of the game.

I don’t see my addiction to crossword puzzles abating any time soon.  Nirvana is staring at a string of empty boxes, getting one or two letters, and suddenly being sure of something you know you didn’t know.  That, my friends, is a crossword puzzle moment, and I’m always looking forward to the next one.

​

  Well, I may not be a young man, but I have headed West.  My husband and I are in Los Angeles to attend the 90th birthday celebration concert for none other than Willie Nelson.  How cool is that!  And the best excuse ever for missing my April 30th deadline for posting a new essay.

    So rather than leave a blank page, I’m reposting an essay first published in March 2014. (OMG, has it really been that long!)  Not coincidentally, it happens to deal with “coolness” and  singer-songwriters.

Uncool Is the New Cool​

I was at a gathering the other day when I overheard a remark that caused me to commit an impulsive act.  I shot out of my chair, ran over to a perfect stranger, and delivered a huge bear hug.

This very large man, who could have been Tony Soprano’s younger brother, was engaged in a conversation about popular music.  His female companion, pointing a finger, had said in a mocking tone, “Don’t ask his opinion.  He likes Barry Manilow.”

“You like Barry Manilow?” I repeated as I hugged him.  “I love Barry Manilow.  I have always loved Barry Manilow.”

There! It was out in the open.  Finally, after all this time.  The relief was enormous, and completely overshadowed the thirty-five years of derision, and the fact that we were now probably regarded as the two least-cool people in the room.  Did I care?

Back in the seventies and eighties, rock ruled.  You were supposed to like the Foo Fighters and Guns and Roses.  If you were young, and a Barry Manilow fan, you kept it to yourself.  That is, if you wanted to appear cool.  Confessing that you liked his sincere ballads instead of angry lyrics condemned you to the purgatory of the terminally un-hip.

Among the uber-cool, Barry was regarded as a Las Vegas performer, a creator of songs to be played on elevators, and someone who sang to your mother.  Does it get any worse than that?
But come on, people.  It’s time to own up.  How many of you, like me, sang along to “Mandy” at the top of your lungs, in the privacy of your car?  Or “Copa Cabana” in your shower?

And as long as we’re on the subject, let me step out of the closet completely and confess to also liking ABBA (I dare you to resist dancing), The Carpenters (I chose one of theirs as my wedding song), and Kenny Rogers (“Lucille” was such a bitch!).

So, who determines what’s cool? Who’s the decider? Not just in music, but in all things?
Is it the “Meh” list in the New York Times Sunday Magazine? Personally, I don’t think that’s cool at all.  I think the list itself is the epitome of “Meh.”  And it certainly isn’t cool that the print’s so small!  (For those of you not acquainted with “Meh,” it’s a lot like “Feh.”)

Looking back over the years, you realize that what’s cool is nothing more than a fad.  Whether it was poodle skirts, James Dean, Mustang convertibles, or discos, every decade had its own coolness standards.
A membership in the Playboy Club was once considered cool. (How lame was that?)  Being a Playboy bunny? I’m not sure that was ever cool. (Well, maybe.)

Gold chains on men were cool.  So was Jennifer Aniston’s haircut.  How about wearing sunglasses indoors?   Remember man-bags?

The list goes on.  Icons of hip are forever changing.

I wonder, do we finally outgrow the need to be cool, or, as we age, does coolness switch gears from conformity to being your own person? I sincerely hope so because I looked awful in a poodle skirt.

Besides, being cool is exhausting.   I’m happy to skip right over all the information about what’s “trending.”    Last year’s handbag will do just fine, and I’ll wait until the hot new restaurant cools down before making my scene.   That is, if it lasts long enough.

I’m just happy that I know how to program the GPS in my car, and that I can text my grandkids.  I think that’s pretty cool!

And as for Barry Manilow? I recently read somewhere that he was #1 on a list of “10 Pop Artists for the Terminally Uncool,” beating out the likes of Celine Dion and Cher.  Way to go, Barry.  As the song says, “Looks like we’ve made it!”

I’m proud to be uncool with you.   I love you, Barry Manilow.

Before I begin, I think it’s important that I disambiguate my chosen title.  (Note:  I could have used the word “clarify,” but who knows when another opportunity might arise to use a five-syllable word.)  The title is not meant to refer to William Perry, the Chicago Bears defensive tackle who was so big that he was nicknamed the “Refrigerator.”  I don’t even know why I recall this piece of sports trivia.  I am not a big fan of football.  The thrill of watching grown men pile on top of one another every few seconds completely escapes me.  But I digress.

No, the refrigerator I’m referring to is an actual refrigerator, the one that occupies 25 cubic feet of space in my kitchen.  It’s not new, but an appliance we inherited from the prior owner of the condo apartment in which we now live.  No need to replace it, we thought.  It’s in fine working order.  Except for one small detail.  An external piece of plastic that simply won’t stay in its intended place!

Are you familiar with the base grill? You might know it as the toe kick plate.  Or more likely, you don’t know it at all.  It’s one of those things in life that simply goes unnoticed because it resides where the refrigerator meets the floor.  So, you don’t see it unless you happen to have a seat at the breakfast table which affords a bird’s eye view of the toe kick laying on its side, revealing all the horrors it has heretofore been concealing.
Its mechanical purpose is to allow air to flow into the machine compartment to cool the condenser.  But of more significance to a domestic goddess, it’s the part that hides all the dust, debris, and missing objects that have found their way under the refrigerator never to be seen again.  Unless the toe kick decides to fall.

I am a proud do-it-yourself person who dabbles in fixing toilet bowl flappers, assembling Ikea furniture
with no parts left over, and performing successful operations on hard-to-open bottle caps.  So, it’s no wonder that one morning, about a week ago, on a caffeine high and tired of staring at the dust, I decided it was time to tackle the toe kick! I even went so far as to purchase a roll of duct tape just in case it needed more encouragement to remain in place.

That was a week ago.  Yet, this morning still finds me sitting at my little breakfast table staring at the repulsive mess behind the fallen toe kick.  So, why has the repair queen been procrastinating?  Fellow octogenarians – when was the last time you voluntarily lowered yourselves to the floor with no thought to how in hell you were going to ever stand again without summoning EMS?

What comes to mind in the current stand-off between me and the refrigerator is the phrase “reality bites.”  This refers to those moments “when the harsh pains and experiences of life jolt you out of your fantasy.”  Unfortunately, at this stage of the journey “harsh pains and experiences” are not mere metaphors.

So, having experienced the harsh pains of lowering and raising stiff joints to the floor and back, why am I even contemplating fixing that damn toe kick on my own? The answer is clear.  My fantasy is way younger than my knees!

It’s hard to admit that you can no longer do what used to be easy to accomplish.  And that you should have the phone number of a handyman on speed dial.  But common sense does not always prevail, and today might just be the day when I decide to throw caution to the wind and tackle the refrigerator.

​So please don’t be alarmed if you see the neighborhood fire truck parked in front of my building.  The humiliation of needing to be hoisted from the floor may very well be offset by yet another successful DIY repair!

​

​I hate morning people! Oh, you know who you are.  You’re the ones who wake up happy with a smile on your face after achieving a restful, restorative sleep, never waking even once to pee.  You’re the ones who can pop out of bed at 5:00 am and rush off to the gym, exercise, shower, change, grab some breakfast and be at your desk by 8:00 am talking to your counterparts overseas.  Or, maybe you stay home, make some coffee, and report to your computer to continue writing the great American novel before you’re disturbed when the slackers decide it’s time to get out of bed.

All my life I have struggled with morning.  Even as a teen, when a sound sleep was a nightly occurrence instead of an occasional blessing, morning came as a shock.  My own mother, bless her heart, refused to come near me.  To wake me for school she would shout out from the kitchen, which was a considerable distance from my bedroom, so as not to have to deal with my grumpy demeanor.

As a single mom with AM responsibilities, I was on my own.  Frankly, I don’t know how I did it.  Two kids to get ready for school, lunches to pack, a dog to walk, and out the door by 8:15 to walk them to P.S. whatever,  and get myself to my job.  I’m sure my lack of enthusiasm for that particular time of day was instrumental in their GPA failing to get them admitted to Harvard.  That, and feeding them Spaghetti-Os for dinner.

I read somewhere that morning people are referred to as larks and night people as owls.  The reason for this should be obvious to any owl ever awakened by the cloying sounds of those pitifully cheerful early birds.

I used to be an owl.  I relished the evenings after the kids went to sleep and the house grew quiet.  This was “me” time before there was such a thing as me time.  A glass of wine, a good book, and a comfortable chair was like being on vacation.  Would you believe I once could stay awake for the entire “Tonight” show as well as “Saturday Night Live?”

Today I’m afraid that I’m no longer a night person.  And I’m still no friend of the morning.  I have a few good hours in the middle of the day, but there’s only so much productivity a person can cram into the space between 11:00 and 1:00!

As old as I am, is there still a chance I can learn to delight in the morning?  My alarm clock has become a relic since I can’t seem to sleep past 7:30 anyway.  And rarely must I rush off to anywhere.  Even the dog likes to sleep in. So, as long as I’m awake, should I at least try to be happy?  Can I influence my inherent circadian rhythm?

The answer is a resounding NO!  An article I read recently says: “If you’re just not a morning person, science says you may never be.  Morning people and night owls are born that way.  It’s time to accept that.  Research has been gaining insight on that question.  It turns out our internal clocks are influenced by genes and are incredibly difficult to change.  If you’re just not a morning person, it’s likely you’ll never be, at least until the effects of aging kick in.”

Well, the effects of aging have kicked in.  I do wake up early on a daily basis, but science is reassuring me I don’t have to like it!

So, so much for smiley faces and cheerful chatter at 8:00 am.  I shall continue to move through my morning routine in utter silence with the corners of my mouth turned downward.  I will continue to grunt at my husband as he patters into the kitchen and buries his head behind the New York Times.  After years of marriage, he has learned not to speak to me before I’ve had my second cup of coffee, and I am grateful that the New York Times has never turned into a tabloid.

And thanks to that article, I can apply my self-improvement energies elsewhere where they might have a better chance of succeeding.  Like, for example, flossing.

Although I’ll never be one of those morning people, there is a compelling reason to greet the daylight with gratitude.  It’s a new day, and guess what? I’m still here!
​

Greetings grandparents and other significant others.  It’s that time of year again when colleges and universities fling open their doors and bless us with visits from our young scholars.  And once again I’m here to help in the event that you are fortunate enough to get them to unbend their necks and actually engage in conversation.

Want them to think you’re bussin and have rizz?  Then get busy and start learning the latest GenZ vocabulary.  Below you’ll find this year’s English as a second language multiple choice quiz.  It’s fire!

IYKYK

1. A Japanese zipper manufacturer
2. A secret society devoted to wearing pillowcases over their heads
3. An ad for a speed-reading school
4. #1, definitely #1

Touch Grass

1. Stick your hand into a plastic baggie filled with marijuana
2. Disobey a “Keep Off” sign
3. Pick up dog poop from your lawn
4. #2, or maybe #3

Rizz

1. Nickname for a former Yankees short stop
2. Nickname for the rest of the former Yankees short stop’s family
3. Typo when spelling the name of a fancy hotel
4. None of the above

Menty b

1. A new breath mint
2. Cardi’s second cousin
3. Something that is inevitable
4. All of the above

Drip

1. Pird spelled backwards
2. Opposite of a WetP
3. A tear in your denim jeans
4. What the hell is a pird, anyway?

Hits different

1. A baseball player with an odd swing
2. An alternative to Billboard’s Top Ten
3. A boxer with two left hands
4. Are we there yet?

The ick

1. A specific ick, as opposed to any old ick
2. Something you want to scratch after being bitten by a tick
3. Sound made by a burping clock
4. #1, I thick

Nepo baby

1. The result of crossing a Newfoundland dog with a hippo
2. A child born in Naples
3. A term of endearment for a Nepo
4. I’m getting a headache

Thirsty

1. The number after twensty-nine
2. Home of a swine named Thir
3. The state of needing a drink.
4. Where’s the Advil?

​Extra

1. The most expensive gas at the pump
2. What you pay for a better seat on the plane
3. Tra’s former husband
4. None of the above

What the scores mean: 7 – 10, Excellent. You hit different!  4 – 6, Pretty Good – but not quite fire. 0 – 3, definitely not IYKYK!

Want the “real” intended usage? Here it is! IYKYK: If you know, you know.  Touch grass: get a grip, get grounded.  Rizz: having great charisma.  Menty b: Mental breakdown.  Drip: describing an outfit that’s extremely fashionable.  Hits different: significantly better than usual.  The ick: sudden feeling of disgust or revulsion towards a person.  Nepo baby:  gain a job or celebrity due to one’s parent being a celebrity.  Thirsty: Desperately looking for attention.  Extra:  Some who is being overly dramatic.

​Congratulations Seniors!  In addition to receiving benefits such as Social Security, Medicare, and discount movie tickets, you are now eligible to receive jokes in your inbox which keep reminding you that you’re old!

It’s not that I resent jokes about aging.  I think laughing at ourselves is healthy as long as you empty your bladder first.  In fact, I’ve written many an essay about the indignities of growing older.  For example, I’ve questioned the wisdom of, after a certain age, paying a higher price for a product because it comes with a life-time warranty.  I applied the same logic before agreeing to very expensive dental work.  Do I get a guarantee that I’ll outlive my teeth? I’ve skewered fashion: the wisdom of wearing stiletto heels, the trauma of needing a new bathing suit, whether there is an expiration date for going sleeveless.  My essays about height (loss), weight (gain), body part replacements have all been based on my own real time experiences.  (It was Bette Davis who first said,

“Old age ain’t no place for sissies!” Now, there was a wise woman!)

But as with life, not all jokes are created equal.  Someone should invent a spam filter that permits only the best ones to survive.  Until someone does, I’ve decided to share my edited list of recent internet gems that I have found particularly clever.  While you may not wind up rolling on the floor with laugher, which, at our age is questionable behavior in any circumstance, I hope you at least find them relatable.

If you can’t think of a word, say “I forget the English word for it.”  That way people will think you are bilingual instead of senile.

            It turns out that when asked who your favorite child is, you’re supposed to pick one of your own.  I know that now.

            I can’t believe I forgot to go to the gym today.  That’s seven years in a row.

            I’ve been watching my weight.  It’s still there.

            How’s life going? Well, I turned on the wrong burner and have been cooking nothing for twenty minutes.

            I like to make lists.  I also like to leave them lying on the kitchen counter and then guess what’s on the list while I’m at the store.

            When I say, “the other day,” I could be referring to any time between yesterday and ten years ago.

            I’ve successfully completed the 30-year transition from wanting to stay up late to just wanting to go to bed.
And the most recently arrived favorite:

            Being an adult is mostly about being exhausted, wishing you hadn’t made plans, waiting to take your bra off, wondering how you can fall asleep and stay asleep, missing someone or something, become forgetful, craving foods that you know you shouldn’t eat, worrying about things that haven’t happened yet, and wondering how you got that bruise.

So, keep laughing folks.  As a wise man (or was it a woman?) once said, “Do not regret growing older.  It’s a privilege denied to many.”

(My thanks to the other Larry G. (not my husband) and Nancy K. for filling my inbox with smiles.)

  I love February.  It’s short and sweet, but very important.  It’s the last full month of winter (not that that matters in South Florida), you can finally see the daylight lengthening, and it has some neat special designations.  Unfortunately, we’ve already missed National Dark Chocolate Day on February 1st, and National Eat Ice Cream for Breakfast Day on February 2nd, but there’s still time to stock up for National Drink Wine Day on February 18th. 

     Of course, there are the more obvious holidays, like Ground Hog Day, presidential birthdays, and Valentine’s Day.  And the lesser-known birthday of yours truly.  Oh, the special rewards of being an octogenarian!  In addition to the warm greetings of family and friends, I was treated to birthday wishes from my geriatrician, my dentist, my periodontist, my Medicare advisor, and my Aetna drug Medicare plan.  I also discovered, thanks to Microsoft, who, by the way, also wished me a happy birthday, that I share a birth date with notables such as Randolph Churchill, father of Winston, Bess Truman, Grant Wood, Chuck Yaeger, and Allen Legere, a Canadian serial killer.

     But every February, there is someone I like to honor, an important woman whose birthday should indeed be noted.  So, without apology, I repost this tribute.

                                                                                 Notorious SBA

Raise your hand if you know that today is the birthday of Susan B. Anthony.  As I thought.  Only one hand raised, and its mine.  Or maybe there was one other hand raised somewhere in the back row.  What a responsibility it has been all these years to be the only person in the room harboring this important piece of knowledge.

And how is it that I became the keeper of this factoid? The answer to this, and probably most of my other quirks, dates back, of course, to my childhood.  And to savings banks.  That’s right, savings banks.  In the days when savings banks looked like ancient marble mausoleums.  And had higher interest rates.  Additionally, if you walked into a bank in the 40s or 50s and opened a new account, you just might leave with a toaster or an electric wall clock.

Well, I must have grown up in the wrong neighborhood, because all our bank gave away was a paper calendar.   Pathetic as this giveaway was, my mother brought the calendar home and hung it on a wall in our kitchen.  And although the calendar could not brown your bread or tell the time, that’s not to say it wasn’t useful.  Each day was represented by a little square where you could inscribe an appointment, or some other reminder.  And the little square would also tell you if a particular day had a particular significance, like the Chinese New Year, or Mexican Flag Day, or when there would be a full moon.

My favorite page on the calendar was the month of February.  Little narcissist that I was, it was my favorite because it’s the month in which I was born.  The second week of February was just chock full of important days.  February 12 – Lincoln’s birthday; February 13 – my birthday.  Well, that wasn’t exactly printed on the calendar, but hand printed on it by me.  February 14 – St. Valentine’s Day.  And last but not least, February 15 – Susan B. Anthony’s birthday.  That lineup made me so proud.  I must be so special to be surrounded by all those important people! I confess at the time I had no knowledge of Susan B. Anthony, but I figured she must be an important person to have her own square.  As well as sharing my name.

And, oh yes, the following week, on February 22, there was a square marking the birth of George Washington.  (On today’s calendar, Lincoln and Washington are no longer entitled to their own birthdays, but have been efficiently combined into President’s Day, which typically falls on no one’s date of birth, but ensures a three-day weekend.)

As I got older, I did learn who Susan B. Anthony was, but sadly misunderstood what she represented.  To my 9-year-old ear, she fought for women’s sufferage, which made absolutely no sense to me at all.  You can surely understand why.  Also, that she was a suffer jet, which in today’s world, sounds like she played quarterback on a losing football team.  But as children we mishear lots of things, like Elephants Gerald, the jazz singer, Round John Virgin who’s mentioned in the song “Silent Night,” and Youth in Asia, who, horribly, were being murdered.

But I’m happy to say that by the time I was old enough to vote, it had all sorted itself out.  I developed a full appreciation of Susan B. Anthony’s place in history and her personal importance to me as a woman living in 2019, beyond the fact that we share a name.

She was born February 15, 1820, into a large Quaker family who were social activists, and active in the anti-slavery movement.  She became a teacher, and fought for equal pay for women, who were paid less than their male counterparts.  Sound familiar?  She recognized early on that if women were to have any power at all, they needed the right to vote.

In 1852 she joined with Elizabeth Cady Stanton in the Women’s Rights Movement and dedicated the rest of her life to women’s suffrage. (See, I got it right this time.) Women who supported the cause were called suffragettes.  (Professional football didn’t even start until 1892.)  She never married, and traveled the country campaigning for abolition of slavery, and women’s rights.  Frederick Douglas became a good friend.

In November 1872 the Notorious SBA voted illegally in the US Presidential election and was arrested.  She was found guilty by the judge and ordered to pay a fine of $100.  She refused to pay and walked away.  The trial increased her profile, and her ability to raise funds, enabling her to spread her message of supporting equal rights for women.

She died in New York in 1906.  Fourteen years later, in 1920, women’s right to vote was guaranteed by the Nineteenth Amendment.

End of history lesson.  Hopefully, I’ve contributed to spreading the word about the importance of Susan B. Anthony.  And going forward, I will no longer be the only person in the room who knows that her birthday is February 15th.

Sitting on my desk right now is a contemporary appointment book.  Like the bank calendar in my mother’s kitchen, each day is represented by a little square.  Still listed on the February page are Mexican Flag Day, Chinese New Year, and St. Valentine’s Day.  Lincoln’s and Washington’s birthdays have been replaced by Presidents’ Day.  And Susan B. Anthony is notably absent.  So, would you be so kind as to pencil it in?  And while you’re at it, although it’s over, mark down mine as well.

One of the goals of retirement, at least for women, is to maintain a spotless kitchen.  Current research has shown that the best way to accomplish this is to avoid cooking whenever possible.  Here in South Florida, as I’m sure in other sunny places where Snowbirds perch, we take these findings very seriously.  So, instead of making dinner, we make a reservation.  I like to think of it as recreational eating.

As well as assuring a grease-free stove, recreational eating serves another purpose.  It’s the means by which we socialize after the sun goes down.  After a full day on the golf course or around the canasta table, what could be better than sitting down with friends to a meal that you did not prepare?

Now, I don’t mean to complain, but in the past making a reservation was not as simple as it sounds.  While it didn’t result in a sink full of dirty dishes, it did require a phone call.  While that may not sound like a big deal, there are those of us, and I am chief among them, who hate making phone calls.  And yes, in spite of this lack of conformity to a sexual stereotype, I do identify as female.

But hate it or not, for the sake of a sanitary kitchen, that call needed to be placed.  To make matters worse, the voice at the other end was frequently that of a snotty, young hostess who would put you on hold for “just a moment” while she searched through her diary to see “if there was anything available.”  Just as you’ve had enough of the horrible music and were about to hang up, she’d pop back on the line, and in a tone of voice that sounded like she was about to save your life by donating a kidney, she said yes, she could accommodate you.  And you breathe a sigh of relief.

Then along comes Open Table.  An answer to a prayer for the phone and hostess averse.  Much like the ability to stay in touch with friends via email and texting, Open Table allows you to communicate with the restaurant of your choosing without the use of your voice!   And that snotty hostess can keep her kidney!
I love Open Table.  It’s so easy.  I use it all the time.  I “tell” it the date, the time, and the number of people.  I can even type in a special request or let the restaurant know if one of my guests is having a birthday.  Open Table sends me confirmations and reminders.  It allows me to cancel the reservation if that becomes necessary.  It definitely rates five stars for convenience and efficiency.

But even with all its wonderful attributes, I believe there is room for improvement.  And as a loyal customer, I would like to offer a few suggestions.  Open Table would better serve its users if it recognized that those of us that are of a “certain age” may have requirements before committing to the reservation that go beyond the date and the time.

For example, where is the location of my table vis-à-vis the rest room?  A closer proximity to the men’s room for someone who likes martinis and also walks more slowly than he used to could definitely avoid a potentially embarrassing situation.

Is it PC to ask to be informed if the wait staff speaks English as a second language? Foreign accents are beautiful except when a waiter from Kazakhstan is reciting the specials to a diner who has forgotten to insert their hearing aids.  In this case, simply raising one’s voice is not helpful.

And speaking of sound, is there a way that Open Table could record and report the decibel level in the dining room?  Medicare recipients tend to enjoy conversation with their dinner partners in an environment not reminiscent of a subway station complete with disco music.  Hey, we still like to dance, but not necessarily while we’re eating.

And would it be too much to ask to let me know if the table I was being offered was under an a/c vent?  Because if it is, I would like to come prepared, though I agree that turtleneck sweaters do look a bit out of place.

One last thing, Open Table.  Could you comment on the lighting? Will someone who is about to have cataract surgery be able to read the menu? Or will it be necessary to bring illumination?  If that’s the case, it would be really helpful to know beforehand, so the entire evening won’t be ruined if a guest has forgotten to charge his iPhone.

​So, Open Table, thanks in advance for your consideration of the above recommendations that will make your app even more older-user friendly.  And I shall continue to rely on you to help keep my kitchen gleaming!
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P.S.  Thank you for responding to my last blog by sending me additional “Words You Never Want to Hear Again in 2023.”  Included in this list were “No problem,” “Awesome,” At the end of the day,” “We don’t know what we don’t know,” “Have a blessed day,” and “The bottom line is…”.

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Hi folks.  Happy New Year!  This is the last time I shall say “Happy New Year” in 2023.  It’s the middle of January.  It’s enough already!   There should be a National “Say By” date when it is no longer appropriate to utter those three words.  Much like a “Use by” or a “Sell by” date on a product.  I think I will write to Congress.  Perhaps after they’ve finished impeaching everyone and decoding Hunter Biden’s laptop, they will consider addressing the above.

Have I started the New Year on a cranky note? Not really.  I thought if I could get some petty annoyances off my chest straight away, I will be able to face the rest of the year with a smile on my face.  Maybe.
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I don’t know about you, but there are certain expressions one hears on an almost-daily basis that I find particularly irksome.  Things people say that robotically pop out of their mouths.  As if they really cared!  In fact, I just might be at the end of my tether.  I mean, I try to be polite but it’s getting more difficult to stop myself from blurting “Don’t tell me what kind of day to have!!!!”  So, I might as well begin with the catalyst(s) for that reaction: “Have a great day,” and its derivatives “Have a good day,” and “Have a good evening.”

If a relative stranger tells me to “Have a great day,” how am I supposed to respond to that? Do I simply say “You, too.”  But that’s ridiculous.  I know perfectly well that the guy who parked my car is not going to have a great day.  It’s Florida; he’s sweating.  He’s running around in the heat parking and fetching cars for impatient people and cursing under his breath when they give him a stingy tip.

Instructing one to have a “great day” places an onus on the recipient.  Now one must ponder about what extraordinary thing to do to make this day grander than the days before when there was no mandate.  It’s less of a burden to have a “good day,” I suppose.

Similarly, I’m leaving a restaurant at 10:00 PM and the hostess at the door smiles sweetly and says “Have a good evening.”  Do I look twenty years old and about to go dancing? I’ve had my “good evening” in your restaurant and it’s already past my bedtime.  Do I bother to tell her it’s no longer evening, and a simple “Good Night” would be more appropriate? I really want to, but behind my smile I am gritting my teeth.

I find restaurants the source of another teeth-gritting experience.  I’m sure this has happened to you.  (If not, tell me where you dine because I want to go there.)  A wait person comes to your table to take your order.  You tell her (or him, but it’s mostly a “her”) what you want, and she responds with an enthusiastic “Great!!!”  You can almost see the exclamation points coming out of her mouth.  Was the menu a quiz and I made the correction selection? Is she complementing me on achieving a good score?  And can you tell me why ordering a Caesar Salad and a plate of pasta is a wonderous thing?  I find the response of “Great” in this context highly grating.

Then, there’s “Hi, how are you?” frequently uttered when you walk into a shop.  Why not cut off the utterance at “Hi.”  Do you really care how I am?  And do I really care to tell you? “Well, if you must know, my husband and I had a terrible argument last night, and I was so upset I didn’t sleep a wink.  Then I spilled tomato juice all over the dog and had to bathe him three times before his coat wasn’t red anymore.  Then I slipped on the kitchen floor because it was wet from bathing the dog three time, and later I found out that my best friend has an incurable illness, and….”  But the truth is not what’s expected.  So, you smile, and lie, and simply say “fine.”

And how do you feel about political cliches? If you’re like me, you tend to ignore them as just a lot of wind.  “Watch what they do, not what they say” is the advice I try to follow.  However, there is one expression that I simply cannot disregard.  Whether a politician is stomping about gun control, abortion, taxes, or impeaching his rival, he (because it’s almost always a “he”) will  rationalize his position by emphatically concluding: “because that’s what the American people want!”   Hey, how do you know what the American people want?  Did you waste my taxpayer dollars on a sweeping survey of every American?  Funny, because I don’t remember being asked.  Arg!

In closing I’d like to award honorable mention to “Follow your dream,” and its cousin, “Do what you love,” both of which, to my mind, have about as much substance as a fortune cookie.

So, let’s raise a glass to a formula-free 2023.  And until we meet again, promise me you’ll at least try to have a great day!
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