Changes

We have been exposed to the wonders of DNA discovered in 1953 by Francis Crick, James Watson and Geraldine Franklin. Most of us have no real clue as to its actual workings except that we can casually sluff bad stuff by saying, “Well, I have no control, it’s in my genes.” And we don’t mean the $150.00 ripped and rhinestone studded pair. We do know there are physical predictors as well as behavioral ones entwined in that glorious Double Helix.

 

I often muse and wonder if my particular DNA Spiral contains the following important items: and if not, could I make some changes.

Top priority,

A large allotment of the anti worry/anti quilt synapse

a sense of direction, a measured sense of reflection, and most importantly, a specific amount of happiness. (BEWARE, DO NOT USE INDISCRIMINATELY……).I have read that there is a study that supports the Happiness Theory…. “A Quotient of Happiness”, I hope my parcel is big. Happiness is known to some as a bluebird, to some as a job well done, a smile from a friend, but others need more, so much more. Their infinite need escapes any possible gratification. You cannot change them.

 

Some of us can look at the clouds in the sky and see clouds in the sky. Others look and sail off on wonderful journeys aboard splendiferous winged sheep trailed by hordes of giant white asparagus moving slowly, in tandem, across the sky-blue-pink heavens. They do not startle us. We feel the fine sprinkle of magic wiffle dust sent down by our departed loved ones. We may wave and move on, thankful for our brief encounter.

 

If I were to re-configure my DNA model, I might add some stuff.

Like slots in my DNA to insert the names of those who appear on my Shit List. I’ve been led to believe that in order to maintain a level outlook in life, I must maintain three Anger Outlets at all times. The USB, usual sordid bickering, cord is red and must be continually connected, (you do not want it to trip you). As the list’s recipients change, I can hit the refresh button, or the knob on my left clavicle, to replace the enemy combatant after each conflict has been resolved. It is good to have one Retail, one Institutional, and alas one Personal adversary. My favorites are Macy’s, the IRS, and alas poor Dolores. I keep a list of others close to my chest for necessary dumping. If we can release our anger against innocuous targets, how much better we could handle our everyday stressors. Remember, only 3, if you take one off, you can replace it.

 

The new technologies redefine the battle lines. Use to be……walk into a store to settle a bill discrepancy…, raise your voice a little and  …satisfaction achieved,  “the customer is always right…..?” right, now go on to handle the clerks at the IRS…..by the time the day is over, you can relax and get your kicks from Judge Judy…….Now we need not walk anywhere to handle our grievances. We have a cell or an IPAD; they deliver our messages effortlessly. We have more time for fantasy and often engage in all sorts of possible changes.

 

The discrepancies we find in our Molecular Structure lead us to wish for genes that can guarantee a balanced checkbook, A photographic memory would be fun, and a lock box of instant short term recall, is a must as we age.  A Tiger’s eye for proficiency in sinking a putt would be great, and I would be thrilled by an affinity for order tucked in there somewhere, set at right angles please…Clutter has no spot reserved on my Spiral……

 

One thing I am certain DNA controls is, Right-handedness. All others, the lefties, have freckles, but dance well. We either have freckles, or we don’t, this is very important when you are young. Dancing is always important.

And, perhaps the most important DNA inclusion for the female of our species, regardless of age or fashion, is, “GOOD HAIR, we either have it, or we do not.  And if it was in my genes, you can be sure, It would bring me added happiness. “I would not change it for the world….not a single strand of it.”

 

721 WORDS

RETIREMENT RECALL

Tuesday, September 13, 2011
  RETIREMENT RECALL
Years ago, when I first went to Florida, times were good; there was a bank on every corner. “Yours”, however, was always on the far other side, and left hand turns were as dangerous as out-of-date cake mix. We made good, bought what we needed, paid cash and wrote checks. Maybe we had a credit card for convenience, but paid it in full at the end of each month. Multiple cards, Mac Cards, Pin numbers, Debit Cards, Electronic Transfers, Debt Vehicles, ETF’s, Fannie and Freddie were all yet to be invented by them that did us wrong. 

Today we are surrounded by pharmacy chains that sell everything an eighteen wheeler can deliver, including the out of date cake mix. You dare not say drug store; it will get you in deep trouble with your grandchildren. “Do you do drugs, grandpop?”, would be their rallying cry.

We went south with matching graduated suitcases full of natural fiber clothing; polyester was the state fabric and it was hard to get used to. Pastels were ubiquitous, even the flamingos blushed. I might need to regress. I brought a hill from New Hampshire decked out in autumn colors, and one from Pennsylvania up to her armpits in springtime dogwoods.
 Driving the highways was somewhat familiar, but hazardous. Every half mile was interchangeable with the one before and the one after. There was always a K Mart and many competing gas stations within easy reach. It was like someone transplanted New Jersey fifteen hundred miles closer to the equator and planted a few palm trees along the ubiquitous I 95 corridor. I did not like it much at all. There were no reference points and I did not want to get lost and spend all day looking for the right Bank on the left side of 21st Terrace that was perpendicular to 21st Street, around the corner from 21st Avenue. S.E,? S.W.?, etc. So I went back north and retuned with some historic landmark buildings for geographical orientation. We should have brought a bus also, as there was no public transportation.

Fast food chains were into deals. Two were giving extra sodas to a party of four or more, and two were giving half price coupons for returning customers. Such decisions….Every enterprise was vying for our patronage. (attention)Everyone wanted to buy discount. I knew a man who had business cards that read; ICGIFYWholesale! go on, you will figure it out.
The Florida experience started for me in the late 70’s, 1970’s that is. It was the year of the great “Condo Sweater,” everyone was knitting, and Onion Soup Dip was about to be challenged as the five star hor’deurve of choice.

On the warm fuzzy side, we were “snowbirds” fortunate to be able to spend the winter months in the warmer climate. We came with friends, lots of them, and found, like frantic college freshmen, that we were also able to make meaningful fresh connections. We moved into a new condo development. There were many people to meet. Everyone wanted to be friendly and be part of this emerging cluster. We converged at the pool. Who knew that the sun was too strong for us. We lathered, we tanned, we burnt, we peeled, we chatted and we made all kinds of associations.

The men played anecdotal anagrams, and raised competitive joke telling to new heights. Each story that was worth telling was worth exaggerating. They had fun, kibitzed, planned golf foursomes, pool parties and gin games. Our kids were mostly college age or young marrieds, so not yet giving us anything to worry about. 
As I said, “Life was good.” We upgraded; we domed our kitchen ceilings, and instead of topping out our stock portfolios, we bought better carpet and appliances. We learned about contracts; maintenance and exterminators. How had we lived up north without those vital documents.

At the pool parties we had cocktails (Screwdrivers) and wine. In those days, there were two varieties, red and white…and it came in large jugs with screw tops. Our kids had not yet spent time in California, returned, shamed us and educated our palettes.
All the ladies made their special dish. We ate too much cholesterol laden chopped liver and juicy brisket; vegetables had not yet been discovered. Quiche was still very avant-garde, and the cook of the moment, got jealous approval from the other ladies. The latest diet food, a mystery soup, left us all gassy, but definitely thinner the next day. It was mostly cabbage and then some. Recipes were exchanged, copied and made the rounds. I was surprised to see that one turned out to be mine.
Nonetheless, many ovens were stuffed with low maintenance plants. I’ve seen mostly red plastic geraniums, and home entertainment was often limited to “platters” brought in.
We developed an enlarged sense of humor; it was put to the test daily. My grandmother’s Lane Hope Chest, maple of course, came in handy for storing the plastic deli containers that tended to multiply at alarming rates. Many lost lids, but never their mayonnaise slickness.
The his and hers scissors were vital as we learned to clip coupons. Everything here was advertised in the weekly give away papers. Understandably, your spouse wanted to cut corners, now that you were almost “retired.” Pocket calculators were kept active, splitting the check, checking weight gained and lost and whose turn it was to call who.
We brought back issues of the NYT Arts and Theatre sections to prepare ourselves for the latest Dinner Show offering. We did not bring the Book Review as we would have been immediately suspected of putting on airs. 

Some people were seduced by the plethora of strip shopping centers, and thought they might invest in a small restaurant, gift or dress shop. Those that did were bound to go broke after a season or two. Floridians appeared to be a fickle breed and either stuck to the very old establishments or waited to jump on the next highly touted star attraction. Many endeavors went down like so many bowling pins. Needless to say, the Yellow Pages were useless.

END
ADVICE
For those of you, lucky enough to have arrived in Florida with your spouse, …some advice on scheduling… .The first thing to remember is that every week south of Jacksonville is made up of Seven Saturdays. Too much togetherness can rip asunder even those unions that have weathered (resisted) the travails of kids, in-laws, work pressures, illness, pretty secretaries and lousy tee shots. Leaving the normal external hustle and stimulation of the Northeast can lead some to face their internal self. NU?…..
In addition to someone you love, bring somethings you love. Do not underestimate the value of possessions. They will help you maintain your individuality and balance.
Do not forget the Scrapbook, so you will not forget what you used to do, and who you use to be, and where you traveled. And hopefully, you will remember the view as you crossed the Verrazano Bridge at dusk on your way home from work.

Unlimited Shelf Life

In the middle of the bridge, Munch’s woman screamed; hands pressed tightly to her hollow cheeks. Or is she covering her ears?

No one has heard her words, coming out of that tortured lacuna mouth. We shudder and fill in our own.

I have an 18 inch plastic blowup doll of the image. I bought it on Halloween, knowing that sometimes the irony would give me a laugh. I keep it on a shelf with my personal papers. Stuff I do not want to deal with, EVER. It stands guard.

I rub her head and pat her belly occasionally as I add or rearrange the files. I let her scream for me, and absorb the mental wounds. I must keep my sense of humor at all costs. The plastic figure never deflates. Sometimes I laugh.

This piece was generated by a prompt at a writers’ group.

Prompt: IN THE MIDDLE OF THE BRIDGE

Recognition

It use to be that you could go into a new acquaintance’s home, after chasing down a cab or climbing several flights of stairs, and within moments of checking out the books, and magazines lying about, determine the framework of your future relationship with this person.
“He reads that!”
Better yet, visit the kitchen or the bathroom, and poke around.
“I heard she was a slob.”

Young people today do not need to leave their own comfort zone or exercise more than their fingertips to get the “goods” on their “NBF”. Facebook, Foursquare, Twitter, none of which I know how to use, are happily tracked by millions to answer the obvious questions of, “Do I like you?” “Are you the cream in my coffee?”
Maybe they’ve got it right. They are often defined by their E Mail received and send coloumns. “Who ‘writes’ to you?”, I ask.

We, on the other hand, use to pick girlfriends by a more scientific qauge; like how many pairs of capezios you had, or what summer camp you went to. Not to mention the progression of handbags you carried. Did you start at Coach or end up there.

We all, at our age, want to be found or sought after. We want to fill the negative spaces that have always determined our structure and behavior. We want there to be someone that cares where we are and what we are doing. Some of us, the lucky ones have responsibilities or “hobbies,” (an archaic word). We still work or volunteer, or have some hours of meaningful pursuits during a given week. Mostly we show photos, (digital copies), glow over kids accomplishments and take a rainbow assortment of pills. We now knit fingerless gloves for our tweeting grandchildren in far off cities.

Today at Bridge, there were five of us; someone sits out or gets to go to the bathroom after each hand. Better yet, she can go get the maintenance man to turn down the air conditioning. We decided it was time to get a turban. A turban that we could put on and then pass to the next player, so we would remember whose turn it was to deal. We no longer even pretend to keep score, but even at these stakes, we still do not bid aggressively and many a game goes unbid.

However we do find out important things, like, “You are letting your hair go white?”; “Arnie, (82) likes daycare!”; “The food here is awful!”

We also spend a lot of time making important decisions.
Where to eat; where definitely not to eat. “If my daughter-in-law does such and such, should I tell her, ‘NOT’”?…”Definitely not! well maybe.” However, we cannot get it together on the turban, Red or a pastel floral print. “I don’t look good in red,” “So what, the floral will soon look like a limp table centerpiece.” On and on…..

Used to be, the girls played 9 holes of so so golf, and then played with the husbands on holiday weekends in funky “Better Ball” tournaments. We looked good, ate well and laughed a lot. We could actually tuck in our golf shirts and eat burgers “with.”

I always pick my friends by their sense of humor. Well, most of the time. I depend on them for finding the humor and irony in the most outrageous situations. I can always count on them for an honest opinion.
“78 you say, no way, oye vey…..”
Now, our best shot is to try to be so so savvy and try to maintain our sense of balance.

Birds On A Wire

i stared at the silent black birds on the power lines. They were perched over the South-bound lane of the highway. It seemed they were huddled closer than usual.They watched the traffic below, as if waiting for a sign. One flipped his wing at me. i averted my gaze. Did they know about the New Year’s Eve adventures of their Arkansas.cousins? I shuddered for them and drove on, North.

Insert Tab A…

Pull here to open. Sure, if I had fingers small as Lilliputians, with suction cups attached to a mega force field, there might be a chance. As technology advances and ready access is the call to arms, why can’t I put cream in my coffee? An extra eighth of an inch of plastic might do the trick. Push here but not there, lift carefully at the center edges, bending back never forward. Day after day, the obstacles mount. I feel thwarted and generally inept when trying to open things.

I need to take a Pilates class in order to get a glass of milk. Sliced Cheese, pleeease….Slit here, cut then press to zip. How many of you ever get it right?  A PHD (Push Here Dummy) in Origami is in my future.

Pills in foil wrapping sit on the counter defying extrusion. I am coughing and sneezing. I go for the other pills and the child proof turn lock assumes I am underage. No relief in sight.

Cereal boxes pose a particular problem; the tab never makes it off clean and sometimes cardboard mixes it up with Captain Crunch. Excuse me a moment, my grandchild is jousting with a small juice container, and I need to do a “C” section on his Cream of Wheat packet.

When “doggie bags” became socially acceptable, dining civility came to an abrupt end. Occasionally, I have succumbed to the “take out” mania and after moldering in the fridge for several days, I have tried to open the boxes. The battered white Styrofoam locks break and the stuff spills, half in the fridge and half on my tile kitchen floor, and that squeak they emit….can you stand that sound?

Let me mention shrink wrap and the clear hard clam-shell packaging that surrounds and protects all those foreign made devices kids can not live without, or the batteries my husband never has enough of. The transparent culprit sends many aging combatants to the ER. I, too, have lacerated my hand, and head for the clinic.

Save us from the automatic doors that slide around enticing us into their moving capsule. The space is awkward, and I must keep up with this artificial pace or fall down. Falling down is my best bet. The next person trying to get into the ER will trip and soon the pile up will attract the security guard’s eye. I will be saved and seated in a waiting room, and given an inch and a half square pack of alcohol swabs. Try to open it while you are bleeding and filing out forms. Someone will offer a band aid, but they will not stop long enough to find and pull the magic string.

Mailers, with bubble wrap   Mailers without bubble wrap…do not use scissors or you may damage goods. How about those official envelopes that come with all four sides tightly sealed. I am never sure where to tare. Or what I may find inside. I hold them up to the light and wonder who gets to stuff them, and how? I look over my shoulder worrying about the consequences of not executing a perfect opening?

There has not been a decent opening invention since the Marlboro flip top cigarette box. And you know where that got us…

Keyless entry automobiles, we won’t go there…take me back to the days of tactile responsibility.

How about the ring a ding plastic pull tabs on advanced milk cartons? Plan a marathon, opening most items pre manicure…be careful of the expiration dates. However, metal can tabs have made it big time, mainstream. Yesterday I saw a woman in the market with a “tab” covered purse. It must have been magnetically charged as soup cans jumped knowingly into her shopping cart.

After grappling all day with access problems, nicked manicures and lacerations, we are expected to relax like a connoisseur, with an extra large box of wine, a top of the charts brand new securely wrapped DVD and try to figure out what health plan option to commit to.

I don’t think so….  Fuh-get about it……or just open at other end.

 

Herman “My Boss”

I can not believe my husband, dressed in his daily sartorial splendor, un-pressed cargo shorts and worn toed golf socks, is writing to Hugo Boss. He is not only distressed but indignant. He holds out the magazine for me to see. “Look at this,” he rants. He can not believe that he is looking at a model in a jacket so tight the buttons are straining to pop right off the full color glossy page. The magazine ad features tight armholes which just to look at automatically raise ones shoulders to ear level. Obviously the jacket goes with the horizontally lacerated buttock squeezing jeans. I say to him, “Darling, where have you been?”

He flips the page quickly, and points to several sequined tuxedo-clad men, sans trousers, staring in adoration at a kneeling acolyte kissing the ring or manicured hand of another androgynous lordly figure inappropriately clothed in bifurcated sackcloth……..A large gold wing-a-ding on a knotted leather cord around  his neck.

Herman has already googled HB, looking for an address to send his pithy missive.  He said something about Germany, but I am not really listening as I continue to leaf through the magazine. My god, how the world of high fashion has left style so far behind. We may be headed for Letters to the Editor of the International Edition of the Herald Tribune. Does that still exist, I ponder.

Now F. Scott (Fizgerald) knew about sartorial splendor. Can you picture him and Herman at that Parisian café reading GQ. My husband who has purchased Gentlemen’s Quarterly at a discounted rate of Eighteen Dollars for the year, does not suffer fools gladly. But, he saved $89.97.

Aside from being the son of a tailor, and being somewhat selectively compulsive, as in the hangers must all face the same way in his closet….he has shoes bought in London 40 years ago, made by Locke, and a Borsalino hat of the same era. He also lived thru the depression, and can exhibit, I will call it thrift, as he has advanced in years, when it comes to personal haberdashery. He is generous to a fault for gifts and vacations and cultural activities, as well as the kids fancies, but he will often say, “I have perfectly good shirts and enough sweaters”….etc, etc…I often tell him to, “Break out

a new one.” And yes, amongst his treasures, he does have a modest selection of some very classic “good” clothes. He has a great smile and yes, “he dresses up well”.

So I laughed to myself several months ago, when he told me he was subscribing to Esquire and GQ and believe it or not Readers Digest is only another eight dollars a year. Herman likes bargains. One of the perks of being a doctor is the constant flow of personally directed advertising for magazine subscriptions. “Dear Herman,” oh my God how he hates that. If you buy at least two, three or four are a lot cheaper. I knew he could not resist the last offer. I was curious to see or hear his response after he had a few issues under his belt.

So he will write to Hugo Boss; I will send you his letter. I will tell our mailman to look for an envelope from Germany, as I am sure there will be an immediate response. Our mailman, also likes shorts, and gets to thumb through pages showing pants too short, scruffy 6 o’clock beards and skinny neon colored ties on bare hairless chests. He doesn’t say a word, he tilts his head a little and continues to cram the magazines into our mailbox…its called job enrichment………