Tag: writing

AI? OH MY!

As Ray Parker so brilliantly stated in the Ghostbusters song, and I concur, “I Ain’t Afraid of No Ghosts,” AI however, now that’s a different load of bwana.

Okay so AI is supposed to be the end all be all of intelligence. It will cure all diseases, create a high-tech world and even figure out a way to make Prince Harry stop whining about how tough a life it is to be born the Prince of England.

Still, I have nightmares and no, not about monsters or a werewolf that looks like Michael Landon. Mine involve Google.

And what’s so scary about Google you ask?

It’s watching us. It’s Big Brother come to life. It’s George Orwell’s worst nightmare, and now it’s ours.

In one dream I was hiding inside my house while a little Google robot with humongous eyes was floating outside my window peering inside. I was crawling on the floor to escape detection as it hovered outside my window. I screamed and ducked as it continued to float like a headless object scrutinizing me like a Secret Service agent watches for snipers.

Grow up you say. It was only a silly dream. But was it really?

In case you’re wondering what brought on this sudden burst of irrational Googlenoia, it started with Siri.

Siri, that is only supposed to talk when spoken to has begun taking it upon herself to start conversations for no apparent reason or prompting on my part. Yet when I ask her a direct question she acts as though I’m speaking in a foreign language.

“Siri, how do I get to 335 Maple Drive?”

“Here are the directions for 772 Elm Street.”

“No, Siri, I said Maple Drive.”

“When did you say you want to arrive?”

I give up.

I first noticed this new chatty habit when I was baking one day and pulled a cake out of the oven. “Perfect,” I said to no one in particular.

From the living room I heard a voice on my iphone say, “thank you for saying that, but I’m not perfect.”

Not only does she speak to me she contradicts me! Is she so neurotic she can’t take a compliment?

“No, I’m not perfect!!”

What’s next, a tirade against her motherboard for a dysfunctional childhood?

Annoying? Yes, but why scary?

Because she is listening all the time!

The FBI recommends you put tape over your computer camera screen opening because someone could be watching you.

Tough luck for them, because when I’m on the computer I’m usually in my robe and in glasses looking like the wrath of God.

If they are expecting to see Sydney Sweeny good luck Mr. Snoopynose, not here, not ever.

Today’s generation is acclimated to a lack of privacy. They grew up with Iphones, computers and robots.

I wasn’t. My robot model was Hal in 2001 A Space Odyssy and that wasn’t a good thing. HAL was hardly a pillar of virtue. In fact, HAL scared me off robots forever.

And although the Jetsons painted a rosy future of a robot named Rosie to clean up after us, the world never delivered. And that round thing that moves around your house, bumping into walls and picking up a teaspoon of dust, is no Beep Beep Rosie.

Oh sure, Isaac Asimov would have us believe that the three laws of robots precluded them from harming man, but hello! STUFF HAPPENS. Perhaps robots can evolve too. And maybe after spending time with the human race, they decide they are too annoying to condone.

I know so many people who have literally extracted their brain and inserted it directly into their Alexa. I asked a friend a question the other day and he immediately called out, “Alexa what was my mother’s name?”

I walk around like Frankenstein’s monster yelling “it’s alive!”

The feeling someone is listening to what I say, or always hovering above me terrifies me. It’s offensive and frightening and creeps me out. Can you say, robotic paranoia?

Now I have to worry that drones will be dropping from the sky unto my head. Chicken Little wasn’t bad enough with all that sky falling insanity? Who knew he was onto something?

Of course, I’m not plotting to rob the Tower of London or steal a French fry off a friend’s plate, (well I would ask first). It’s just that it makes me feel violated and uncomfortable. And looking upward all the time.

I can’t change overnight just because the new world is so accepting of Big Brother’s presence.

From what I can remember he wasn’t a good thing, right?

So, why is it now okay to spy on people. To collect all their information, personal and otherwise and make it public?

Now AI will make it even easier for hackers to steal my information, use my info and steal my life. If AI is so great why doesn’t it teach victims of these crimes how to outsmart the criminals?

Perhaps we are too accepting. We should rail against this new world where our lives are open for business 24/7. Where there is no respect for our private space.

Alas, I fear it’s already too late. My computer just winked at me and Siri stuck out her tongue. My credit card company just texted to ask if I just bought six Chanel bags in a mall in Dubai. No, I replied, I’m in my pjs on my couch writing about all this craziness at the moment.

Oh well, I suppose I’ll have to accept that next an army of robots will descend upon mankind, capture us and make us their slaves.

I think they already have and no one knows yet. Maybe that explains why most world leaders are speaking in crazy tongues now.

Well, I won’t buckle under and put on lipstick to sit at my computer. So just take your chances Mr. Spyware hidden in that camera.

Okay, so I ain’t afraid of no ghosts, but robots and AI, well that’s a whole other thing.

Locking My Bedroom Window

In life we ultimately discover that problems require solutions. However, the solution to all problems are many times perplexing and difficult to uncover.

There are times when I feel like Sherlock Holmes attempting to solve a case. One such mystery has me quite stumped and in the tradition of Dr. Watson I will name this case…The Night Prowler and Mystery Biter.

I assure you my situation is not unique. I have spoken to countless friends and acquaintances that find themselves faced with a similar conundrum and no solution in sight.

After studying many of these puzzling acts, I find myself close to a solution.

It all began when I turned sixty-five. Sure, Social Security was now on the horizon, but I couldn’t seem to find any correlation between my case and the monthly stipend from the government. So no conspiracy theory here.

I continued my investigation.

At first it was intermittent.

A bite here, a pain there. I took little notice thinking it was something that had happened during daylight hours.

Yet after a time I realized the events were occurring closer together and far more often.

I would awaken with a large red itchy mass on my cheek. Or a sharp pain in my rib or even an inability to actually move my arm.

I became more mystified as time went on.

More frequently the first words out of my mouth in the morning were OUCH! What the hell?

Not wanting to overreact to these nighttime attacks on my body, I attempted a reasonable explanation for these occurrences.

Aliens? Not so much. I had heard they probed earthlings through the belly button and nope, no evidence of that anywhere.

Having the hassle of working sans Dr. Watson my theories often came up short.

But I persevered. My determination was inspiring. Not quite certain to whom, but I digress.

First things first. How were these interlopers entering a locked residence in the middle of the night.

Possessing a secure entrance where I must buzz someone inside, it seems rather impossible. But, of course we know that if one is determined nothing is impossible.

The bedroom window I thought. They must be climbing up and sneaking in to beat me. Yet, I     thought I might hear noises if that was the case.

I examined the possibility someone was driving a car through the window at such rapid speed it was like a flash going by in a dream. Too quickly for my eyes to even perceive.

Maybe that dream about participating in the Formula 500 wasn’t a dream after all?

No matter how I tried to imagine a plausible scenario, I couldn’t seem to come up with a viable reason why I awakened in the morning bruised, battered and full of ouchies.

I definitely wasn’t imaging these mystery bruises.

They weren’t there at night, but in the morning, I couldn’t turn my neck. Or my foot hurt, or a big red itchy bump was on my shoulder.

Was I running in my sleep? Who and what was sneaking in at night to beat the hell out of me?

What the heck, was my mattress made of, steel?

It’s not as if old age doesn’t afford you enough aches and pains, at night ghosts, goblins or ghouls are partying on my bed and kicking the hell out of me.

OUCH!

I once hopped out of bed in the morning. Eager to begin a new day. Filled with energy and ambition and tanked up with enough coffee to run a fifty-mile marathon. Okay, maybe not fifty miles.

Now if I simply turn my head to look at the clock it takes five minutes to stop the pain and another ten to turn my head back.

I’m beginning to think it’s not aliens at all. Or teenagers doing wheelies over my entire body with a GTO. I’m beginning to suspect it’s my body punishing me for not working out in college, or after. My body sees young girls with spandex on walking to the gym thinking, serves you right to suffer aches and pains after the way you neglected me.

But who knew?

To us exercise was walking back and forth to school four times a day. Riding our bikes to the drug store or playing dodge ball in a neighbor’s back yard.

It was walking to a friend’s home six blocks away and returning home before the street lights came on.

Running home from school when you got all ‘A’s on your report card.

Walking to the store for a quarter’s worth of penny candy and wax teeth.

Or chasing the Good Humor man down the street. “STOP! I need a Strawberry Shortcake Bar.”

It was going on the bus with a friend to that new giant mall and walking around there all day.

Or swimming in the summer because there was no air conditioning.

I believe that would qualify as exercise.

So why do I feel like I’m in horrible shape?

Why is my body so angry that it wakes up each morning with a chip on its shoulder, a bite or a big huge OUCH!?

We ate healthy, played healthy and there were no video games to keep us glued to a screen. Our feet were our mode of transportation and they worked great. Now it takes me ten visits to the shoe store to find a pair that doesn’t kill my feet.

Ageing is difficult enough when you can actually see the ravages of time. But the ones that are stealth, well that’s totally over the top.

I have to go now so have a great day. I’m setting up a teddy bear nanny cam in my bedroom. I’ll catch those suckers now!

The Smell of Burning Leaves

Each Year I receive requests to reblog this piece in the Autumn. So many love the feelings of nostalgia it evokes. Thank you for sharing these wonderful memories with me. Enjoy this wonderful season.

If one mentions the word Trigger it quickly calls to my mind a picture of a golden horse with a white patch responding to its owner Roy Rogers. Different strokes I guess.

The brain is a strange little computer. We respond to the senses and a smell, taste, sound or a glimpse can evoke the most intense memory and catch us completely off guard.

One smell that induces the most extreme reaction for me is the smell of burning leaves. If there was a candle that smelled like burning leaves I may be tempted to keep it lit all day.

Occasionally I’ll smell something that reminds me of a fresh spring day after a rain and feel that sense of contentment spring brings, but it’s the burning leaves that stoke my flame of happy memories.

Growing up in the Midwest, autumn was such a happy time filled with sights, sounds and moments captured by one scent—burning leaves. It doesn’t induce a single recollection, but a torrent of memories, happy and heartwarming that bring me to a moment in childhood special and revered.

Autumn meant the beginning of school, new clothes and clean saddle shoes. A trip on the first day of school to the corner drugstore to pick out supplies, including a new loose leaf, pencils and a clean eraser. The excitement of a new school bag complete with clear, zippered pencil case and a fresh box of Crayolas, tips sharp and shiny.

Coming home after school and changing into play clothes then going outside to play with friends and watch the neighborhood boys play football in the street.

I can still picture a leaf gently falling and covering the green grass after turning the most exquisite shades of reds, oranges and yellows. The pure joy of crunching the leaves while walking to school and then jumping in them after my father raked them to the curb. Of hearing him grumble because I messed them up and he had to redo them, yet he was never really angry. I always suspected he wanted to do the same himself.

For me it also meant the Jewish holidays were near and I looked forward to meeting friends at synagogue then walking to the bagel factory after services. The fun of Halloween and choosing a costume, begging for candy and rushing home to look through and see what wonderful delights the treat bag held.

The smell of burning leaves promised Thanksgiving and turkey roasting in the oven while we watched the Macy’s parade on television. Then soon came Christmas, Hanukah and the smell of latkes would arrive with vacation time.

No mention of autumn could be complete without invoking the smell of freshly crushed apples at the Cider Mill. The giant wheel mashing apples into submission as they released their delicious juices then paired with hot cinnamon donuts in a grease-laden paper bag. Followed by a ride on a hay wagon into the orchard to soak up the autumn colors or climb ladders to pick the ripe fruit off their trees. No memory would be complete without the crunch of a caramel dipped apple on Halloween.

Yes, that’s a lot to put on a single smell, but that’s why burning leaves are so powerful. I’m certain if you ask any Baby Boomer what smell evokes autumn for them it will be the same.

There’s a certain comfort in memories now. When younger I never thought much about the past because I was too busy living in the present, and of course when one is young there is very little past to recall.

This past year when I’ve been forced to come face to face with my own mortality and had little ability to move my life forward as I’d have wished, the past seems so suddenly important. It’s as if I pulled out an old scrapbook filled with pictures and suddenly recalled how precious each snapshot has become.

Nostalgia has been a big part of how I’ve coped with this captivity because although I wasn’t free to travel outward, I could travel backward at my leisure. I could reflect at will upon those memories that had settled into the nooks and crannies of my brain and become hidden from view. Whenever a scent or sight drew them out of hiding I luxuriated in their warmth.

There has been a great deal of sharing with old friends on the phone and of course Facebook, and recalling time spent in childhood schools, stores and hometown haunts. Remembering my favorite foods makes me long for a local deli, great burgers or pizza, Chinese food on Sunday or a trip to the DQ. The burning leaves seem to be the magic carpet that transports me to the past, flying over childhood and once again absorbing the sights, smells and tastes of my youth. Filling me with the warmth so desperately needed in these cold, scary COVID days.

Even now when I’m walking and come upon a small pile of fallen dried leaves I will crunch them under my feet and feel a sense of satisfaction as the sound hits my ears.

Perhaps it isn’t the COVID that has captured my imagination and yearning for happier times. It may simply be a side effect of baby boomerism. I can’t say for sure what has created this new desire to share memories with those with whom I shared my youth, but it is a heady and incredibly magnetic feeling.

The question “do you remember” could probably be translated as, “oh, how I miss.”

Whatever the reason I shall always love the smell of burning leaves and the wonderful feelings they evoke and in this uncertain world, of that I am certain.

So I Had This Weird Dream Last Night and…

“Every second of the night I live another life…” Heart song These Dreams.

Even after living so many years, it’s almost impossible to get a handle on this human comedy we call life.

Whoever or whatever felt a need to create humans had a rather bizarre sense of humor.

Or perhaps an unfathomable need for entertainment.

I’m not certain which.

Of course, the older I become the less I seem to understand about the whys and wherefores of our existence, except for one.

It was a foregone conclusion that life would be hard. Humans would need some ways to cope with the difficulties they’d encounter along the way.

It’s no accident the Olmecs, who lived in present-day Mexico thousands of years before the Inca and Aztec empires discovered cocoa beans. Someone threw us a bone that day.

It seems the day we changed addresses and left Eden we moved into a pretty tough neighborhood.

I guess it was okay for Eve to walk around nude showing off her body eating fresh fruits and vegetables, but once carbohydrates entered the picture clothes became a necessity for women. Okay, some women.

Not to be in any way sacrilegious here, but getting thrown out of Eden may have been a way to cast the blame for the hardships of life on man himself.

Almost as if the creator blamed their own creation for what they knew would be a tough road ahead. Like if General Motors built cars with square tires and then blamed the drivers for a rough ride.

So how does man cope with the hardships we all encounter on this journey? Since everyone walks a different path, I can’t imagine there is one perfect fix for all. Okay, perhaps a great pizza. Come on who doesn’t love pizza?

Yet lately I’ve been transfixed on dreams as one of the great coping mechanisms of life. And they’re free!

Most people would agree that dreams are very much a carbon copy of life, only you control the narrative.

In our dreams we create worlds, enter places we’ve never been and choose outcomes to our liking.

Of course there are some pretty terrifying dreams out there, but did you notice whenever things get really hairy and the pig monster is about to eat you, you wake up? Yes, I said pig monster and please do not judge.

Can’t stop bad stuff when you’re awake can you?

Sleeping, our subconscious controls the outcome, but awake we can only react to situations that occur.

Do we have some control over our lives? I imagine you can choose your own clothes, streaming services and whether to buy that precooked chicken at Costco.

Yet the life changing moments that are thrust upon us without our consent, not an option.

The biggies like illness, death, loss and even love seem to be planned without our permission or input at all.

That’s why dreams are so interesting. In dreams we can spend time with loved ones who are gone, look skinny in a bathing suit, go on a blind date that isn’t mind numbingly boring, or travel to places we’ve never seen.

I’m not certain whether or not some of the places I’ve visited in my dreams actually exist and I’ve forgotten about them. Or I’ve created them myself out of bits and pieces of areas from the past.

You can even go back in time and be young again. Something not even the greatest plastic surgeon or hours at the gym can accomplish.

You can revisit your childhood and spend time in the house where you lived with old friends.

You can see people you haven’t seen in years and catch up. Or meet new people you’ve no idea about who they are or why they appeared.

You can change the outcome of bad decisions, redo mistakes, fix a bad haircut or go fishing with your grandfather and brother again, even though both are sadly gone.

I’m not saying dreams will erase the pain of loss after waking, perhaps even make it worse in some ways. Still, your mind must have a reason for allowing us to be with the people we’ve loved and lost. To keep them alive somehow.

In dreams we can go from one place to another in a second by flying, pen a masterpiece and then forget it on awakening or even eat a delicious meal without absorbing a calorie.

We can see the world without spending hours on a plane or dealing with the craziness of travel.

We can lie on a beach and soak up the warmth without sun blockers or dangerous rays attacking our skin.

But I do find it a bit scary we can visit places that don’t exist and meet people we’ve never seen. What’s up with that? I guess in dreams we have the ability to create our own worlds and people. Powerful, huh?

As terrifying as dreams can be, they are also extremely cathartic. How many times have you wrestled with a problem or choice and found the solution in a dream?

When you can’t find the words in a difficult situation your dreams can provide the perfect way to say or do what’s necessary.

If you’re going through a rough patch, dreams provide escape from the stress and angst of tough times.

Sure, so many dreams make no sense at all. Many often repeat themselves and no, I’m not sure why or what that message may be. But perhaps there may be one if we examine it a bit deeper.

Can we learn from dreams? I believe so.

Can we solve problems and resolve issues? Yes.

Can we escape from bad moments in our lives? Sure.

Can we predict the future through dreams as some believe? Not sure about that one. I’d have to say to each his own on that.

When we awaken has anything really changed? In some instances, it can.

Is it positive to run a marathon in a dream when upon waking it takes ten minutes to straighten up and take control of our creaky old bones? Not sure if that’s part of the joke or not, or perhaps just wishful thinking.

Or someone or something’s sense of humor.

I guess I’ve stopped taking dreams for granted. Whatever the reason our subconscious comes out to play at night, it must serve some purpose for our well-being.

Like releasing the pressure on a valve that’s about to explode.

Dreams may save us from being overwhelmed by the trials and tribulations of existence, in a zero calorie and drug-free way. Sort of watching a movie without the need for popcorn.

Whatever the reason, dreams are part of our lives. They can be funny, sad, scary or take us to places and emotions we’ve never experienced. And you don’t even need to go through a TSA checkpoint to get there.

Choose to Stop Choosing

Am I the only one who has noticed the choices we make about our lives seem to be less crucial as we age?

It once seemed that every time I was faced with a decision the importance was magnified by the fact it may affect the course of my life. Which let’s face it, seemed long to us then.

Now making a choice seems kind of, I don’t know, simplistic.

I’m of course not speaking about the choices that seriously affect our health conditions or life and death. I’m talking about the little things that come up daily that seem so trivial now.

Picking a college, or a profession at that time was quite daunting. After all it could change the course of one’s destiny.

I have noticed today’s young people seem to agonize far less that we did. They are not as locked into forever as we were. They have a shorter attention span to all things.

The go-with-the-flow mentality we always sought to cultivate has landed in our grandchildren’s generation.

They seem far less restricted by the fact they are locked into one path, but can select numerous options.

I have no idea why it was the case, but we had a far stronger attachment to permanence. While we believed you chose a life path and moved ahead never veering, they seem far less invested in forever.

I remember so well how things went then.

Certain life choices were serious and permanent. Well as far as we were concerned.

Things like marriage, how many children, profession, where to live, when to retire and where, were credible parts of our lives to consider and weigh.

It was very different for sure. There were expectations sprinkled with limitations for women.
Men were expected to go to college, get a profession or business degree. Women not so much.

Many women entered college with their parents urging them to pursue an Mrs. degree.

If a girl graduated with an engagement ring on her finger, to many parents that was a successful outcome.

Coming from a home where my father was a devout believer that women were to be cared for and know their place, I never felt I had many choices. However, blessed with a rebellious nature I opted to forego the oft designated and preferred teacher route. “The you’ll always have something to fall back on,” mantra that was drilled into girl’s minds back then.

I became a journalist, which for my time was a bit avant garde. It was a profession in which women were just beginning to feel their oats and a dream of mine since childhood.

Of course, women were expected to quit whatever job they held as soon as motherhood became imminent and be the caregiver in the family.

Most girls of my era never questioned or rebelled against that choice. We were very happy and satisfied in that role.

Still, many did feel there might be something more after child raising. Being more educated than our mothers we felt a slight twitching of discontent. I’m not saying everyone. Most of the women I knew were content to live happily as wives and mothers and make it their priority, as was I. Yet, some felt they wanted more choices for our lives. The Feminist Movement highlighted that need.

After all we’d gone to college, learned, secured professions and wanted to do something more than derive our self-esteem from how white we got our sheets and towels.

Believe me I’m not diminishing in any way the satisfaction of raising a family.  Seeing your children grow up happy, healthy and productive human beings is a job of which any women should be most proud. At least I am, and most mother’s I know.

However, we felt that after we raised our kids, new choices should be available to pursue.

And pursue we did.

So many women I knew left the nest they had built and made the choice to begin anew.

Some went back into their profession, some started businesses they had dreamed about and others pursued charity work.

These were important choices and women now seemed to have more of them.

After all the bra burnings, women’s movements and liberation inspiration it became clear the world had changed.

But not just for women. The choices women made now also changed the family dynamic. Men who had come to expect a certain paradigm in the home, were faced with new lifestyles.

Kids found it necessary to be more independent from their parents and learn skills they hadn’t ever thought necessary.

It didn’t happen overnight, but it all happened.

These were life changing choices.

Today what is really so important?

What day or where we play pickle ball? Which cruise to take, or should I let my hair go gray? Where is the best early bird special? Bra burning holds a far different meaning now. The act no longer symbolizes freedom. But the casting off of old worn-out clothing. Elastic can only stretch for so long before it must be tossed.

Figuring out which day of the week to do Physical Therapy isn’t the same as deciding on who you will marry.

The choices today seem to carry far less weight and carry far less consequences.

Yes, I’m aware any choice we make at any age can produce unexpected results, but it seems as you age don’t sweat the small stuff has finally kicked in.

I in no way intend to imply that Baby Boomers live inconsequential lives. No way. In fact so many have chosen to take risks and accomplish goals that are quite impactful and far reaching.

I can’t imagine a generation that marched against a war, for civil rights and witnessed assassinations could find satisfaction in irrelevance.

In the end, I wonder if we should acquiesce to the young of today. I’m looking around and not so sure they can do as good a job as we did. But I’m just too damn tired to fight the world anymore.

So, it’s tempting to play golf, maj jong, travel and choose which safari to experience.

Choice or no choice. I say what the hell, we’ve earned time off from tough choices. So why not just choose to enjoy every minute?

The City That Never Sleeps Or is That Should be Put to Sleep?

“It couldn’t have happened anywhere but in little old New York.” O Henry

As story and recollection go it was merely an accident that my father left my mother on the New York State Thruway rest stop gas station at two in the morning. As I am the only one left to remember I assure you I have thought carefully about this incident over the years. Partly to ensure it is not forgotten and partly to discern its intention.

Long ago content my father was merely not aware my mother had stepped out of the car from resting in the back of the station wagon with my brother and I, the subject was a source of humor.

Now I’m not so sure. About the intent I mean. As I grew older and my Freudian radar increased, the fact it was a simple mistake by an exhausted driver no longer rings as true.

Were it not for the truth of my parent’s marriage that stares me in the face, I could put the matter to rest. Like a dead squirrel on the side of the road, or thruway as the case may be.

I was asleep in the back of the new chevy station wagon when I awoke after my father asked loudly if my mother was there. “No,” I answered sleepily and suddenly felt the brakes slam on and a sudden charge of the car backward.

My father apparently realized my mother wasn’t sleeping and began the process of backing up on the thruway on ramp for what seemed miles.

So surprised, I was speechless until I saw my mother standing at the gas pump. Braless and almost barefoot, clothed only in shorts and a blouse whose buttons were struggling to cover my mother’s ponderous breasts.

I can’t remember if anything was said when she reentered the car. In fact, probably nothing was said for quite a while.  We’re talking days here, folks. I do remember my mother muttering something about the gas station attendant thinking she was a whore, but of course I didn’t even understand the word at that age. Yes, I know hard to believe we were so naive back in the day, isn’t it?

Of course, my father struggled to explain he was unaware she’d left the car for the ladies room while he paid the bill, and well it was all rather understandable really.

But was it? Or just an unconscious attempt by my father to take advantage of a rare opportunity to free himself? Lord knows the man dreamed and talked about it his entire life. Escaping from my mother I mean. So, the possibility of such an achievement must have been enticing.

Although knowing my father as I did, it seems quite unlikely he’d ever have been able to carry out such a feat.

I always attributed the incident to simply the icing on a disaster cake that was our trip to New York in the fifties. It began with my father telling my eight-year-old brother to wait for him in the doorway of the Astor Hotel while he bought something in the gift shop.

My brother wandered away looking for him and chose the wrong door of the two that led outside. Yep, seems my Dad wasn’t as tuned in as he should have been that trip.

After police and house detectives began a search for him it all felt exciting, like a real life TV detective show. I was far too young to comprehend the gravity of the situation then, but today it still haunts me. We received word the police had found a boy wandering the streets alone and taken him to the station. He was served an ice cream cone. Yes, that was the New York City police ladies and gentlemen, back during civilization. He was returned to us, scared, anxious, but well fed.

That evening my father and I saw The Music Man on Broadway which was great. At least until we entered Sardi’s restaurant where they wouldn’t let my father in without a suit jacket. They offered up a beige rag of a frock which he donned before sitting. Then we both sat embarrassed and unhappy during the overpriced meal.

Sardi’s food has become even more overpriced now and the dress code far less English Royal Court, but the memory lingers on. I did go back there once many years later, but the food was still seasoned with mortification and sadness for my Dad. Sadly, a reputed restaurant a child was so excited to try, offered up a menu that included an understanding of the word humiliation.

By now you’re probably wondering if I ever returned to New York. Yes, I did on numerous occasions, but I’d be lying if I told you any of those trips ever made up for or even came close to that time, which still burns in my brain.

When I think of New York my memory immediately plays mental pictures of my mother standing frightened at the gas pump and my brother crying. Of a rude maître d holding a schmatta jacket accompanied by a desire to never return and experience those feelings again. And yes, there were happy moments on that trip, but sadly I guess the image of a Big Apple with a worm inside remains.

The words written to laud NYC are plentiful, but perhaps New York really is as Ralph Waldo Emerson described it…”a sucked orange.”

At My Age Words Are Scary

Sometimes we forget how scary words can be. We should have learned at a young age that words have great meaning but sometimes we forget.

Like when Little Red Riding Hood had her conversation with the big bad wolf who threatened to eat her up! Yeah, that should have been a hint he wasn’t there to play Candyland.

But I for one have too many times been guilty of dismissing the enormous power of language over our lives. Despite the little engine that could, I have too frequently told myself I can’t.

We are wired to absorb words into our brain, then they settle somewhere in our word vault where they sit, either doing good or bad as we plow through life.

Yes, I used plow because sometimes life can be as hard as digging up dirt in a rocky field.

Yet although we are aware that words can be damaging, abusive and harmful, we are often the ones who foist the harshest of the vocabulary upon ourselves.

Our subconscious, which is not always a friend by the way, can put the kibosh on our good times. Sort of the way a metabolism that sees carbs and ignores their existence instead of breaking them down, can create more fat cells.

Even if we change our rhetoric and tell ourselves we can instead of we can’t, our subconscious refuses to accept the latest version of our confidence level.

The negativity we have pushed forward stays and overpowers any new positive thoughts.

And yes, although we are saying nice things about ourselves, our subconscious, who let’s face it runs the show, isn’t buying it. So we’re locked into old ways of thinking, when we may have not been too happy with us and inserted some pretty rough stuff into the old confidence mechanism.

Our subconscious is like a movie critic that only likes black and white pictures and dismisses any benefits of color.

So how can we change our attitudes and fight this monster we may have created?

By the way, not everyone has filled the subconscious train with negative cargo and been unkind to their psyche, but many have. As one who stowed away plenty of harmful baggage, I’m here to say, that train is tough to get up a hill.

We all have a way to sabotage ourselves even if we don’t choose to do so. Our subconscious will find a way to keep you from doing the things you really want to experience, because it’s very tone deaf.

Yet, I still believe knowledge is power and so I’ve adopted a new attitude ala Patti Labelle. A new battle attack against a subconscious that has run the show for years. That was wired in our childhood. I now choose to be the new General George Patton, a real son of a bitch. I am taking back the reins of this old work horse and jumping over those hurdles.

How am I achieving this great feat you ask? I assume you would want to know because you’re still reading, so here goes:

I have eliminated the words “At my age” from my vocabulary. Or sure they can be used with other words, but no longer together. I seriously could not believe how many times a day I said these three self-sabotaging words. Is the phrase just another aspect of aging? Who knows, but it’s not good.

Do you want to travel to…? At my age I can’t rush around so much.

Should I buy a new couch? At my age why spend the money?

At my age I’m slowing down.

Do I need a new car? At my age…at my age… What the hell? Who am I methuselah?

So recently I head a story from a friend about an incredibly successful and influential man in his nineties remarrying for the fourth time.

“Wow, quite an optimist,” I said.

“No, you don’t understand,” my friend said. “That’s not how he thinks. He lives like he’s in his forties and has his whole life ahead of him. I think he believes he’ll live forever.”

I was dumbfounded. “Yes, but we don’t,” I said. Well I really didn’t say that, it was my subconscious adding its two cents.

“That doesn’t matter to him, he acts as though he’ll live forever and therefore he believes he has all the time in the world.”

Point taken, at least on a conscious level.

I decided I would embrace this new way of thinking. I would do the things I had told myself I was too old to do, feel, think and achieve.

After all I had my whole life ahead, right? No one actually knows how long that is, so why not believe it’s going to be super long?

Of course, my subconscious mind scoffed, fought for power and tried to override this whole new me, but I prevailed.

I have totally rearranged my thought process from, should I? to, why shouldn’t I?

We all should and age shouldn’t determine any decision that would bring happiness or more satisfaction in our lives.

Perhaps the key to staying young is simply not accepting that you aren’t. I know words have power and I am using all of mine to become that little engine that could. I think I can I think I can, No, I know I can. At my age at least I’ve learned that.

Oops, okay that was the last time I say them together, but it just seemed to fit in this instance.

Someone once said, “Words mirror how one feels and thinks. The moment people say something, they are already inevitably shaping the world.”

It’s your world, so take control and shape and shift it as you will. For as long as you will.

How to Avoid a Stroke Trying to Get a Human Voice on the Phone

Did you ever wonder how many people died of a heart attack trying to reach someone human online?

I haven’t seen any statistics but I’m willing to bet there are many casualties of this torture. I can easily visualize grandma sitting on the couch with her mouth open, not breathing, her finger still on the phone button pushing zero in a vain attempt to reach a human voice.

Good luck with that.

A woman in Hell, Michigan (quite an appropriate name I’d say) was found by her daughter in a state of rigor holding her cell phone in one hand with a finger from her other hand touching the O. There were still tear stains on her cheeks and a shocked and appalled expression on her face.

The phone was still repeating a recorded message,“ There is a longer call wait than usual. You are number 232 in line. If you hang up your call will be answered in the order it was received.”

As if it’s not bad enough to try and talk to a human being now, we will have to contend with whatever horrors AI will bring.

A friend of mine was trying to reach someone at a billing center. After ten minutes of yelling into the phone, “I want to talk to a person. Hello, are you there? I need to talk to someone. Are there any humans there. Hello, hello, hello.” Her neighbors called the police because they thought she was being attacked and rushed her to the hospital. She was sedated for two days after asking every doctor and nurse who entered the room if they could please put her in touch with someone human.

The saddest part is that the voice recordings never understand what you’re saying anyway. It’s like driving and trying to ask SIRI directions to an address.

“SIRI, I need to go to 123 Maple Street.”

“Certainly,” here are the directions to 146 Apple Street.”
“No SIRI, I said Maple Street.”

“A maple is a species of tree with brightly colored foliage in the fall.”

“No SIRI! Maple Street, Maple Street!”

“I’m sorry I can’t understand you when you are raising your voice. I am not programmed to respond to that. Goodbye.”

Is this progress?

I think not.

Is progress driving people to such a level of frustration they want to take a hammer to SIRI? Or slam the phone down on the recorded voice. Or have a stroke yelling for a human being to pick up?

The companies go out of their way to ensure there is no way for you to even reach a human being. Just try finding a phone number to call and if they do it’s always a wait of at least half an hour.

There is also a problem understanding call centers that are located in foreign countries from where you happen to be.

“Hello, hello is someone there?”

“Hello?”

“Are you human?”

“Garble garble garble. Skip skip skip.

“I can’t hear you what are you saying?”

“Garble, garble, voice drop, garble.”

“I’m sorry is there someone there? Does anyone speak English? I only speak English. Can someone hear me? Can someone help me?”
“Garble garble, garble.”

Now I will say there have been times when I could neither hear, nor understand the person at the other end of the line, and requested an English speaker.

This did help somewhat. But I still had a very difficult time hearing what they were saying.

There is also the problem of how to relax and stop shaking after the call is over. If you do ever finally make contact with someone, you are left shaking harder than a woman entering P. Diddy’s house.

How do you find a way to put a smile on your face, reverse your bad mood and greet the day in a happy-go-lucky upbeat mood after doing battle in get-me-a-human land?

I myself have always found a very crunchy cookie works well to dispel aggression and restore slower breathing.

So what is one to do when one needs assistance with a problem or an issue? Who can one turn to in their hour of total frustration and panic?

A recording doesn’t seem to fill the bill, as they say.

When one is calling about something aggravating, adding to their frustration level to the point of dropping dead, doesn’t seem to be the right response.

Screaming hello into a phone will definitely not lower one’s blood pressure.

Waiting for an hour in a queue won’t relax the heart muscle.

Staying on the phone for an hour waiting for your turn and then being disconnected won’t lower your dependence on tranquilizers.

Perhaps aside from a box of cookies someone can invent a new drug especially targeted for times when one has to deal with call centers.

It would slow your heart rate, avoid your need for human contact and instantly allow you to translate any language other than your own. It could be the miracle drug of the twenty-first century.

Seriously though, lives could be saved.

Phones could be spared being thrown against walls.

Blood pressure could be leveled off.

What a masterpiece of an invention.

Next time someone calls the DMV, Social Security or any government or billing office, instead of going into panic mode a simple pill popped at the right moment could solve the problem.

Now I know you might say it’s because I come from the hippy generation that I seek a pharmaceutical remedy to my issues, but in this case what other options are there?

Big tech is not going to stop innovating and with each new one, Baby Boomers are driven crazier.

We yearn for the time when we could talk to a person. Have a conversation and resolve an issue.

We are built to only react calmly to recordings of Johnny Mathis.

This new world is quite foreign to anyone who grew up when face to face conversations were the norm.

Now social media has taken over and young people talk though their computers.

Soon AI will speak for all of us.

When that day happens, I will be happy to let AI call and resolve my problems, while I happily crunch my cookies and milk at my leisure.

Who says Baby Boomers can’t get with the program? “Hello, is anyone there? Hello, hello, readers are you there?”

Ouch! My Feet are Killing Me.

Men will never understand the pain a woman suffers. I’m not talking about the trying to push a watermelon through your cervix pain. No, I’m talking about the pain you can’t acknowledge or scream about.

At least in childbirth you are allowed to yell and call your mate every name in the book. And even make up a few new ones if you want.

I’m talking about the pain of walking in high-heeled shoes that are pinching your toes like Godzilla is bouncing on them. I’m talking about that feeling that if you have to walk another step you will rip off those Christian Louboutins and beat the closest person over the head with the heel point.

An overwhelming Oh-my-God-I-wish-I-were-dead kind of pain only a woman in five-inch heels could understand.

Okay, I do realize men get kidney stones and they lose their minds from the pain.

So, if men have experienced that, then they do have some idea of a woman’s suffering.

So why am I bringing this up at all? Do you not have more important things to worry about, Norma?

Of course I do, but the other night I was reminded of women’s suffering and tolerance for pain watching Melania Trump at the inaugural ball.

Now this is not a political piece so please don’t start sending me hate memes or unfriending me. It’s to make a point about women and shoes.

I’m certain it took hours to put herself together and she was bedecked in a designer gown and all the trimmings.

But the real story here is the shoes.

When she walked into the ball I instantly saw on her face that familiar look of pain. Someone who is wishing she could take off her shoes and wiggle her toes in ice water. Whose toes hadn’t felt blood rushing through them in hours. Yet she knew the fashion world was snapping pics and judging, so Birkenstocks were out of the question.

When I was young in the Mesozoic era, the highest heels we wore were three inches.

That was enough to pinch, hurt and ouch our way through occasions when it was necessary to sport a dressy shoe.

Now women wear five-inch heels. Are you kidding me? I once saw Jodie Foster in heels so high her calves were bulging tighter than Tyson’s fists.

We’ve all been there. Trying to smile and act cool while we’re fighting not to cry or scream out loud from the agony. Trying not to show it on our face when we are literally wincing from the torture.

So my question is why? Why wear shoes that will cause you excruciating pain instead of sensible-sized heels?

I’m thinking one of the best parts of getting to grandma age is you never have to wear those Manolo torture chambers again. No one gives a damn if a seventy-five-year-old woman’s legs look shapely under her gown.

My friends and I fell back down to earth years ago searching for pretty flats to wear for fancy occasions.

And what a difference it made.

While other women in skyscraper heels suffered and tried to smile through the evening, we were cozy and comfortable in old lady flats with a cushy insole.

Now I do have some friends who can rock a one or two incher while wearing a soft insert, but I’m not that adventurous. Nope. I’ve decided life is too short to wear a vice around my feet that squeezes harder with each moment of swelling.

The last time I wore a heel I was limping and crying within the first hour. I said “screw this and walked around in my nylons the rest of the night.”

Do I care if people were pointing and giggling behind my back? Hell no, because they were all men. The women were nodding and sending me looks of pity and total understanding of my dilemma. Although some of them continued to brave on in higher heels with full knowledge they wouldn’t be walking without pain for the next few days.

So why do women care at all? I have a bunch of shoes in my closet I will never wear again. Yet I don’t have the heart to give them away yet.

Many were only worn once, but they sit sadly in the box awaiting their night on the town.

A night that will never come. So why do I keep them?

Is it because I actually believe that I will someday be able to tolerate the torture again? Does old age make you more masochistic?

Trust me. There is no pain killer strong enough to eliminate the misery and still allow me to walk upright without bumping into walls.

My toes still smart when I think about the squeezing they endured in those pointed, but absolutely yummy candy-apple-red heels I so loved.

It’s a chick thing and I don’t expect men to get it.

Most men would be sensible and ask, “well if they hurt your feet so much why wear them?”

Easy for them to say. Does common sense have anything at all to do with fashion?

Well, I’d have to admit when you’re young you kind of feel it’s your duty to suffer for style.

It’s so great to get to the Chico’s age. Now one can wear loose clothes, low heels and big necklaces or scarves to cover that turkey neck.

Don’t even start me on the whole fabulous “throw-a-hat-on” thing.

As difficult as it is to age, I must admit one of the perks is you no longer have to give a damn about fashion. You can display great taste even wearing comfortable clothes and low-heeled shoes.

At least there are other choices now besides Naturalizers or the grandma kickers of yesteryear.

Sadly, most people are too busy noticing all those wrinkles on your face to even make it down to the feet anyway.

The only thing a woman in her seventies should be doing with a five-inch heel is using it as a weapon if she’s attacked.

Even if I could get them on and stand in them, chances are I’d fall flat on my face immediately. What am I, a high wire performer in my old age?

As a public service I have a tip for the CIA and Mossad. Next time you are trying to make a terrorist talk, just put them in a pair of five-inch, one size too small Manolo Blahniks and make them walk two miles. They’ll sing like a bird after only twenty minutes.

When Can a Work in Progress Stop Working?

At what point do we no longer qualify as a work in progress?

Throughout our lives we content ourselves with the fact we are indeed a work in progress (WIP). We screw up and we allow ourself to be comforted by the fact we need to learn lessons. Grow as human beings and make mistakes.

So, at exactly at what point does this excuse run out of gas.

What point on life’s highway does the motor conk out and we can no longer use the work-in-progress-get-out-of-jail-free card to keep cruising along?
Is it in our thirties? After we have survived the teen years, stumbled through our twenties and are now part of the generation we were taught not to trust? Isn’t that a good jumping off point?

Looking back from my perch here in old lady land, I’d say definitely not.

There is a ton of stuff we missed out on in our thirties that must be carried forward into our forties. Marriage rules, self-sacrifice, raising children, peacemaking and trying to allocate our time wisely.

We realize there was actually no time left for ourselves at ten at night when we rolled into bed after a day of chasing kids, cooking meals and being superwoman.

So as we approached our fiftieth year, kids older and college bound, our marriage either intact, or about to come unglued, are we still now considered a work in progress?

Objectively speaking this is definitely not the point we can say we are in full bloom.

Now we face new challenges like empty nesting, attempting to have a conversation with our mate that doesn’t center around the kids, no more carpools or gigantic hauls at the grocery store. Perhaps widowhood or divorce impels us into the future alone.

Yet if we were progressing all through our years until fifty, shouldn’t we now have the skills to deal with all these new feelings and trials?

Work should be completed, right? Our time is ours and we can do anything we want. Hello restaurants every night and days waiting to be filled with time just for us. We are now our own boss and we can plan our own calendar.

No watching our son running around in pouring rain on a slippery soccer field and feeling like the worst mother ever. No more hearing ourself described as lame or out of touch by our teen agers. No more horrified as we begin paying attention to anti-aging commercials on TV.

We enter a new world when our children leave home. It’s about trying to arrange time with friends and even figure out what we’d like to do with our lives now that we are not a chauffer, a laundress and a cook.

But are we still a work in progress?

I’m betting, yes. Simply by virtue of the fact we have all new lessons to learn.

New skill sets that must addressed like, aging, no we are not twenty anymore. We slide through our fifties feeling proud of coping and managing this new era.

Then we face the sixties, a tricky time with issues that arise unlike any before.

So here we are still a WIP with new questions to ask and adjusted priorities. Have things changed because of the work we did? Or as a natural result of the aging process?

Despite the reason we now see things through a different lens.

We are suddenly faced with the fact that life is in our face. Everyday tasks and decisions that allowed us to live outside of the harsh truths works no longer.

Of course we haven’t reached sixty without confronting the sadness, tragedy and hardships humans suffer. Yet life had a way to distract us with the flurry of Now we have time to reflect on those ignored truths we set aside as we changed diapers, packed lunches, bandaged bruised knees and laughed at the Muppets.

Unaware that as a WIP all these moments meant something to our growth, our maturity, our life lessons.

Now in our sixties we realize they very much did.

We must find new ways to fill our days in a meaningful way. Our responsibilities have shifted and our little birds are out of the nest as we fight not to notice its emptiness.

Are we happy in this new world seeking adventures, looking forward to each day with curiosity and excitement? I’d hope so because isn’t that a part of the work we did? Learning to embrace each moment and find joy in every day?

I guess we could say we’ve grown, learned and flourished with no more work to do. Yea for us! We did it.

Or did we?

No way. Each era delivers new works to achieve. Facing them, using the information we gathered should help us more easily accomplish new challenges.  

Health issues, responsibilities toward our aging parents, facing our own mortality now looms larger than twenty years hence. Our seventies have brought us to new challenges and obstacles.

If we’re lucky we’ll continue moving forward. Learning, growing, progressing and treasuring times in which we find joy and satisfaction like simply awaking to another day.

I suppose the answer is we are always a work in progress. There is no diploma we can earn, no award to win, no stage to step upon to become a completed WIP. I imagine when we believe we are finally there, is when we must understand there is always much more to do.