My "Do-Not" Lists

 

After age sixty, there were things I could still wear (but really shouldn't have):

 1. Skirts too tight or too short. Mini's were out. No-one's bumpy knees or calves knotted with varicose veins were attractive. Likewise, the rolls around my gut couldn't be hidden by anything tight-fitting unless it was a corset, which aren't produced anymore.

 2.  Plunging necklines. Wrinkled or leathery cleavage wasn't an asset.

 3.  Red dresses. I looked like a male cardinal on steroids.

 4.  Anything that had "pouf" in its name. Why did I want to look as though I had additional cellulite around my thighs or hips?

 5. Sleeveless tops, unless exercising. The flaccid "angel wings" hanging below my arms were hideous.

 6.  Pants with pleats around the waist - added ten pounds!

 7. Pencil-thin jeans. My muscular calves were bound so tight they cramped.

 8. Pants with wide cuffs. Heels got caught in them (who wants to tumble?) and they got filthy as soon as I sat down.

 9.  Heels that were pointy or over three inches high. My bunions screamed and the formerly dislocated disc in my back warned me, "You'll be in therapy again!"

10. Anything that didn't have an underwire in the bra (as in swimsuits). No such thing as perky, pointy boobs anymore!

After age seventy, there are things I THINK I'm ok with (but really am not):

 1.  Making an introduction. I may have no clue what my best friend's name is, even if I'm staring at her!

 2. Walking into a room without having written down why I'm entering. I may have to leave and re-enter to remember what I'm there for.

 3. Spending all morning looking for my glasses. They're usually on the top of my head.

 4. Eating anything with garlic. The reek lasts well beyond several applications of toothpaste and mouthwash.

 5. Removing my shoes for any reason in front of anyone but my husband. The bunions are grotesque! At least at the beach I can bury them in sand.

 6. Getting out on the dance floor to join twenty-somethings in their latest groove. Especially true for limbo contests! My body refuses to become a pretzel.

 7. Eating any food in any quantity. Ditto for liquor.

 8. Skipping the flu or Covid shots or forgetting to take my eight vitamins and cholesterol pill each night.

 9. Travelling alone. I'm not looking for any kind of adventure without a guide to rescue me.

10 . Signing up as a chaperone for a teenage grandchild's class trip. Child will never speak to me again.

11. Applying make-up that will cover blemishes and bruises. Must be scraped with a putty knife!

12. Applying mascara that looks like cat's whiskers except they've relocated around my eyes. Or wearing those old cat's-eye glasses!

13. Going through a buffet line more than once. There wouldn't be enough Tums in my nightstand to get me through the night.

14. Wearing stockings. They eventually sag around the ankles and they're sooo 70's.

15. Trying to copy Jennifer Aniston's waist-skimming or feathered hair styles. Ear-length is the asolute max that won't blow into my eyes (or glasses) and make me look like a wanna-be 60's hippie.

16. Attempting to set up anything electronic unless my grandchildren have already pre-programmed it.

17. Attending a grandchild's sporting event and cheering so loudly the opposite team turns to stare at the old lady, while my grandchild's team whispers behind their hands, "Is that your grandma?"

18. Trying to sleep through the night (unless you're a man). Herbal and green teas, sleep aids, reading till midnight, bathtub jets, bath oils, and sleep masks do not perform as advertised! 

Guests' Sleeping Arrangements

     Charley and I had been dating for six months when I took him to meet my parents at their home in Connecticut. After the introductions, my mother escorted him down to the finished basement. "I made this cot up for you," she said, depositing fresh towels on the bed. "The bathroom's at the top of the stairs."
      Charley joined me later in the den to watch television. "Where are you going to sleep?" he asked.
     "My old bedroom's upstairs," I said, nudging my thigh against my parents' poodle, Cherie, so Charley could squeeze next to me.
     "Is there a guest room upstairs?"
     "Yes."
     "Does this sofa open into a bed?"
     I looked away from the t.v. and directly into his eyes. "It does," I said, grinning.
     "Then why can't I sleep here?"
     "My parents probably wanted us separated by two floors. Besides, this is where Cherie sleeps."
     "Well, now I know where I rank in the pecking order."
     The next morning I asked Charley if he'd slept well. "Not at all," he said. "My bed was right next to the oil burner. Every time it went on, I woke up."
     Somehow, our relationship survived. By the time we were engaged, Charley had moved up to the sleeper sofa next to Cherie.



     My hair dripped into the sink behind me at the beauty parlor. A woman in the next chair explained the preparations she'd made before her granddaughter visited with her boyfriend.
     "My guest room has twin beds. There was no other place for them to sleep, but I figured they'd move the beds together. Since my bedroom backed up to their wall and I didn't want to listen to their shenanigans all night, I put chocks under the feet of their beds so they couldn't move them.
     "Well, that didn't stop them! They must have crowded into one bed and I didn't sleep a wink all night."



     Friends from Massachusetts planned to visit us in Florida. After we'd decided on a date, I sent a list of attractions and restaurants they might enjoy, if they wanted diversions from the beach and pool. Finally I received a call.
     "Pam, we have one concern and I hope you don't mind if I ask you this. Do you have a guest room with twin beds? Our sleep cycles are different now that we're in our seventies and we try not to wake each other up. Also, I've got to warn you that Pete snores. I'm used to it, but I hope he doesn't disturb you. Sometimes even I can't sleep."
     "Oh, don't worry about Pete's waking us! Our master bedroom is on the other side of the condo. And yes, we have twin beds in one guest room."
     "Perfect! Just one last question. Sorry to be such a pain! Is there a bathroom close to the twin bedroom? We have to get up a lot during the night."
     "You'll have a bathroom right outside your bedroom door. And our grandchildren's night light." We both cracked up.

If you have any stories of guests' sleeping arrangements, I'd love to hear them! Please leave them in the "Comments" box below.

Sleep

This post is by Don Weiss, pharmacist, friend, and author of the murder mystery, Picture Perfect, available on Amazon.

Men of a certain age enter what is called the Age of Prostatism. Although it sounds vaguely religious, it has nothing to do with religion. Unlike the Age of Enlightenment or the Age of Reason, the Age of Prostatism refers to the time in a man’s life when the prostate gland begins to enlarge. This may lead toward the possibility of developing Prostate Cancer for some of us. For most of us, it means that we will be getting up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom (maybe two or three times a night), disrupting an otherwise peaceful night’s sleep.

History describes how young Indian braves were given water to drink on the eve of battle so that the would be up early ready for the fight ahead of them.

I’d be willing to bet that the young warriors had to stand in line behind the tribal elders to get to the bathroom.

An ever growing prostate is only one of the reasons for interrupted sleep. As we age our need for sleep seems to diminish. Maybe it’s God’s way of telling us that “Hey, you don't have that much time left, so don’t waste it!”

When I was a young man living in my bachelor apartment, I could sleep uninterrupted for eight, nine, or even ten hours. Once I slept through a fire alarm and when I was in college, I slept through an earthquake. Those were the days, my friends. Now it’s up at 3:30 a.m. on the dot to stumble to the bathroom and stumble back to bed. Sometimes I can go back to sleep, other nights I can’t. So what do I do?  I lie awake, thinking, looking back on my life (I recently turned 64), or I get up and write a blog post.

The Dog in the MIddle

We had an Airedale terrier for ten years before she passed away.  Our sons grew up using her belly as a pillow while they watched television from the floor or scratching her belly while she used one of their thighs as a pillow.

Our Airedale Sandy

One thing we wouldn't let her do, though, was sleep in one of our beds. Charley and I tried it once and the only one who got any sleep was Sandy.  I got so hot I had to throw all the covers off.  Then I got cold, when she went down by Charley's feet.  I guess he had more comfortable toes!

Airedales are hunters, and if Sandy got out of the yard, she chased Canadian geese on a pond two streets away.  One winter she fell through the ice chasing them and a boy had to rescue her in his rowboat.

Even after we'd wrapped her in blankets and warmed her by the fire till she was sound asleep, we didn't bring her into one of our beds.  She had a bed of her own in the kitchen.

The practice of sharing a bed with a dog was documented as far back as the ancient Greeks.  Approximately 42 to 45 percent of American dog owners today say their dogs share their bed with them, according to a survey by the American Kennel Club.

"The dog will think, 'This is my bed,' if you don't create that invisible boundary...by claiming it as yours...If one partner resents the dog being on the bed, the dog is going to sense that, so the bed won't feel like a safe place to the dog.  It has got to be a mutual and unanimous decision," said Cesar Millan, star of "The Dog Whisperer" on TV.

According to Clive Wynne, an Arizona State University psychology professor who studies canine comportment, "it doesn't do a dog any harm to ban it from the bed."  In other words, dogs can sleep anywhere without being psychologically damaged!

Not so for humans.  If the dog is getting all the affection in bed, that becomes the more intense emotional relationship.  Dogs can become a substitution for intimacy and sex.  Jealous of a dog?  It happens frequently, according to Donna Pall, an L.A. psychotherapist specializing in couples counseling.  Especially if it's the guy's dog and the woman came later.

Another reason for not bring Sandy into our bed?  Studies show an increased rate of Pasteurella infection, ringworm, and even plague (transmitted by fleas), according to Dr. Bruno Chomel, professor of veterinary medicine at UCDavis.  Sandy wore flea/tick collars and was bathed regularly, but did I want even one flea in our bed?  The Pasteurella bacteria exist in domestic dogs' and cats' respiratory tracts, so a scratch or bite might cause transmission, even a lick  And a lick would have been probable, if Sandy had had her head on our pillow.

All quotes and statistics used in this post are from an article by Dan Crane in The NY Times, May 3, 2015, Sunday Styles, p. 12.

An Autotrain Story Part II

     Marge and Steve slid onto the two remaining Naugahyde seats in the dining car.  Across from them sat the tattooed man and his very large wife.
     "Howdy!  I'm Jim and this here's Ann," Jim said, extending his hand.
     "I'm Steve and this is Marge," Steve said, as handshakes were exchanged over the table.  "What have we got to eat?"
     A waiter sidled up.  "There's beef, chicken, salmon, or lasagna.  The menu's on the table.  I've got red and white wine, or beer." 
     Marge opted for white wine without raising her eyes from the menu.  "Where you from?" Jim asked, as the waiter poured from pitchers.
     "We're heading back to Connecticut," Steve answered.  "Should be a five hour drive from Lorton.  How 'bout you?"  The women remained silent.
     Marge raised her wine glass for a taste.  Just as the liquid rolled off her tongue, something warm and furry brushed against her ankle.  Her scream became a rasping choke.  Steve gave her a few whacks on the back that would have dislodged a side of beef.   "You OK?"
     "Get me out," she yelled, pushing Steve into the aisle.  "There's a rat under the table!"
     "That ain't no rat," Jim said, laughing.  "That's Ann's cat. She won't go nowhere without Whiskers."
     "I think I'll have dinner in the compartment," Marge said.  "Beef will be fine."  She turned and started down the aisle.
     "Sorry, folks," Steve said to Jim and Ann.  "Guess she got a good scare."  He paused and placed an order for two beef dinners for compartment #216.
     Their sofa had transformed into two bunk beds, the lower one six inches wider than the upper.  "Can you sit on the bed and eat?" Steve asked.  "I'll sit in the chair."
     "I can't even get in the room, let alone sit on the bed," Marge said, still red in the face.  Her thick shin was wedged between the lower bunk and the sink cabinet. 
     "Just a minute," Steve said from out in the corridor.  With a twist and simultaneous shove, the leg dislodged and Marge fell onto the bunk. 
     "Ow!  Thanks a lot," she said with undisguised sarcasm.
     "My pleasure," Steve said with reciprocated sarcasm.
     "I don't know how I'm going to get up this ladder," Marge said, pointing next to her.  "Besides, I'll bump my head on the ceiling if I try to go to the bathroom."
     "I'll sleep up there," Steve said.  Their meals arrived and they ate in silence.
     During the night, Steve swung his feet over the top bunk, forgetting that webbing hung from the ceiling.  The more he tried to disentangle them, the more his size thirteens became engaged.  "Shit!" he said, waking Marge.
     "What happened?"
     "I'm caught and I can't get out."
     Marge climbed out of her warm nest and positioned one foot on the ladder.  "You need to come a little higher so you can reach my feet," Steve said.
     By the glow of the night light Marge lifted her other foot but it missed the next rung.  She slipped backward onto the floor.  "You OK?" Steve asked.
     "I think I wrenched my neck," Marge said, climbing onto her knees.  Steve hit the porter's button.
     Leonard arrived in less than a minute.  "I'll call for a nurse we have on board," he said, disengaging Steve's two feet from the webbing.  Marge had pulled herself into the  chair.
     Ten minutes later, there was a knock on their steel door.  "I'm the nurse you called for," a woman said, peeking in.  "Oh, it's you two.  I'm Ann  - remember?  What's the problem?"
     Ann flopped from the outer corridor onto the bottom bunk like a beached whale.  Marge crawled from the chair and sat on the floor next to her.  As Ann massaged, Marge's neck relaxed.  "Can you make it down on your own, Steve?" Marge asked.
     "Yeah.  Thanks, Ann."
     In the morning, Steve attempted to shower from a sitting position on the toilet.  It was the only way his six-foot frame could fit in the cubicle.  When he'd finished, he turned the shower knob to "Off."  The water refused.
     "Marge, I can't turn this thing off," he yelled through the bathroom door.
     "Well, I can't open the door without flooding the floor.  I'll call the porter."
     "Good morning," said Leonard, feigning cheerfulness.  "How may I help you?"
     "My husband can't turn off the shower in there."
     "I'll call a plumber we have on board."
     In ten minutes there was a knock on the steel door.  "I'm the plumber - oh, it's you two.  I'm Jim - remember?  Amtrak hires my wife and me for this route.  Marge, you'd better git outside 'less you want to git wet.  Steve, you got a towel on in there?"
     

One College Reunion

                                                                                

      It seems that June is a good time to head down memory lane.  Since I posted a blog about my 50th high school reunion on October 10, 2011, and wrote about my senior prom in last week's blog, I thought I'd  write about one of my college reunions.

     Charley and I both graduated from Colby College in Waterville, Maine.  Although he graduated well before me (Ha!), we attend each other's reunions because we know each other's classmates.  When I sent in our deposit for a particular reunion of mine a while back, it seemed a good idea to take advantage of the option to stay in one of the dorms.  My class would have its headquarters there, so it would be just a short walk down the hall after late nightcaps - no driving.  And we'd save some $ by not getting a hotel room.

     Our core group gathered at headquarters in the morning, organized the keepsakes and memorabilia, and put on the tee shirts that our classmate, Chris Brown, had designed for the parade of classes.  The weather had been perfect for the boat ride the day before, and remained that way for the lobster/clambake, tennis, golf, seminars, lectures, and class dinner.  The trouble started when we went to our room to sleep.

     Trying to relive your youth at forty is one thing.  Trying to relive it at sixty-something is another.  The twin beds, which we'd expected, looked miniscule.  Could they have really been that narrow when we were students?  Or was this an attempt by the college to cut the budget by purchasing from Job Lots?  If we turned over at all, we'd bump into a wall.  The pillows felt like lumps of coal.  Fortunately, we'd brought our own.

     Maine gets cold at night, even in June!  On each bed were sheets and one thin blanket.  We changed into warmups.  We put our socks on.  Then we hopped in.

     As I eased under the sheet and 1/4" blanket, I heard a crinkly sound.  When I turned toward Charley, I heard it again.  "What the heck is that?"  I yelled across both desks to the far wall, where Charley was curled into a ball on his pallet. 

     "It's plastic on the mattress," he mumbled.  "Come over here.  There'll be more body heat."  A tiger doesn't change his stripes!  I put a sweater over my warmup and pulled a raincoat over the blanket on my bed.  Like I said, reliving your youth at sixty-something is another matter.

     I heard singing.  It seemed to be in the next room.  I pulled myself out of bed and unlocked the door.  The music wasn't coming from the hall.  I pulled the shade up on our window and looked down.  There was a bunch of twenty-somethings celebrating below us on the grass.  A couple of guys were doing a really bad job of "Celebrate Good Times."

     It was three a.m. when they disbanded.  After that, I dozed off.

     I have been known to get up several times during the night to use the bathroom, if I've had lots of liquids.  Ditto for Chas.  He went first - down the hall to the far corner.  I heard a shout echoing off the tiles, but didn't budge.

     When he reappeared, he woke me.  "What now?" I asked. 

     "The bathrooms are co-ed!  Guess who I just met in there?  Cindy Mello, the homecoming queen!"

     "I'm sure she didn't look any better at 3 a.m. than you did!  Go back to bed." 

     You can bet I showered in the ladies' locker room at the field house the following morning!  Another safe bet would be that the Holiday Inn became our home during future reunions.

    

      



    

    

Railroad Sleeping Compartment, NOW

I'd been forewarned about not sleeping on the Amtrak Autotrain. My parents had used it to travel to Florida after purchasing their home in Boynton Beach. They made it known that they hadn't slept a wink because of the racket of the "clickety-clack." I'd dismissed their complaint because they never fell asleep on the first night in any bed that wasn't in their own bedroom. Besides, I knew if Dad removed his hearing aides, he wouldn't hear the train's whistle, let alone the "clickety-clack."

A tennis friend of ours had described lying in the top bunk of the Autotrain as being in a tanning bed with the lid closed twelve inches over her head. Unable to sit up to get down the ladder to the toilet, she and her husband ended up buying TWO sleeper compartments. That way, they both had the wide bottom berths and could get eight hours each.

To travel north from Florida for Christmas 2011, I purchased sleeper tickets IN A PRIVATE COMPARTMENT on the Autotrain. I hoped for better results than the "couchette" on the Orient Express back in the '80's. At least I could speak the language when I got the tickets! We piled gifts for our grandchildren in the rear of the SUV.

I envisioned slithering on my belly, wormlike, into my bunk, if I were above Charley. There was always the option of buying a reclining seat. If we slept upright, I'd probably emerge in the morning bent over looking at the floor, with my already dislocated disc lodged into my hipbone.

We pulled into the Sanford, Florida, train station three hours before departure and were greeted with precise efficiency. Attendants assigned our car a number and tried to take our key. Before Charley would hand it over, however, he wanted the attendant to understand how to disable the SUV alarm system, in the event the train swayed and set it off. He had actually practiced doing this in our garage, and when he thought he was unsuccessful, he sent me hustling off to the dealer (after all, it was my car, and I should know how to do this!) for a demonstration.

The attendants were used to customers like us (over sixty, with many instructions). "No problem, sir," one assured Charley. "The car will never be locked and the driver's window will remain open. We have completely enclosed car carriers. Next vehicle, please!"

Ninety minutes before departure, a steward carried our small suitcases up the stairs on the designated car into our compartment. He slid the door aside and lo! It would be just the two of us! Nothing smelled! There was a reading chair, toilet with shower (we'd have to stand in the toilet to use it), sink, and small luggage rack. Also lots of towels, washcloths, Kleenex, soap, lotion. Tim, the steward, informed us there would be two seatings for dinner, and what time should he make our bunks up?

Well, it wasn't gourmet food, but the menu had several choices and the wine kept flowing! Yes, there were linen and silver and lots of gooey desserts. We stayed with our dinner companions till the dining room closed.

Tim had made up our bunks with sheets, blankets, and pillows. Most people brought their own pillows, but I hadn't thought of that. Not a problem - the Amtrak pillow wasn't too high or too squishy or too lumpy (hypoallergenic, I'm sure). The lower berth was about one and a half times wider than the upper. Guess who would be climbing the four-step ladder?

My biggest concern was getting down in the dark to use the toilet. There was no way I could last through the night! "Just wake me up," Charley said, "and I'll help you down the ladder." I envisioned kicking him in the face, since he wouldn't have his glasses on, couldn't see a thing without them, and the ladder was next to his pillow. My strategy would be to read as late as possible and use the facility just before I fell asleep.

I ascended and was actually able to crawl on all fours to a prone position. On the wall next to me was a pouch for my glasses, book, and a bottle of water (provided). Above our heads were reading lights. A net would prevent my rolling off. Charley and I both swallowed sleeping pills.

I only got up once during the night, aided not by Charley, but by the light of an overhead lamp we'd left on. Charley never moved - reminded me of a certain German passenger on another overnight train!

At 6:30 a.m., a loudspeaker announced there would be three early calls for continental breakfast. We would be pulling into Lorton, Virginia (our destination), about two hours early, by 7:30 a.m. The station didn't open till 8:00. De-boarding the cars would take at least forty-five minutes, depending on one's car number. Ours was high.

We were all in the lounge of the station by 8:00. Our car was one of the last of the 185 off the train at 9:30. There had been a total of 350 passengers aboard; the train itself had been three-quarters of a mile long.

Difference between a "couchette" and a private sleeping compartment? Two extra people and some obnoxious odors!