PANIC TIME

I have cartwheeled down an Austrian Alp, after falling off a chairlift; remained confined to a hotel room in Buenos Aires, while a coup d'etat prevailed outside; watched helplessly while a gang of youths surrounded, then lifted, our Volkswagen in Naples, Italy; suffered swollen eyelids from a severe allergy attack on a 12-inch trail over 200-foot gorges on Madeira. But nothing can send me into a panic so much as....................................................................................................................












........................................................................................................................................










......................................................................................not being able to find a toilet when I need one!!!










Charley and I recently returned from our all-time favorite destination of Ischia - an island facing Capri outside Naples, Italy. We attended the last night of festivities honoring St. Vito in the nearby town of Forio. Our friend who owns an apartment there made a 9:30 p.m. reservation for a waterfront table to see the fireworks. In Italy, diners show up an hour before they think about ordering dinner. The wine was flowing. We thought the fireworks would start at 10:00.




"Soon," Daniella kept saying. "Maybe tomorrow. Maybe July! Here - have some more vino!"




It WAS tomorrow when they started - 12:30 a.m., exactly. By then I'd switched to coffee and Charley had switched to Diet Coke.




The show was spectacular - the most impressive we'd ever seen, including July 4th in Boston. Marco Polo had, after all, brought fireworks back to Italy from China.




In fact, there were TWO fireworks shows over the marina. Forio's ended, and the town of Lacco Ameno tried to outdo its neighbor. By then, I was nursing a glass of water.




The shows ended at 1:30 a.m. I hit the toilet one last time. Along with 12,000 Forio residents and thousands more from across the island, we trudged half a mile to get out of the harbor.




Up ahead I spotted an available taxi. We ran! Then we sat for thirty minutes. Like bees (except they were carrying sleeping infants and toddlers), the throngs swarmed in front and in back of us, making last-minute purchases at open stalls. Vespas whizzed by. We progressed one car length at a time. The thought crept into my mind that our progress might necessitate an impossible pit stop. The power of suggestion is a dangerous thing!




There was construction on the road to our hotel. The taxi couldn't get through the traffic. We got out two hundred meters from our entrance to walk.




Ischia is volcanically thermal, lushly colorful, and demandingly vertical. Climbing up the road, I mapped the location of the nearest bathroom at our hotel. Our room was ten meters up the hillside from the lobby. The public restrooms were ten meters down the hillside from the lobby.






"Honey, we'd better step on it," I warned Charley. He knew what that meant.




We arrived at the twelve-foot iron gates marking the entrance to our hotel. They were securely locked!! By this time, I was crossing my legs.




There were two callboxes. I hit all the white bars on the first one. While Charley was pushing buttons on the second one, I eyed the surrounding bushes.




Suddenly the gates opened! We ran for the lobby.




"Room 415, please!" Charley demanded, as the night clerk turned for our key. "Can we get a ride to our room?"




"Certo, signore!" The clerk pushed a button, while I folded myself into a sofa in the lobby.




"Please, St. Vito, we toasted you so many times tonight! Now do something for me," I begged. "Let me make it to our room!"




An attendant on a golf cart appeared. Over every bump I prayed to St. Vito. He didn't forget me!

France Revisited

We will soon re-enter French airspace en route to Normandy. It will be Charley's first tour of the D-Day beaches, but not his first trip to France.

During previous visits, we made mistakes. We didn't understand the French mentality. We didn't follow the rules. We didn't wait patiently as French men and women ignored us. We didn't ask the right questions.

On our first trip, we flew in from the States at 7 a.m. and had to connect to Corsica. Charley put our luggage cart, piled high, directly in front of the "Corsica" sign at the ticket counter. We needed boarding passes and had four hours to kill. Groggy, we took turns getting coffee and reading. Around 10 a.m. the "Corsica" sign moved. Charley grabbed our cart but wasn't fast enough. A French woman came out of nowhere, ramming the front bumper of his cart and cutting him off. He rammed her back. "Despicable Americans!" we heard, as she stepped up to the "Corsica" counter ahead of us.

On another trip, we met an American friend and her travelling companions at an outdoor cafe. We got there first and eyeballed the tiny cafe tables. "I'll grab a few more chairs and move this other table over," Charley declared, rearranging the furniture. A waiter ran over. "Monsieur! Monsieur! Non, non!" We had violated two waiters' serving assignments. Ten of us sat at two separate tables and waited thirty minutes for acknowledgement that we existed.

We drove along the Riviera from Nice. About two and a half hours beyond St. Tropez, we cut inland looking for our "Hidden Inn," right out of a guidebook. It was hidden, all right! No road signs anywhere. We stopped a farmer, who led us down a dirt road on his tractor.

We checked in and learned the pool was in back, with reciprocal privileges at a hotel right on the beach. We unpacked, put on bathing suits, and headed for the pool. All we wanted was to chill out with a cool drink! There were plenty of chaise lounges at the pool, but no towels. "Excusez-moi, les towels?" I asked a sunbather.

"At the main desk in the lobby!" he answered in English.

I went back for towels but diverted up to the room for sunblock I'd forgotten. The upstairs hall was in total darkness. I fumbled with our key at the door, shoved it around near the hole, but couldn't get the knob to turn. Back to the front desk.

"Madame, you must insert your key in the slot at the end of the hall. That will turn on the lights. Then the locks will respond."

We decided to try the beach at the other hotel, instead. We made our way to the attendant there, who explained, "Je m'excuse, no chairs at beach. OK on hill. I move you when beach chairs open."

That was fine with us, since there was shade on the hill. We spread out our stuff and walked toward the Mediterranean.

"Monsieur! Monsieur! Non, non! Non beach!"

"What? We can't go in the water?"

"Non, monsieur! The prix on hill - non beach."

Back to the lobby for towels.

Before flying out of Nice, our last stop was the Chevre d'Or Hotel in Eze. Eze is on a cliff along the Grande Corniche, hanging high up over the Blue Mediterranean. We had to leave our car about two hundred yards below; a golf cart took us the rest of the way.

We had booked a reservation for dinner in their famous restaurant, filmed in "The Bucket List" with Jack Nicholson. It was one of the two most expensive dinners we've ever paid for. Problem: we couldn't see two feet out the windows. We were completely fogged in!

The next morning the fog burned off and Charley decided to use the exercise room. The receptionist had proudly told us it opened at 10 a.m. Right at 10, he climbed the fifty stone steps from our room, hanging over the cliff, up to the exercise room. Closed! He continued up fifty more stone steps to the lobby.

"Non possible, monsieur! It's after 10 o'clock. It must be open!"

There was no point arguing. Charley figured by the time he got back down fifty steps, he might find the door unlocked.

Not so! But where there's a will, there's a way. He spotted a louvred window on the bottom row that was cracked open. Yup! He climbed in.

The exercise attendant thought he was hallucinating when he unlocked the door and saw Charley pedalling calmly on one of the bikes. "Monsieur, what are you doing here?"

Charley pointed to his watch. "It's 10:30. The exercise room is open!"

Anyone else have travel stories??

AT&T MERRY-GO-ROUND

AT&T: "Hello, my name is Melody."




Chas: "Are you a real person?"




AT&T: "Last time I checked!"




Chas: "Well, I've been pushing buttons on your menu for ten minutes before I got anyone with vocal cords."




AT&T: "I'm sorry about that, sir. Would you kindly give me your phone number?"




Chas: "....................."




AT&T: "Now I need your password, sir."




Chas: "........... "




AT&T: "Would you please give me the last four digits of your social security number?"




Chas: "...."




AT&T: "Now I need the answers to a couple of security questions~"


Chas: "I'm not Osama bin Laden!"




AT&T: " I guess we wouldn't be having this conversation if you were! Just a couple more, sir. What was the name of your childhood pet?"




Chas: "Blackie."




AT&T: "What was the street that your wife grew up on?"




Chas: "River Road."




AT&T: "You have answered all the questions correctly."




Chas: "Do I get a prize?"




AT&T: "I suppose I could sing for you, since my name is Melody! Otherwise, how can I help you, sir?"




Chas: "Melody,I have a very simple request. We have your UVerse system for two phone lines and high-speed internet. We are leaving Florida to go north for four months and would like to put our service on seasonal hold."




AT&T: "I'm sorry, Mr. Carey, but I can't help you."




Chas: "Excuse me? We've been putting our account on hold each summer for fifteen years!"




AT&T: "Yes, Mr. Carey, but you didn't have UVerse before this year. I'm afraid UVerse customers will have to do that on-line."




Chas: "But only my wife deals with the computer. I don't touch it!"




AT&T: "Then have her go on-line to AT&T.com and I will walk her through the steps."




Chas: "I don't think she'll want to hear about steps right now. She's in the middle of a project. I'll have to break it to her at another time. Can't you just flick a switch or fill out a form, like the cable company?"




AT&T: "I'm afraid it's not that easy, Mr. Carey. Is there anything else I can help you with?"





***********************************************************************************


Next evening







Chas: "Are you having any luck getting our service suspended?"




Pam: "I've been on for over an hour and opened every possible link under 'UVerse.'
When I hit 'Move or Change Service,' it asks where we're moving to!"




Chas: "This \/!!***! Company is useless! What other links are there?"




Pam: "I've tried 'My Account' and 'Technical Support.' The word 'Suspend' or 'Hold' doesn't exist in their vocabulary. Call them back for specific instructions."







*************************************************************************************
Next morning

AT&T: "Hello, my name is Samantha."

Chas: "Am I speaking to a real person?"

AT&T: "Yes, I'm a real live wire!"

Chas: "I'm so excited for you! I have spent one evening on the phone with your Company and my wife~"

AT&T: "Excuse me for interrupting, sir, but would you please give me your phone number?"

Chas: ".............."

AT&T: "May I please have your password?"

Chas: "...................."

AT&T: "Now I need the account holder's name."

Chas: "Samantha, I AM the account holder, and my name is CAREY and the last digits of my social security number are .... and my childhood pet was named BLACKIE and my wife grew up on RIVER ROAD and I am UPSET! Please HELP ME!"

AT&T: "What can I do for you, Mr. Carey?"


Chas: "I want to put our UVerse service on seasonal hold for four months. I have called your Company once before and we have tried to do it online. Nothing has worked! Can you please give me the steps to follow on your website?"

AT&T: "I'm so sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Carey. Let me find out how you can proceed."

AT&T Supervisor: "Mr. Carey?"

Chas: "I can't believe it, but I'm still here!"

AT&T Supervisor: "Mr. Carey, I'm the Supervisor, Scott Regan, and I'm here to help you."

Chas: "That remains to be seen! I just want to put my UVerse service on hold for four months while we leave Florida for the summer. It used to be so easy!"

AT&T Supervisor: "Well, I'll find out how to do that. Would you mind holding?"

Chas: "Do I have a choice?"

AT&T Supervisor: "Mr. Carey, are you still there?"

Chas: "Is that you, Scott?"

AT&T Supervisor: "It's me. Thank you for holding. Now, tell me, is it correct that you do NOT have your cable t.v. with UVerse?"

Chas: "That's right, Scott. We live in a condo, and the building is wired for Comcast. We have no choice in the matter."

AT&T Supervisor: "Well, you see, Mr. Carey, right there is the problem! You have to have the ENTIRE PACKAGE in order to put your account on hold for the summer. You have to have phone and high-speed internet and t.v."

Chas: "So what you're telling me is that after two phone calls and an evening on your website, it's impossible to put our account on seasonal hold? What's the minimum we'll be paying each month over the summer?"

AT&T Supervisor: "$69.95."

Chas: "Even though we won't be here? That's outrageous!"

AT&T Supervisor: "I'm afraid so! But that's still quite a savings each month. Then when you get back, you just call us to reinstate full service."

Chas: "As simple as that, huh?"

AT&T Supervisor: "Is there anything else we can do for you?"

Chas: "I'd rather not say."

Snapshots from Key West

Charley and I head south - as far south as we can go until U.S. 1 runs out, just ninety miles from Cuba! We trade chocolate Easter bunnies for females with bunny ears who stroll the sidewalks with cups filled with frothy pink liquid.

Key West is a paradise for writers - and artists, lovers, snorkelers, divers, boaters, fishermen, campers, birders, foreigners, lesbians, gays, transvestites - ANYONE! Just the drive down is worth the trip. It takes five hours from Delray Beach, over forty-some bridges. The sea changes color on both sides of us, from deep azure far out to vibrant turquoise in the channels to beige over the sand bars to thin pea-soup-green in the runoffs. Nonstop photo ops, but not at 45 mph between Key Largo and the end of the road.


We try to go every year for the Conch Republic Independence Festival. It is a week-long celebration (the end of April) of the (unsuccessful) attempt by Key West to secede from the Union. Here, the bizarre becomes commonplace and acceptance is the norm. A young Irishman walks the sidewalk with pink dye in his blond mohawk. The spikes on his head are outdone only by the spikes on two green iguanas grazing on sea grapes at the edge of our beach. A van in orange and white psychedelic swirls advertises a number for pickup to "Live(!) Naked Dancers." As opposed to what - dead naked dancers? The mainland seems a million miles away.

First, there is the drag race down Duval Street. Men in drag - sequined dresses, bright makeup, wigs, and revealing undergarments - RUN in stiletto heels while pushing a cart. Then they have to jump through tires. Some of the shaved legs are pretty shapely, and the butts aren't bad. The contestants clearly work out for this! There are no bulging guts, but WAIT!! Something seems to be bulging from one of the tube tops! Could it be?? A starter stands with legs wide apart in a thong and no top. Somehow, HE just doesn't fit in!

Another event is the bed race. Beds are decked out as floats and pushed by the above "beauties" while real-life natural beauties sit on the mattresses, feathered, flocked, or fried. Monkeys and a lemur squat on spectators' shoulders, peeling peanuts, while parrots and macaws sqawk at the contestants. The pigeons are busy! We see a dog with its limbs spread-eagle in a baby back pack.

The other event that is a blast, literally, is the Coast Guard's attempt to subdue the rebel "Conch Republic" pirates in their ship off Mallory Pier. The Pier is the site of sunset kisses, cruise or Navy ship dockings, and acts of wonder at night (we have seen the same contortionist, now age 57, remove himself from a chained straightjacket for ten years). It is also the spot to be for the water fight. The Coast Guard, with its superior hoses, subdues the rebels, but not before they have thoroughly doused the spectators. None of us care, since we all have a glow from the sun or whatever.

There has been a gradual transformation in our modus operandi since Charley and I started going there. I no longer wear flip-flops with cute crystal beads cutting between my toes. Charley does not walk in his Birkenstock sandals. Instead, we ramble up Duval Street and back (two and one-half miles,total) in sturdy walking sneakers and socks. I have an elastic bandage supporting one knee that is burning. Charley does not wear his golfing straw hat or even a baseball cap. Instead, he dons his wide-brimmed Galapagos hat, looking for native Key West species. He sports a three-day beard, Papa Hemingway-style, and blends right in.

We no longer stop by the Hog's Breath Saloon, Sloppy Joe's, or Margueritaville. The stink of beer venting onto the sidewalk makes me sick. Instead, we stop on a porch near the Southernmost Hotel for a glass of ice water, lemonade, or iced tea.

There is a problem during our walk. I must shop by memory. "I absolutely HATE to shop," Charley reminds me. "You could always go out later, while I'm at the beach." The first day he indulges me by stopping in a few places. Thereafter, I must do a memory snapshot of the exact item in a window, the shop it is in, and where the shop is located. I down my ice water in the wicker chair and run back to look at the beach bag, watercolor, or necklace closest to the porch on which Charley sits. I know I will have only the time it takes him to finish one bowl of tobacco.

We have "done" the tourist attractions: snorkeling the reefs, the Glass Bottom Boat, Conch Train, Truman Summer White House, Hemingway House, Audubon House, botannical gardens, butterfly conservatory, Shipwreck Museum, Sunset Cruise. Now we collapse on our hotel beach after the morning walk. We can order lunch from our chaises, without moving. Reminds me of a story.

We have taken two different couples with us to Key West. While we were eating at an outdoor lunch place with one couple, the husband (Ed) kept jumping up and running toward the car. "What in the heck is going on?" Charley asked, when he returned to our table.

"I'm deathly afraid of cats. One attacked me when I was a kid." Needless to say, there are cats all over Key West to keep the rat population down. He only ate a few bites.

We proceeded with Ed and Kiva to our hotel beach after lunch, having no idea that the section we chose was designated "Topless." Ed settled in, took one look at what was in front of him, and never moved a muscle for the rest of the afternoon. He didn't even bother to open his book. "This is where I want to have lunch the rest of the trip," he declared.

It has been a process of elimination choosing the right place to stay. In the mid-nineties, our first booking was in a cheap motel at the southern end of Duval Street. It was the only thing available in our price range, so we walked five miles a day finding places to eat. Next we tried an inn that had been recommended. That meant we had no beach and had to lug our stuff. The inn compensated by providing free cocktails at Happy Hour each day! We stayed there two years.

Next we did a time-share promotion at a Hyatt facility on the southern end of the island. Charley was NOT happy about spending half of one day roaming around the property which he did NOT intend to invest in! Finally we tried the Pier House Resort, next to Mallory Pier. Great location and food, but we had a wall three feet from the edge of our patio. No view, and we were next to the lobby!

Tried the Pier House again, but this time I specified a room in the new "Spa" building. It was luxurious, compared to what we'd had before! We unpacked, roamed, ate, drank, and climbed in our king bed. Only trouble was, we were the end unit against a side street. The crowds of drunks kept us awake till 1 a.m. At 5 a.m. a very loud rooster began crowing on the property directly behind our room. At 8:30 a.m. the gardeners began SAWING down a trellis attached to the side of the building (and our room). We packed up and headed for the office!

We got an immediate upgrade. Following the guy pushing our luggage, we continued past the restaurant onto a dock. We were hanging over the water at the beach. We went up one level and looked at a king bedroom with adjoining living room. Beyond that lay our own private plexiglass balcony with chaises that continued around the corner of the building. Can we order lunch?

Aging Gracefully

There is age with grace, but no such thing as "aging gracefully." It's an ugly process. In fact, I'm going down kicking and screaming!

Parts of my body are not where they should be. I wore two-piece bathing suits till I was fifty. Now I dread having to purchase anything to wear near the water. I must take a pile of swimsuits two sizes larger than my dress size to the changing room. They must have underwires in the bra. Speaking of the bra, if I tie the halter strings so tight around my neck as to actually lift my boobs, I am gasping for air. My butt hangs down below the suit and I must take it (the suit, not my butt) to a seamstress to have tighter elastic sewn in. My belly "pooch" will only disappear if I purchase a swimsuit with a blouse-like top. Yes, I know 10,000 steps/day will rid me of the pooch (what's in there, anyway?), and no, I do not intend to add an eighth day of exercise to my already overbooked routine!

I began noticing in photos that my right eye was only half open. So I figured the opthomologist would be able to measure the eyelids and lift the right one - a simple procedure, according to my friends. Dr. Wesley measured and informed me my eyelids were exactly the same and had not drooped. What had drooped was my forehead! That procedure is surgical and would cost a minimum of $5,000. And oh yes, the plastic surgeon could not assure me of raising the brow more than one-quarter of an inch!

I have acquired new parts growing on my body. I have odd-shaped lumps under my arches and on tops of my toes. A podiatrist informed me that they are benign cysts, created by the friction of certain shoes. And then there is the matter of the bunions. They are round balls sticking upward and outward from each large toe. My sister and I both inherited my father's feet. He used to insert a rubber wedge between his big toe and the next when he went to bed. I simply ignore them, but for vanity's sake, the bunions cannot go unfettered! I must choose enclosed fronts on my shoes or bands across the balls. The days of hubby giving me a foot massage are over, and who can blame him?

My hands have developed raised blue veins, and the bones protrude in-between. My granddaughter refers to the squirming veins as "blue worms." The same plastic surgeon informed me that I could inject each hand with fat to hide the veins (wonder what part of my body the fat would come from?). The cost would be a mere $5,000 per hand.

Parts of me have gone missing. Such as hair that is falling out. But I guess I shouldn't worry, since I am gaining it on my chin and above my upper lip!

I was born without three permanent teeth. I am lucky that is all that was missing! The holes where they were supposed to appear didn't matter when I was still eating baby food. Eventually, however, the teeth that did appear moved over into the holes, necessitating braces. Twenty years later, I needed bridges. And now, implants. Why bother, if dentures are next??

Choosing the proper foods and portions at this age is like being in boot camp. Especially with high cholesterol. Charley and I count our blessings that we do not have high blood pressure, heart disease, kidney disease, tuberculosis, diabetes, multilple sclerosis, hepatitis, shingles, Crohn's disease, Parkinson's, colitis, osteoporosis, hemorrhoids, rheumatoid arthritis, AIDS, or cancer. We are continually digesting complex carbohydrates (fruits and veggies, meaning a salad at EVERY lunch)), 100% whole grains, fish, and poultry. I begin drooling when I think of a medium rare hunk of steak! Peanut butter, cakes, pies, ice cream, frozen yogurt, candy, do not even enter our home. Cheesy or creamy sauces and pizza never enter our mouths. We snack on Reduced Fat Wheat Thins, hummus, granola bars, and fruit. One wine or beer is our limit before switching to water, juice, or soda. I still have the "pooch."

There is the matter of hearing loss. Charley claims I cannot hear him and I tell him the reason I can't hear him is because he has a pipe in his mouth, is mumbling, and is in another room. I claim he cannot hear me, even if I am in the same room. When I have to repeat everything, I simply get louder. Eventually, I am shouting. "You don't have to shout!" he tells me, all huffy. I ask him to get a hearing test, and he asks me to get my ears cleaned out.

Hot flashes are the worst part. Charley fondly proclaims that I have had them for twenty years, which is close to the truth. What would men do if they were overcome throughout the day (in dress shirt and tie) with a prickly rash, and waves of sweat? In our Florida apartment we arrive at a compromise: I keep the temperature low, and Charley wears a light sweatshirt. He is used to my pulling the covers up to my chin to protect against the blast of cold air hitting my side of the bed. He is also used to my subsequent thrashing to get those covers off about ten minutes later. His body is like a furnace if I cuddle against him, so I reach over with only an arm. Immediately I begin to feel a burning lightning bolt shoot through my limb. I count that as a good thing!

I saw an ad in THE SUN SENTINEL Sunday paper for a choice of nightgown or pajamas designed to help women "who suffer pain, night sweats, and other discomforts" to get restful, comfortable sleep. The nightwear comes in a handful of styles and colors and the cost ranges from $29.95-$69.95. I was actually considering looking at the manufacturer's website until I read further. The journalist tried the pajamas and felt the same old YOU-KNOW-WHATS! But maybe if I looked good, I'd acquire some grace???

Living in a Pocket

When Charley and I bought this condo in Florida, he went to Delray Beach Library to get a card. "Sorry," the woman behind the desk told him. "We can't give you a card because you don't live in Delray Beach. You live in a pocket."

"But I can show you my driver's license!" Charley responded. "It clearly says my address is Delray Beach."

"It says Delray Beach, and that is probably where your mail is processed. But your number on Route A1A is in a pocket that's not part of any town," the woman maintained.

Being Irish, Charley persisted. "I'd like to see the head librarian." When he started to create a scene, I headed for the car. In a short while, he approached the car waving a library card. Clearly he had intimidated her. I was afraid to show my face in there. Instead, I made lists for him to pick up for me.

When we got back to our condo, Charley questioned the manager of our complex. Tom Hill had been there since the buildings went up in the early 80's, and he still provides all our answers!

"Tom, I've never heard of anyone living in a pocket before. What the hell does that mean?"

"It means that our building and everything for half a mile south of us along A1A are in an unincorporated pocket. We're not part of any town. Thirty percent of the land mass of Florida is in unincorporated pockets."

"What do we do about taxes and services?"

"You pay your taxes to the county and all emergency services have to come from a county station. It's way out west in Boynton Beach and it takes a while."

"So we live in a pocket, pay taxes to the county, have no library, and could croak before the paramedics arrive? Whose water are we drinking and who's the lucky recipient of our sewage?"

"Boynton Beach." Tom was a hands-on manager, but a man of few words. He dispensed information on a need-to-know basis.

"How do we claw our way out of the pocket?"

"You have to be invited to be annexed by a surrounding town."

"What if we don't want to be annexed by that town but by another one?"

"The pocket has to vote and the town that's annexing has to vote."

The karma in the state of Florida was bad enough after the "hanging chad" incident that elected G.W. In its infinite wisdom, the legislature recently mandated that unincorporated pockets would have to be absorbed by surrounding towns. In 2007, the Florida Coalition for Preservation mounted an offensive to prevent the overdevelopment of Briny Breezes mobile home park. They were successful. Next, the Coalition worked to persuade the town of Gulf Stream to annex our pocket. Gulf Stream is an incorporated town on Route A1A between our pocket and Delray Beach. Our pocket would benefit, if annexed, with a lower tax base than Boynton Beach to the north; a strict zoning code for future building along the ocean, preventing the skyscrapers in Boynton Beach that sit vacant; and round-the-clock police with closer fire/rescue.

After a year of campaigning, we have this month become part of Gulf Stream. Now we have a different problem. Should we change all our legal documents (passport, wills, health care, etc.) to the new address? Mail delivery from Delray Beach and our zip code will remain the same. If we stand in the DMV for four-five hours (no exaggeration!) to change our driver's license to Gulf Stream, when we get to the front of the line the clerk will say, "Show me proof that you live in Gulfstream, not Delray Beach." What are we supposed to show? I think Charley and I will take two cars!

Pam the Android

I have been amusing myself lately writing about the eccentricities of my parents, Ev and Walt. They were healthy in mind and body into their nineties and lived independently near us in Florida. The chapters I have been working on will become part of my manuscript titled something like, A HANDBOOK TO OUTLAST YOUR ELDERLY PARENTS.

Most recently I have been describing the ritual my mother performed every night before going to bed. She would first change into a tee shirt and then flannel pajamas, in case she got cold under the a.c. Then my father would rub BenGay on her back under her tee, where she suffered from a bulging disc. The smell would permeate the house for days! By the time she entered the bathroom, my father, already in his flannel pajamas, had removed his hearing aids (if he'd worn them!), inserted a rubber wedge between his big toe and the next one, and was snoring on his back with his mouth open.

Once in the bathroom, my mother would sit to let her noontime Metamucil wafer perform its advertised function. This would often be a slow, unhurried process, accompanied by a crossword puzzle book. Thereafter, she would brush her teeth, smear Oil of Olay over her face, and wind a few strands of auburn hair under bobby pins. No need to set the alarm. There was no reason to get up at any particular time! Bottles of vitamins on the kitchen counter awaited morning consumption next to a cereal bowl, cup and spoon reserved for instant Maxwell House, and a plate for toast.

I have become "My Mother, Myself!" But my bedtime ritual produces a different image. Charley and I enter the bedroom together. He has earlier brushed his teeth and flossed, while I was scrubbing the pots and pans in the kitchen. He takes off his clothes, throws on an old tee shirt with his shorts, and sets the alarm. I am lucky if I have even put away my shoes, earrings, and watch, while he turns out his bedside lamp. I finish changing into my pajamas by the light in the bathroom. I used to wear sexy lace babydolls, but that was twenty years ago. I graduated to full-length lacy nightgowns, but that was ten years ago. Now I wear flannel pajamas as a courtesy to my legs, that twitch or cramp after lengthy tennis matches.

In the bathroom, I rub ointment on my rotator cuff. I take my vitamins at night - better absorption, the doctor said. I reach for my three containers of "C," "D," and a multi, then my soy supplement, my cholesterol pill, my calcium, my fish oil. I hear Charley's rhythmic deep breathing coming from the bed. I hate how he can fall asleep so fast! How do men do that? I still have nine steps before I hit the mattress.

I must use water to transform yellow fiber powder into a thick, cold liquid that I can barely swallow. A rinse of antiseptic follows brushing and flossing - I don't know why I bother with the antiseptic, since the only person who might smell my breath is sound asleep! But the dentist told me to.

Next I insert a clear plastic appliance in my mouth that will keep my jaw from grinding at night and ridges from forming in my teeth. I wash my makeup off with an exfoliant for my clogged pores and carefully wipe eye liner off with astringent pads. I smear green goop that promises miracles under my eyes, around my mouth, and across my forehead. A topcoat of polish goes on my nails. God, that stuff stinks! Almost finished!

I reach into the bottom of the closet and grab the contoured foam pillow that I will position between my legs, if my dislocated disc acts up. I turn out the bathroom light and creep to my nightstand in the dark. There, I grab two wrist braces for my carpal tunnel - one for each hand. The android is ready for bed!

Charley feels my weight tilt the mattress and rolls over to give me a good-night kiss, a token to our yesterdays. "I guess we won't be having spontaneous sex tonight," he mumbles.