One advantage of getting old, or at least so I thought, was the ability to take advantage of the Social Security Administration Medicare Program. The advantage is there, to be sure, the taking thereof can be a bit challenging.
Approaching age 65, I contacted the SSA to get set up for Medicare. Medicare, as it turns out, is available for just about everyone. Everyone, as it turns out, doesn’t include people with kidney cancer and/or on dialysis, whom I assume, must either be rich (they won’t be for long, dialysis isn’t cheap) or must “get their affairs in order” (because kidney cancer is almost always fatal), but for the rest of us, there are several options for little or no cost, all of which provide little or no coverage. Actually, the coverage isn’t too bad, as coverage goes, as long as you select wisely from those several options.
The application process was interesting, to say the least. I received my Medicare Card, in “due course,” after filling out a “short” on-line questionnaire (twice, because the site went down during the first filling), making a phone call (three actually, because no one was available for call one or two), and waiting for several weeks (apparently what constitutes “due course”). My card indicates that I am enrolled in Medicare Part A and Medicare Part B. I am not enrolled in Medicare Part D or Medicare Part C, if there is a Part C, which I don’t think there is, but there might have been at one time or else why would Part D be Part D instead of Part C, unless the D stands for “Donut Hole,” which I understand is the most important part of Part D, and resembles a “black hole,” into which everything that falls gets no prescription coverage at all.
In any case, because of Part D and probably because there is no Part C and because Part A and Part B don’t cover a lot of stuff, and the stuff they do cover has limitations and “co-pays,” I decided to also get “supplemental” insurance from the HMO that had been insuring my company for years. I applied and was forwarded, in due course, two (no I don’t know why) complete applications packages with complete information packages and supporting packages from the Social Security Administration, which, of course, I had already received directly from the Social Security Administration. I filled out one application carefully and completely, including all the appropriate information and making all the appropriate choices, only to discover “in due course” that I had been sent the wrong application.
So, in due course, I was forwarded two more application packages (the correct ones this time) with two more complete information packages and, of course, two more supporting packages from the Social Security Administration. I filled out one application carefully and completely, including all the appropriate information and making all the appropriate choices, and “in due course” was accepted into the program; I assume because I don’t have kidney cancer and/or am not on dialysis, but mostly because they are “happy to provide coverage” as long as they are required by law to do so and I pay the premiums. Consequently, in due course, I received my complete enrollment package, including the complete information package, twenty pages worth of information cleverly condensed to 300 pages of text and graphics, and, of course, a complete supporting package from the Social Security Administration.
I should mention that my enrollment package also included the HMO “Abridged Formulary for Part D Prescription Coverage.” The partial list of over 3000 prescription medications that are provided for a “small co-pay” to “plan participants.” Included are any all prescriptions that can be obtained inexpensively by the HMO and are also unlikely to be prescribed by the HMO doctors. Or perhaps it just seems that way.
05/12/11
Monday, January 16, 2012
On Getting Old, Part 2
I could be wrong, but I don’t think anybody wants to get old. I think we all have a time in our lives when we would like to get older: old enough to drive, for instance, or old enough to date, but definitely not old. I’m know that no self-respecting man wants to be considered “an old guy,” or worse, “an old fart,” or worse yet, “a dirty old man,” or the worst, “a senior citizen.” And I suspect that no self-respecting woman desires to be thought of as “a spinster,” or worse “an old maid,” or worse yet “an old hag,” or the worst, “a lovely elderly person.” I’m pretty sure that, as inevitable as it is, getting old is not something that we aspire to. My experience tells me that, in fact, most of us fear it to some degree, and some of us actually dread it. But I’m here to say that getting old, and being old, is not necessarily all that bad.
Take, for instance, dating: that age old institution that we couldn’t wait to be old enough for. Let’s face it, dating sucks; unless of course, awkward moments, unfulfilled expectations, and rejection are your idea of fun. It’s true that most of us met our spouses or partners through dating, and it was probably worth it, even though our several relationships probably didn’t work out; but it still sucks. Old people however, don’t have to date. OK, it’s usually because we couldn’t even if we wanted to, but even if we did, believe me, it would be a waste of time, and possibly a waste of Viagra, should we think we might get lucky which, believe me, we won’t. Old people who are single, for whatever reason, and there are nearly as many reasons as old people who are single, meet other old people at church, or at the senior center, or at work, but probably not at work because we are old and got fired and can’t find another job, because even though we have tons of experience, and know the job better than the kid who just started, but gets paid more, is young, and thus has more potential, though no skills whatever…. but I digress. My point is that dating sucks and old people don’t have to do it, not that it would do any good anyway.
And speaking of work (the thing that most old people don’t do anymore), the great thing is, they don’t have to, because old people get Social Security and Medicare, which allows them to retire “in comfort.” This, of course, assumes that retiring “in comfort” doesn’t require that you are able to stay in the house that you purchased many years ago and have almost paid off; because your Social Security check barely covers the taxes and insurance, much less the payment. And it assumes that “in comfort” doesn’t necessarily mean in good health, because Medicare, while cheap, isn’t free, and doesn’t cover everything, especially your prescriptions, which never seem to be in the “formulary,” and even the ones that are, aren’t covered most of the time because of the “donut hole.” But, not to be negative, as long as old people are flexible and don’t care about the frills, like houses, or fancy cars, or fancy clothes, or travel, or eating out, or eating much, or eating regularly; they, in fact, don’t have to work.
And speaking of fancy clothes, old people have little need for fancy clothes, which is a good thing because clothes today are designed for skinny children, or at least people who look like skinny children. And even if we are old people who look like skinny children, except we don’t look like children, because we’re old, chances are that jeans that don’t cover our navel, or tops that don’t cover our navel, or underwear that peeks out from both, but still doesn’t cover our navel, are not our idea of fashion, or even appropriate attire. But fortunately, sweat shirts and sweat pants come is a large variety of sizes and colors and we can wear them all the time, because exercising is a good thing and a very popular thing and how is anyone to know that we aren’t just about to go exercise, or just coming back from exercising or, if we’re out and about, actually exercising at the moment. And better yet, they completely cover our underwear, so no one knows that our underwear, which we never intended to be a fashion statement, may provide “relaxed comfort,” or “extra support,” or “superior wetness protection.”
So we can stop fearing or even dreading getting, or being, old. Now that we see a few of the many benefits, we can relax and start anticipating our “twilight years,” and/or enjoying them “in comfort.” Let’s put our favorite record in the record player, or put our favorite CD in the CD player, or our cue up our favorite itune on our ipod; pop some hot pockets in the microwave, break out a box of wine, and enjoy life. Old is good.
03/15/11
Take, for instance, dating: that age old institution that we couldn’t wait to be old enough for. Let’s face it, dating sucks; unless of course, awkward moments, unfulfilled expectations, and rejection are your idea of fun. It’s true that most of us met our spouses or partners through dating, and it was probably worth it, even though our several relationships probably didn’t work out; but it still sucks. Old people however, don’t have to date. OK, it’s usually because we couldn’t even if we wanted to, but even if we did, believe me, it would be a waste of time, and possibly a waste of Viagra, should we think we might get lucky which, believe me, we won’t. Old people who are single, for whatever reason, and there are nearly as many reasons as old people who are single, meet other old people at church, or at the senior center, or at work, but probably not at work because we are old and got fired and can’t find another job, because even though we have tons of experience, and know the job better than the kid who just started, but gets paid more, is young, and thus has more potential, though no skills whatever…. but I digress. My point is that dating sucks and old people don’t have to do it, not that it would do any good anyway.
And speaking of work (the thing that most old people don’t do anymore), the great thing is, they don’t have to, because old people get Social Security and Medicare, which allows them to retire “in comfort.” This, of course, assumes that retiring “in comfort” doesn’t require that you are able to stay in the house that you purchased many years ago and have almost paid off; because your Social Security check barely covers the taxes and insurance, much less the payment. And it assumes that “in comfort” doesn’t necessarily mean in good health, because Medicare, while cheap, isn’t free, and doesn’t cover everything, especially your prescriptions, which never seem to be in the “formulary,” and even the ones that are, aren’t covered most of the time because of the “donut hole.” But, not to be negative, as long as old people are flexible and don’t care about the frills, like houses, or fancy cars, or fancy clothes, or travel, or eating out, or eating much, or eating regularly; they, in fact, don’t have to work.
And speaking of fancy clothes, old people have little need for fancy clothes, which is a good thing because clothes today are designed for skinny children, or at least people who look like skinny children. And even if we are old people who look like skinny children, except we don’t look like children, because we’re old, chances are that jeans that don’t cover our navel, or tops that don’t cover our navel, or underwear that peeks out from both, but still doesn’t cover our navel, are not our idea of fashion, or even appropriate attire. But fortunately, sweat shirts and sweat pants come is a large variety of sizes and colors and we can wear them all the time, because exercising is a good thing and a very popular thing and how is anyone to know that we aren’t just about to go exercise, or just coming back from exercising or, if we’re out and about, actually exercising at the moment. And better yet, they completely cover our underwear, so no one knows that our underwear, which we never intended to be a fashion statement, may provide “relaxed comfort,” or “extra support,” or “superior wetness protection.”
So we can stop fearing or even dreading getting, or being, old. Now that we see a few of the many benefits, we can relax and start anticipating our “twilight years,” and/or enjoying them “in comfort.” Let’s put our favorite record in the record player, or put our favorite CD in the CD player, or our cue up our favorite itune on our ipod; pop some hot pockets in the microwave, break out a box of wine, and enjoy life. Old is good.
03/15/11
On Getting Old
I never minded getting older. In fact, when I was younger, much younger, getting older was pretty much my first priority. My brother was older, and as far as I could tell, he was having all the fun. He had lots of really cool friends, and I had a few that were not so much. He went on dates with girls, and I went to Junior Achievement and the Boy Scouts. He was pretty much a chick magnet, and I was pretty much invisible to any girl worthy of chick status. And worst of all, he drove a car and I rode a bicycle (his hand-me-down bicycle, I might add). Of course, having a license didn’t mean I would be able to get a date, and being older wouldn’t automatically make me any more popular in general, but at the time I took comfort in pretending it would.
Today I am much older, and I would like to think, much wiser: wise enough, in fact, to realize that getting older is neither the solution, nor the problem. The problem is that I’m getting OLD. I’m not exactly sure when it started; I think I first noticed it when one day after working in the yard and then relaxing in my Lazy Boy for a couple hours, I got up feeling not so much relaxed and rested as stiff and sore. Soon after, or perhaps before, I can’t remember for sure, I also noticed that peeing was more and more becoming a case of less and less, but more and more often. And I can’t remember for sure but it was somewhere around that time, that remembering for sure (or at all) was also more and more becoming less and less. I’m pretty sure that it was about that time that I discovered that my memory was still pretty good around any events that happened in the previous 30 seconds, or more than 30 years ago. But the interval between had become increasingly fuzzy. I believe it’s called the 30/30 syndrome, but I may have made that up. I can’t remember.
I remember that it was about then that my hair and mustache started going gray. It was soon after that I decided to grow a beard to cover my jowls, which had started to droop decidedly, a sure sign of getting old. The beard came in less gray, but definitely not the dirty blond of my youth. Today I’m pretty much a dirty white all over, but my wife (the love of my life) refers to it as a “distinguished silver gray.” Honestly, I don’t mind the color of my hair so much, as the increasing lack of it. My receding hairline (a sure sign of intelligence, according to that same wife) is making a beeline towards the ever-increasing baldness of my pate. When the two meet, it may be time for a “distinguished silver gray” combover; or perhaps a “distinguished silver gray” baseball cap, which I can wear turned around backwards, so I don’t look so old.
Speaking of peeing, which I was earlier in case you are getting old and can’t remember; sitting on the john is now a case of more and more, longer and longer; which wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, assuming that scheduling isn’t an issue, which it seldom is because there is nothing to schedule, because the economy is so bad that there is no money to go anywhere…but I digress. It wouldn’t necessarily be a problem because it provides an excellent time to catch up on my book reading, or magazine browsing, or app searching for my new smart phone, which I really love, and I don’t know how I ever got along without…but I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, it’s a problem because when I sit on the john for long periods, my legs fall completely asleep. Which means when I get up, or more accurately attempt to get up, I nearly fall down, which I haven’t yet, but if I did, I would probably break a hip and need a hip replacement, which means I would, officially and undeniably, be old.
In truth, I’ve been old for a while now. I must admit, however, that even though I am, getting older is still pretty much my first priority.
03/15/11
Today I am much older, and I would like to think, much wiser: wise enough, in fact, to realize that getting older is neither the solution, nor the problem. The problem is that I’m getting OLD. I’m not exactly sure when it started; I think I first noticed it when one day after working in the yard and then relaxing in my Lazy Boy for a couple hours, I got up feeling not so much relaxed and rested as stiff and sore. Soon after, or perhaps before, I can’t remember for sure, I also noticed that peeing was more and more becoming a case of less and less, but more and more often. And I can’t remember for sure but it was somewhere around that time, that remembering for sure (or at all) was also more and more becoming less and less. I’m pretty sure that it was about that time that I discovered that my memory was still pretty good around any events that happened in the previous 30 seconds, or more than 30 years ago. But the interval between had become increasingly fuzzy. I believe it’s called the 30/30 syndrome, but I may have made that up. I can’t remember.
I remember that it was about then that my hair and mustache started going gray. It was soon after that I decided to grow a beard to cover my jowls, which had started to droop decidedly, a sure sign of getting old. The beard came in less gray, but definitely not the dirty blond of my youth. Today I’m pretty much a dirty white all over, but my wife (the love of my life) refers to it as a “distinguished silver gray.” Honestly, I don’t mind the color of my hair so much, as the increasing lack of it. My receding hairline (a sure sign of intelligence, according to that same wife) is making a beeline towards the ever-increasing baldness of my pate. When the two meet, it may be time for a “distinguished silver gray” combover; or perhaps a “distinguished silver gray” baseball cap, which I can wear turned around backwards, so I don’t look so old.
Speaking of peeing, which I was earlier in case you are getting old and can’t remember; sitting on the john is now a case of more and more, longer and longer; which wouldn’t necessarily be a problem, assuming that scheduling isn’t an issue, which it seldom is because there is nothing to schedule, because the economy is so bad that there is no money to go anywhere…but I digress. It wouldn’t necessarily be a problem because it provides an excellent time to catch up on my book reading, or magazine browsing, or app searching for my new smart phone, which I really love, and I don’t know how I ever got along without…but I digress. Where was I? Oh yes, it’s a problem because when I sit on the john for long periods, my legs fall completely asleep. Which means when I get up, or more accurately attempt to get up, I nearly fall down, which I haven’t yet, but if I did, I would probably break a hip and need a hip replacement, which means I would, officially and undeniably, be old.
In truth, I’ve been old for a while now. I must admit, however, that even though I am, getting older is still pretty much my first priority.
03/15/11
Raising Children, Part 2
It seems I’ve been raising children most of my life. Let’s see. My youngest left home this year and my oldest was born 37 years ago. I’m currently 65 so, doing the math, I have been raising children most of my life. OK not most, but a solid majority of my life, I’ve been raising children.
The natural question arises then, what have I learned from being a parent for so long a time? And perhaps even more importantly, what sage advice do I have for those about to embark (for better or worse, the determination of which will come, if ever, much, much later) on the wonderful (or horrible, depending on that final determination) job of parenting.
To answer that natural question, and in the spirit of trying to enhance the joy (or ease the burden, depending on that final determination), I offer the following:
THE TOP TEN RULES FOR RAISING CHILDREN (In no particular order except more or less in chronological order and sort of least to most important, but not really, as all are really important, but some, especially one, numbered 10, is most important)
1. Breast is better than bottle.
2. Always wipe front to back.
3. Babies are not as fragile as you think.
4. Toddlers need to toddle, and talk.
5. Adolescents are more fragile than you think.
6. Discipline is important.
7. Truth is mandatory.
8. Listening works better than lecturing.
9. There’s no such thing as too much self-esteem.
10. Love trumps everything else.
I may not know much about raising children, and all my children have suggested, at one time or another, that I know practically nothing at all. BUT THESE THINGS I KNOW TO BE TRUE.
12/01/11
The natural question arises then, what have I learned from being a parent for so long a time? And perhaps even more importantly, what sage advice do I have for those about to embark (for better or worse, the determination of which will come, if ever, much, much later) on the wonderful (or horrible, depending on that final determination) job of parenting.
To answer that natural question, and in the spirit of trying to enhance the joy (or ease the burden, depending on that final determination), I offer the following:
THE TOP TEN RULES FOR RAISING CHILDREN (In no particular order except more or less in chronological order and sort of least to most important, but not really, as all are really important, but some, especially one, numbered 10, is most important)
1. Breast is better than bottle.
2. Always wipe front to back.
3. Babies are not as fragile as you think.
4. Toddlers need to toddle, and talk.
5. Adolescents are more fragile than you think.
6. Discipline is important.
7. Truth is mandatory.
8. Listening works better than lecturing.
9. There’s no such thing as too much self-esteem.
10. Love trumps everything else.
I may not know much about raising children, and all my children have suggested, at one time or another, that I know practically nothing at all. BUT THESE THINGS I KNOW TO BE TRUE.
12/01/11
Raising Children
When I married my first wife (Jill), I hoped and expected to have a couple children, preferably a son and a daughter, not necessarily in that order. As it turned out, I did have a son (Jeremy) and a daughter (Jessica), and then bit a later on three more sons (Todd, Jason, and Jeffrey), when I married my second wife (Linda). It was a package deal. Three more sons became two more sons when new son the eldest (Todd) decided he had neither the inclination nor patience to break in a new dad (me). So he moved back in with old dad (to remain unnamed) who was, an irresponsible, abusive, conniving and cheating, complete and total jerk (or so I’ve been told), but who was already broken in, and even better, not so broke as new dad. Not to worry: an able replacement for departed son came packaged with my third wife (Nancy). Alex was quite young, had recently, sadly, lost his old dad (Ed), and probably figured that any dad was better than no dad at all. So a son and a daughter became five (or four, depending on your parameters) sons and a daughter, raised (well or poorly, depending on whom and when you ask) over the course of 30-plus years.
The raising has had its moments. When Jeremy was about four or five, he fell through the ice on a lake where we lived at the time. It happened when he was off exploring on his own (never allowed, but practiced none-the-less), and we didn’t learn of the mishap until he returned to the house wet and freezing. He was none-the-worse for the mishap, but remains disinclined to water sports to this day. When he was eight or nine, he decided it would be funny to hide under Linda’s and my bed and scare us when we retired for the night. Unfortunately, that particular night was “date night,” and retiring very quickly turned to “dating.” Too quickly, it turned out, for Jeremy to spring the joke: He snuck out later when he thought (or hoped) we were asleep. I hope he was none-the-worse for the mishap, and I sincerely hope he does not remain disinclined to “dating” to this day.
Jessica was not yet two when I decided to take her and her brother for a ride in our new canoe. Purchased to better enjoy the lake (you guessed it) where we lived at the time. I had responsibly outfitted her with an appropriately-sized life jacket, which she wore with great displeasure throughout the ride. Finally, as we approached the dock, I (irresponsibly) allowed her to remove it, figuring nothing could happen this close to the end of the trip. Of course, it was at this moment that she decided to exit the canoe. In trying to prevent her exit I, of course, capsized the canoe. The water was not deep, and Jeremy and I could easily stand on the bottom. Jessica, however, could not and, worse yet, was nowhere to be seen. We found her happily treading water under the overturned canoe, amazingly, not traumatized and wanting only to do it again.
I suspect she was traumatized when, a few years later, an accident occurred in the office where I worked as an architect. A blueprint machine, recently serviced, sat with its protective cover removed from the collection of gears that controlled the speed at which it ran. While I was running a few prints, and (irresponsibly) not paying attention to her, Jessica’s curiosity led her to try to feel those fascinating gears. Of course, two fingers were quickly caught between those gears and crushed. It seemed like an eternity before I could dismantle the mechanism and release her, and an even longer eternity before I could get her to the emergency room. She remained amazingly calm, more concerned for my well-being than hers. Ultimately the fingers were saved, albeit one a tiny bit shorter and the other with a distinctive twist. She has since forgiven me my irresponsibility. I doubt I shall ever forgive myself. She has probably not forgiven me for telling her that her back surgery for scoliosis a few years later would not be a big deal or cause her a lot or pain. It was and it did.
Three sons who became two were my sons for only a few years. It was a lengthy time, no doubt, for adolescent boys struggling to become young men. It was over in a heartbeat for me, and many recollections have faded. I do remember when Jason, trying to deal with being heavy, and having his first “sort of” girlfriend, and not having good grades, and not happy about having a stepdad with “rules,” decided to move out. “Moving out,” it turned out, was very little moving, and no out at all. He took all his possessions and “moved out” to the basement. He set up housekeeping with the aid of some camping gear from the garage and the mini-fridge from the family room. “Moving out” also did not mean eating out, doing without an allowance, but he made his point. I did thereafter cut him a bit of slack on the “rules.”
It was only a few months after Jason “moved out” that he wanted to borrow my car (actually a Chevy Blazer) to run some errands before school. I suspect the “errands” had something to do with the “sort of” girlfriend, but I didn’t ask and acquiesced to his request. It was the very same day that Jeffrey asked to borrow his mom’s car, also for some errands before school. I now suspect some sort of complicity, but was oblivious at the time and acquiesced to his request. They left the house together that morning only to return about five minutes later. For reasons unknown to this day and circumstances only to be imagined, Jeffrey had somehow managed to solidly rear-end his mom’s car into the vehicle in front of him, which had stopped at the intersection of our road and the highway. Of course, the vehicle in front of him was my Blazer, driven by Jason.
Alex, it’s important to note, is a YouTube filmmaker and wannabe actor. He has wannabeed for most of his life, so it should have come as no surprise when, at about 13 years old, he asked his mom to pick up a few items for him on her way home from work. The items included, but were not necessarily limited to, lipstick, make-up, panty hose, wigs, and a feather boa or two. Given that list, it should have come as no surprise when, later that day, I spotted Alex and two of his very guy friends, walking up our residential street in full-on drag, sporting dresses, accessories, full make-up, hats, high heels, and, of course, feather boas. They were on their way to filming a sketch, the content of which I could only imagine, and since have tried hard to forget. Don’t get me wrong: neither Alex nor any of his friends are homosexuals, transsexuals, transvestites, or cross dressers; not that there would be anything wrong with that.
The raising has had its moments. When Jeremy was about four or five, he fell through the ice on a lake where we lived at the time. It happened when he was off exploring on his own (never allowed, but practiced none-the-less), and we didn’t learn of the mishap until he returned to the house wet and freezing. He was none-the-worse for the mishap, but remains disinclined to water sports to this day. When he was eight or nine, he decided it would be funny to hide under Linda’s and my bed and scare us when we retired for the night. Unfortunately, that particular night was “date night,” and retiring very quickly turned to “dating.” Too quickly, it turned out, for Jeremy to spring the joke: He snuck out later when he thought (or hoped) we were asleep. I hope he was none-the-worse for the mishap, and I sincerely hope he does not remain disinclined to “dating” to this day.
Jessica was not yet two when I decided to take her and her brother for a ride in our new canoe. Purchased to better enjoy the lake (you guessed it) where we lived at the time. I had responsibly outfitted her with an appropriately-sized life jacket, which she wore with great displeasure throughout the ride. Finally, as we approached the dock, I (irresponsibly) allowed her to remove it, figuring nothing could happen this close to the end of the trip. Of course, it was at this moment that she decided to exit the canoe. In trying to prevent her exit I, of course, capsized the canoe. The water was not deep, and Jeremy and I could easily stand on the bottom. Jessica, however, could not and, worse yet, was nowhere to be seen. We found her happily treading water under the overturned canoe, amazingly, not traumatized and wanting only to do it again.
I suspect she was traumatized when, a few years later, an accident occurred in the office where I worked as an architect. A blueprint machine, recently serviced, sat with its protective cover removed from the collection of gears that controlled the speed at which it ran. While I was running a few prints, and (irresponsibly) not paying attention to her, Jessica’s curiosity led her to try to feel those fascinating gears. Of course, two fingers were quickly caught between those gears and crushed. It seemed like an eternity before I could dismantle the mechanism and release her, and an even longer eternity before I could get her to the emergency room. She remained amazingly calm, more concerned for my well-being than hers. Ultimately the fingers were saved, albeit one a tiny bit shorter and the other with a distinctive twist. She has since forgiven me my irresponsibility. I doubt I shall ever forgive myself. She has probably not forgiven me for telling her that her back surgery for scoliosis a few years later would not be a big deal or cause her a lot or pain. It was and it did.
Three sons who became two were my sons for only a few years. It was a lengthy time, no doubt, for adolescent boys struggling to become young men. It was over in a heartbeat for me, and many recollections have faded. I do remember when Jason, trying to deal with being heavy, and having his first “sort of” girlfriend, and not having good grades, and not happy about having a stepdad with “rules,” decided to move out. “Moving out,” it turned out, was very little moving, and no out at all. He took all his possessions and “moved out” to the basement. He set up housekeeping with the aid of some camping gear from the garage and the mini-fridge from the family room. “Moving out” also did not mean eating out, doing without an allowance, but he made his point. I did thereafter cut him a bit of slack on the “rules.”
It was only a few months after Jason “moved out” that he wanted to borrow my car (actually a Chevy Blazer) to run some errands before school. I suspect the “errands” had something to do with the “sort of” girlfriend, but I didn’t ask and acquiesced to his request. It was the very same day that Jeffrey asked to borrow his mom’s car, also for some errands before school. I now suspect some sort of complicity, but was oblivious at the time and acquiesced to his request. They left the house together that morning only to return about five minutes later. For reasons unknown to this day and circumstances only to be imagined, Jeffrey had somehow managed to solidly rear-end his mom’s car into the vehicle in front of him, which had stopped at the intersection of our road and the highway. Of course, the vehicle in front of him was my Blazer, driven by Jason.
Alex, it’s important to note, is a YouTube filmmaker and wannabe actor. He has wannabeed for most of his life, so it should have come as no surprise when, at about 13 years old, he asked his mom to pick up a few items for him on her way home from work. The items included, but were not necessarily limited to, lipstick, make-up, panty hose, wigs, and a feather boa or two. Given that list, it should have come as no surprise when, later that day, I spotted Alex and two of his very guy friends, walking up our residential street in full-on drag, sporting dresses, accessories, full make-up, hats, high heels, and, of course, feather boas. They were on their way to filming a sketch, the content of which I could only imagine, and since have tried hard to forget. Don’t get me wrong: neither Alex nor any of his friends are homosexuals, transsexuals, transvestites, or cross dressers; not that there would be anything wrong with that.
Putting in the Pool
Having lived in Hawaii for about five years and having finally accepted that the weather was indeed practically perfect year round, I decided it was time to put in a pool. There was plenty of room in the backyard. The grass had never really come in, and my feeling that “if it’s green, it’s ground cover” was rapidly waning in popularity. I had a little extra money from the sale of some property in Vermont, the timing seemed right.
A perusal of the yellow pages resulted in the phone numbers of three companies that installed fiberglass pools (I had heard too many horror stories about poured-in-place pools). One number was “no longer in service,” and another remained unanswered for several dozen rings. I considered it a good sign when an answering machine of the third installer took my call. After leaving several messages over several days (the answering machine and I were becoming quite close), I finally got a return call from Paul Puaai of Pomohai Pools (the names have been changed to protect the guilty). Paul was a really big guy, with a really big smile, and a passion for hyperbole. I must admit I liked Paul from the start, but I should have taken the hint when all my questions were answered with “well, it depends.” As it turned out, “depends” ran about $2000 extra and two weeks of additional construction time per each.
Things didn’t start out well. The “excavator guy” didn’t show up on the day construction was to begin, and after several more days of no-show, Paul decided to hire someone else to dig the hole. I should have been suspicious, when the new guy arrived with a brand new backhoe in tow--all the warning stickers still affixed--and an Owner’s Operating Manual in his back pocket. Needless to say, the final size of the excavation bore little resemblance to the original size of the pool. Nonetheless, the pool sat very nicely in the hole: sitting level, we later learned, not so much. After the pool was full of water, it had to be drained and “adjusted” and refilled. The adjustment was successful, more or less. That is to say, the less water in the pool, the more successful it appeared.
The pool was finally set firmly in the ground and the pool deck area was prepared for the pouring of concrete. The preparation was uneventful; the pouring was an event worthy of ticket sales. On the day the deck was to be poured, the concrete trucks didn’t arrive until nearly 4:00 pm. It was summer and sunset wasn’t until nearly 7:00pm, but there was definitely not enough time to pour and properly finish the concrete before darkness fell. This fact escaped Paul and so pouring commenced. It was about 7:30pm when Paul asked if I had any high intensity nighttime construction lights available. Surprisingly, I didn’t. I suggested he drive a few cars around back and shine their lights on the work site. He did, and surprisingly, it worked pretty well.
I was beginning to think it might all turn out okay, so I headed in for a little delayed dinner. It was then that I heard a very loud splash, followed by an even louder, “OH S**T.” When I rushed back out to determine the cause of the outburst, it became abundantly clear that dinner, delayed or otherwise, was no longer on the agenda. Unfortunately, neither was finishing the concrete. The huge, gasoline-powered, concrete-finishing trowel, rented specifically for this job, was sitting peacefully, upside down, on the bottom of the pool. “No big deal,” Paul assured me, “Hand troweling works better anyway.” As it turned out, hand troweling, in the dark, of concrete well past the finishing window of opportunity, was a bit of a big deal. “No problem,” Paul assured me, “we have special state-of-the-art coatings that will make it ‘smooth as a baby’s butt.” True enough, it turned out, if the baby in question had a serious case of diaper rash.
How did the pool look in the end? Well, it depends. If you’re looking at it at dusk, on a day with a spectacular sunset, and squint a bit, and are not standing on the pool deck with bare feet, and the water level is a bit low; not bad, not bad at all.
01-17-11
A perusal of the yellow pages resulted in the phone numbers of three companies that installed fiberglass pools (I had heard too many horror stories about poured-in-place pools). One number was “no longer in service,” and another remained unanswered for several dozen rings. I considered it a good sign when an answering machine of the third installer took my call. After leaving several messages over several days (the answering machine and I were becoming quite close), I finally got a return call from Paul Puaai of Pomohai Pools (the names have been changed to protect the guilty). Paul was a really big guy, with a really big smile, and a passion for hyperbole. I must admit I liked Paul from the start, but I should have taken the hint when all my questions were answered with “well, it depends.” As it turned out, “depends” ran about $2000 extra and two weeks of additional construction time per each.
Things didn’t start out well. The “excavator guy” didn’t show up on the day construction was to begin, and after several more days of no-show, Paul decided to hire someone else to dig the hole. I should have been suspicious, when the new guy arrived with a brand new backhoe in tow--all the warning stickers still affixed--and an Owner’s Operating Manual in his back pocket. Needless to say, the final size of the excavation bore little resemblance to the original size of the pool. Nonetheless, the pool sat very nicely in the hole: sitting level, we later learned, not so much. After the pool was full of water, it had to be drained and “adjusted” and refilled. The adjustment was successful, more or less. That is to say, the less water in the pool, the more successful it appeared.
The pool was finally set firmly in the ground and the pool deck area was prepared for the pouring of concrete. The preparation was uneventful; the pouring was an event worthy of ticket sales. On the day the deck was to be poured, the concrete trucks didn’t arrive until nearly 4:00 pm. It was summer and sunset wasn’t until nearly 7:00pm, but there was definitely not enough time to pour and properly finish the concrete before darkness fell. This fact escaped Paul and so pouring commenced. It was about 7:30pm when Paul asked if I had any high intensity nighttime construction lights available. Surprisingly, I didn’t. I suggested he drive a few cars around back and shine their lights on the work site. He did, and surprisingly, it worked pretty well.
I was beginning to think it might all turn out okay, so I headed in for a little delayed dinner. It was then that I heard a very loud splash, followed by an even louder, “OH S**T.” When I rushed back out to determine the cause of the outburst, it became abundantly clear that dinner, delayed or otherwise, was no longer on the agenda. Unfortunately, neither was finishing the concrete. The huge, gasoline-powered, concrete-finishing trowel, rented specifically for this job, was sitting peacefully, upside down, on the bottom of the pool. “No big deal,” Paul assured me, “Hand troweling works better anyway.” As it turned out, hand troweling, in the dark, of concrete well past the finishing window of opportunity, was a bit of a big deal. “No problem,” Paul assured me, “we have special state-of-the-art coatings that will make it ‘smooth as a baby’s butt.” True enough, it turned out, if the baby in question had a serious case of diaper rash.
How did the pool look in the end? Well, it depends. If you’re looking at it at dusk, on a day with a spectacular sunset, and squint a bit, and are not standing on the pool deck with bare feet, and the water level is a bit low; not bad, not bad at all.
01-17-11
I Need to Pee
As men get older, say older than 50, and certainly older than 60, peeing can, more and more, become a case of less and less. This is not to say that 60 is old. It’s just that when you’re 60, or 64 say, than anything less than 64 is by definition, younger, and consequently 64 is by definition older. But I digress. My point is that I don’t pee like I used to. This is not to say that I pee less than I used to; in fact, I pee far more than I used to. It’s just that I pee far less than I used to, on a per pee basis.
My doctor has explained that this is caused by a condition called Benign Prostatic Hyperplasia or BPH. In layman’s terms, your prostate gland swells up as if you had cancer, but you don’t, or you hope you don’t; it can be hard to tell. They can do a test called the PSA test, or Prostate Specific Antigen test, but it’s often inconclusive. And supposedly, even if you do have prostate cancer but are old, which I am definitely not, even if not definitely young, the cancer can grow so slowly that you will probably die from something else first, a comforting thought. But my point is that I don’t pee like I used to.
There was a time, granted many years ago, when I won peeing contests in the boy’s room at Essex Junction Junior High. For those of you who may not have been boys, or attended junior high school, the classic contest involved two or more boys peeing, starting out directly in front of a urinal, then moving slowly back, in sync, until one or more could no longer “make the distance” or ran out of pee. The last man (or in this case, boy) standing (or in this case, peeing) and still making the distance was the winner. I’m proud to say (if a little embarrassed) that I won far more often than not. But, of course, I don’t pee like I used to.
Except on rare occasions. For some reason, every now and then, and I have no idea why, I can pee like a fifth grader (or seventh grader, if you need to be precise). The rare occasion is usually about 4:00 a.m. on my third or fourth trip to the bathroom in any given night, and it always takes me by surprise. I’ll approach the john with the usual trepidation, anticipating a hesitant start and paltry flow, only to be surprised by a rapid commencement and flow approaching that of the good old days of bathroom victories. I do not deny, these rare moments are cherished, and I must admit that at times I may have reveled. Enjoying the easy and powerful flow of days gone by and triumphs garnered, I might even have succumbed to the inclination that boys (and many men) have of talking to their instruments of flow (and other pleasures). I might even had said (or at least thought), “You go, big guy, show ‘em how it’s done.”
03/01/11
My doctor has explained that this is caused by a condition called Benign Prostatic Hyperplasia or BPH. In layman’s terms, your prostate gland swells up as if you had cancer, but you don’t, or you hope you don’t; it can be hard to tell. They can do a test called the PSA test, or Prostate Specific Antigen test, but it’s often inconclusive. And supposedly, even if you do have prostate cancer but are old, which I am definitely not, even if not definitely young, the cancer can grow so slowly that you will probably die from something else first, a comforting thought. But my point is that I don’t pee like I used to.
There was a time, granted many years ago, when I won peeing contests in the boy’s room at Essex Junction Junior High. For those of you who may not have been boys, or attended junior high school, the classic contest involved two or more boys peeing, starting out directly in front of a urinal, then moving slowly back, in sync, until one or more could no longer “make the distance” or ran out of pee. The last man (or in this case, boy) standing (or in this case, peeing) and still making the distance was the winner. I’m proud to say (if a little embarrassed) that I won far more often than not. But, of course, I don’t pee like I used to.
Except on rare occasions. For some reason, every now and then, and I have no idea why, I can pee like a fifth grader (or seventh grader, if you need to be precise). The rare occasion is usually about 4:00 a.m. on my third or fourth trip to the bathroom in any given night, and it always takes me by surprise. I’ll approach the john with the usual trepidation, anticipating a hesitant start and paltry flow, only to be surprised by a rapid commencement and flow approaching that of the good old days of bathroom victories. I do not deny, these rare moments are cherished, and I must admit that at times I may have reveled. Enjoying the easy and powerful flow of days gone by and triumphs garnered, I might even have succumbed to the inclination that boys (and many men) have of talking to their instruments of flow (and other pleasures). I might even had said (or at least thought), “You go, big guy, show ‘em how it’s done.”
03/01/11
Modern Technology, Part 6
I like my new smart phone. I used to love my new smart phone, but lately it’s been causing me a modicum of unneeded stress. That is to say, stress I don’t need right now, though I can’t remember needing stress right then, or ever, for that matter. I remember having stress often and wishing I didn’t, but I can’t say I ever remember not having stress and wishing I did: except, perhaps, for that brief moment when I thought I wanted to be a writer and bemoaned the fact that nothing had ever happened to me worth writing about. Of course, that was before the accident, the incident, the divorce, the untimely death, the other accident, the other incident, the other untimely death, the collapse of the economy, the foreclosure and the bankruptcy. Believe me, be careful what you...but I digress. The point is, my new smart phone isn’t as friendly as it used to be. And I think it’s up to something.
Take games, for example. Of the 50,000 or so games available, I selected about a dozen in the puzzles category that I thought might be fun and downloaded them. The process was deceptively simple. Within moments the games were on my phone and ready to entertain. And entertain they did, for a while. As I expected, starting puzzles were easily solved and ensuing puzzles were increasingly difficult. But I’m nothing if not clever, and I found the challenge stimulating; That is ,until I encountered, in every game without exception, the puzzle with no solution. That’s right: same format, same rules, same moves, just no way to solve. Try again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and still no solution. Now I can understand if one game had a puzzle that couldn’t be solved, but every game? Something is definitely up. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m sure it’s not me; after all I am really very clever.
Then there’s the music application. Now you need to understand that my smart phone is not an iphone so itunes does not come installed on the phone, nor is it available to install. Being a Verizon customer, getting an iphone was not an option when I upgraded my service. In fact it wasn’t an option until a whole week later. My account representative neglected to mention this bit of information, but I’m sure it’s only because she wasn’t aware of it. In any case, without itunes I am obligated to download music the old-fashioned way -- steal it. Fortunately my phone had a music-stealing application available at no charge, which I quickly downloaded, followed by, not so quickly, downloading about 130 of my favorite songs. The only problem is that my phone only plays one song at a time, which is expected and good and the norm, except that my phone plays the same one song over, and over, and over, and over. I just don’t think I can ride into ”the West Texas town of EL Paso” even one more time. Something is definitely up.
Finally there’s the “notification annunciator” feature of my smart phone. Lest I fail to notice whenever I receive a call (I guess, for a smart phone, turning off the ring tone doesn’t indicate my desire not to notice), or a voice mail, or a text message, or an email, or a gmail, I am notified of the event by a “delightful” five tone chime. Imagine my delight to be “chime notified” at 3:00 a.m. that I have just recieved a gmail from someone whom I don’t know, or care to know, who accidently entered my gmail address instead of their brother’s who has a similar address but lives in a time zone where it’s actually 9:00 a.m.
Similarly I am notified of any upcoming meetings or appointments I have entered in my smart phone Calendar, at a convenient 24 hours, and 12 hours, and one hour, and 30 minutes, and 10 minutes, and five minutes before said meeting or appointment. Not that I don’t appreciate a reminder now and then - I’m nothing if not forgetful, but six reminders over a 24-hour period is a bit much even for me. Not to mention the confusion when my smart phone chimes at 3:00 a.m. and I can’t tell if it’s a voice mail, or a text message, or an email, or a gmail, or my 12-hour-before-the-meeting-or-appointment reminder. Something is definitely up.
Don’t get me wrong, I still like my new smart phone. I just don’t love it, and we don’t sleep together any more. I sleep in the bedroom. My smart phone sleeps in the detached garage.
02/23/11
Take games, for example. Of the 50,000 or so games available, I selected about a dozen in the puzzles category that I thought might be fun and downloaded them. The process was deceptively simple. Within moments the games were on my phone and ready to entertain. And entertain they did, for a while. As I expected, starting puzzles were easily solved and ensuing puzzles were increasingly difficult. But I’m nothing if not clever, and I found the challenge stimulating; That is ,until I encountered, in every game without exception, the puzzle with no solution. That’s right: same format, same rules, same moves, just no way to solve. Try again, and again, and again, and again, and again, and still no solution. Now I can understand if one game had a puzzle that couldn’t be solved, but every game? Something is definitely up. I know what you’re thinking, but I’m sure it’s not me; after all I am really very clever.
Then there’s the music application. Now you need to understand that my smart phone is not an iphone so itunes does not come installed on the phone, nor is it available to install. Being a Verizon customer, getting an iphone was not an option when I upgraded my service. In fact it wasn’t an option until a whole week later. My account representative neglected to mention this bit of information, but I’m sure it’s only because she wasn’t aware of it. In any case, without itunes I am obligated to download music the old-fashioned way -- steal it. Fortunately my phone had a music-stealing application available at no charge, which I quickly downloaded, followed by, not so quickly, downloading about 130 of my favorite songs. The only problem is that my phone only plays one song at a time, which is expected and good and the norm, except that my phone plays the same one song over, and over, and over, and over. I just don’t think I can ride into ”the West Texas town of EL Paso” even one more time. Something is definitely up.
Finally there’s the “notification annunciator” feature of my smart phone. Lest I fail to notice whenever I receive a call (I guess, for a smart phone, turning off the ring tone doesn’t indicate my desire not to notice), or a voice mail, or a text message, or an email, or a gmail, I am notified of the event by a “delightful” five tone chime. Imagine my delight to be “chime notified” at 3:00 a.m. that I have just recieved a gmail from someone whom I don’t know, or care to know, who accidently entered my gmail address instead of their brother’s who has a similar address but lives in a time zone where it’s actually 9:00 a.m.
Similarly I am notified of any upcoming meetings or appointments I have entered in my smart phone Calendar, at a convenient 24 hours, and 12 hours, and one hour, and 30 minutes, and 10 minutes, and five minutes before said meeting or appointment. Not that I don’t appreciate a reminder now and then - I’m nothing if not forgetful, but six reminders over a 24-hour period is a bit much even for me. Not to mention the confusion when my smart phone chimes at 3:00 a.m. and I can’t tell if it’s a voice mail, or a text message, or an email, or a gmail, or my 12-hour-before-the-meeting-or-appointment reminder. Something is definitely up.
Don’t get me wrong, I still like my new smart phone. I just don’t love it, and we don’t sleep together any more. I sleep in the bedroom. My smart phone sleeps in the detached garage.
02/23/11
Modern Technology, Part 5
After almost two years, my Palm Pilot “smart phone” died. I suppose it was a premature death in so much as it died from drowning. I wont go into details; suffice it to say, recovering the deceased from it’s watery grave would have been less unpleasant had I previously flushed. I will admit, I didn’t mourn the passing. As smart phones go, my Palm was not so much. As a phone it was fine, as a contact database and calendar it was OK, as a camera it was marginally useful, but as a portal to information on the World Wide Web, it was useless. On the rare day I would get a connection, the combination of a tiny screen and my failing eye site would result only in copious cursing (expletives deleted) and me none the wiser.
Three days after it passed, I replaced my Palm Pilot with a new smart phone, the HTC Android Incredible. I took me three days to replace it because Verizon Wireless was going to charge me $60 to cancel my previous contract before it expired, in three days. I also had to change my phone number, because my current number didn’t qualify for the $100 credit that was coupled only to my son’s old number that was being discontinued. So now I have my son’s old number, which means I get calls at all hours (including 4:00 in the morning) from his many old girl friends who, for some reason, he decided not to inform of his new number, or even that he had a new number. I suspect it’s because he can’t remember most of their names, much less their numbers.
None-the-less, despite coming with a completely inappropriate calling circle of new friends, I love my new Incredible smart phone. And incredible it is! It’s a contact database, a calendar, a calculator (actually several calculators), camera, a camcorder, an internet portal, an email device, a navigation device, a video player, a music player, a carpenter’s level, a clock, a stop watch, a dictionary, a thesaurus, a phone book, a scanner, a compass, a planetarium …, well you get the idea. I believe you can even use it to make phone calls, but I haven’t had time yet to try out that particular application.
Speaking of applications, I understand that there are over 100,000 applications available for my new smart phone and, unfortunately, over half of them are completely free. Unfortunate because I now spend way too much time checking out and downloading applications which I don’t need and often can’t figure out. Not to mention the over 50,000 games, which I definitely don’t need and can never figure out. I have to admit I haven’t read a book or even a magazine since I got my phone, but I’m pretty sure there is a book reader application available, so if I can find it I might give it a try, not right away, mind you, but some day, if I can find the time.
Yes, I love my new smart phone, and it really is incredibly smart. Not only does it let me communicate with the world, at least for as long as I pay the cell phone bill, but it also keeps me organized and informed. For better or worse, it provides hours and hours of entertainment, and it even garners me great status among my peers, not to mention hours of discussing and comparing the advantages and disadvantages of my smart phone compared to theirs. I have only one small reservation about my new smart phone. I sometimes wonder if it is wise to have a relationship with a device that is undoubtedly smarter than I am.
02/21/11
Three days after it passed, I replaced my Palm Pilot with a new smart phone, the HTC Android Incredible. I took me three days to replace it because Verizon Wireless was going to charge me $60 to cancel my previous contract before it expired, in three days. I also had to change my phone number, because my current number didn’t qualify for the $100 credit that was coupled only to my son’s old number that was being discontinued. So now I have my son’s old number, which means I get calls at all hours (including 4:00 in the morning) from his many old girl friends who, for some reason, he decided not to inform of his new number, or even that he had a new number. I suspect it’s because he can’t remember most of their names, much less their numbers.
None-the-less, despite coming with a completely inappropriate calling circle of new friends, I love my new Incredible smart phone. And incredible it is! It’s a contact database, a calendar, a calculator (actually several calculators), camera, a camcorder, an internet portal, an email device, a navigation device, a video player, a music player, a carpenter’s level, a clock, a stop watch, a dictionary, a thesaurus, a phone book, a scanner, a compass, a planetarium …, well you get the idea. I believe you can even use it to make phone calls, but I haven’t had time yet to try out that particular application.
Speaking of applications, I understand that there are over 100,000 applications available for my new smart phone and, unfortunately, over half of them are completely free. Unfortunate because I now spend way too much time checking out and downloading applications which I don’t need and often can’t figure out. Not to mention the over 50,000 games, which I definitely don’t need and can never figure out. I have to admit I haven’t read a book or even a magazine since I got my phone, but I’m pretty sure there is a book reader application available, so if I can find it I might give it a try, not right away, mind you, but some day, if I can find the time.
Yes, I love my new smart phone, and it really is incredibly smart. Not only does it let me communicate with the world, at least for as long as I pay the cell phone bill, but it also keeps me organized and informed. For better or worse, it provides hours and hours of entertainment, and it even garners me great status among my peers, not to mention hours of discussing and comparing the advantages and disadvantages of my smart phone compared to theirs. I have only one small reservation about my new smart phone. I sometimes wonder if it is wise to have a relationship with a device that is undoubtedly smarter than I am.
02/21/11
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)