Here’s a problem that, as we get older and our blood thins, I am certain we ALL have with our spouses. One of us likes the bedroom nice and toasty warm, while the other prefers an igloo (all that’s missing from my bedroom is the hole in the floor for some fun, recreational ice fishing!)

Lord knows I love my wife, but this is beyond ridiculous. Not only is the air conditioner set to 62 degrees, but she also has to have the ceiling fan blowing directly down on me, creating a polar vortex effect that really chaps my … lips. I sleep in a sweatshirt, sweatpants and socks under a thick blanket and shiver all night, while she’s in a nightie, uncovered, and complaining how hot it is in the room. (I thought this might have been her “changes,” but it’s been going on for decades, so… no.)

The kicker? My side of the bed is the one closest to the air conditioner!! I’ve offered — nay, BEGGED — to switch sides countless times, but she stubbornly refuses. “It’ll be better for you, hon,” I say. “Closer to the cold. You’ll be so much more comfortable!” All I hear is  “No.” (It’s hard to concentrate on the details of a conversation  when ice is starting to encase your head!) 

I am guessing the reason for her unwillingness to switch is because her side of the bed is closest to the door, so when she gets that urge at 3 a.m to do a dishwash or use her Magic Eraser on the kitchen floor, she’s being thoughtful so as not to disturb me. (Did I actually just say that??) I think it’s more about being closest to the door so if God forbid there’s a fire or something, her escape route is that much closer than mine. The upside for me? I’ll finally be warm.

But I’m glad to report that there has been a thaw in the argument and we’ve struck a compromise. She has agreed to set the air conditioner on “energy saver,”  so I at least get a few precious moments where I can lose the gloves! What did I give up? Well, because the AC now shuts periodically, the starting temperature has been lowered to a just-shy-of-balmy 59 degrees.

#marriedaf

 

You thought this post was going to be about Viagra, didn’t you? The need for those little blue devils is certainly a sign of aging. But an even surer sign of getting old is when you have to get one of those plastic cases to keep all of your pills straight.

In theory, it seems like a fine idea, to ensure people with memory loss — or just plain stupidity — take their pills when they’re supposed to. Well, as I’ve come to learn, organizing your medications and actually taking them are two different things. After all, you can take a pill with water, but you can’t make it drink.

I can’t tell you how many mornings I wake up and realize I didn’t take my pills the night before. Usually, this happens after a night of cocktails, when I get home and crash so fast that not taking pills is only one of the many things wrong the next morning.  Fellas, ever wake up with your shorts completely twisted around, so the opening is in the rear? How does that happen???

A friend of mine came up with what seemed like an excellent solution to my forgetfulness. He told me to set a reminder on my phone. So I did.

One night, we were out to dinner with another couple, when my reminder — Terry Jacks’ soulless “Seasons in the Sun” — started blaring out of my phone. (It mostly reminds me to change my reminder. But any ditty voted “Favorite Song” by the graduating seniors of Seaford High School, Class of ’74, can’t be ALL bad, can it? CAN IT???) Anyway, I stand up and excuse myself from the table, when one of our dining companions innocently asks, “Where are you going?”

“Where am I going?? I reply. “I’m going to another restaurant. I think I’ll have a better chance to find people I actually like.” (I would never really say that … anymore. That’s just what goes through my mind when people ask me where I’m going when I stand up in a restaurant. There just aren’t that many multiple-choice answers to that question. What I actually say is, ” ‘Seasons in the Sun’ is playing, so that means I have to go to the men’s room and cram a suppository up my ass. Enjoy your meal!”)

But back to the case at hand. If you’re like me, you’ve probably dropped the damned thing at least once and watched a week’s worth of medications roll all over the tile floor. And just like socks in a dryer, when you think you’ve collected them all, there’s always at least one unaccounted for.  This wouldn’t be a problem, but we have a dog who, as dogs will, eats anything that falls to the floor. So it’s either no heartburn, or a very loose stool for little Bailey.

Cut to 3 AM. I feel a cactus growing in my cheek. The desert-like conditions inside my mouth brought on by the jet-propulsed air from the nearby CPAP machine awakens me, so I use the time to go to the bathroom again. Returning to bed, there’s the dog, on my side, laying under my blanket, looking all cozy and warm and taking up the exact space where I like to stretch out my legs. (It’s so painfully clear which one of us my wife prefers!) Watching the dog lying where he is, I pray to the almighty above that Bailey ate the heartburn pill. Why don’t I know for sure, you ask? Because the pharmaceutical companies decided the heartburn pill should be round and the color ‘egg shell,’ while the bowel blaster is round and the color ‘sand.’ Egg shell or sand? I CAN’T TELL THE FUCKING DIFFERENCE!!! You need  Sherwin Williams swatch cards to make it through the day!!

Finally maneuvering back into bed so as not to disturb anyone, I reconnect the air compressor to my mask, the straps nestling into what are now permanent indentations in my face. As my eyes close and I begin to fall into a glorious sleep, I suddenly think… “Did I take my pills?”

I’m not sure if this is a “getting old” thing or what, but the fact that automation is creeping into everything is so scary to me. Actually, it’s not the idea of automation that’s scary; it’s the fact we can’t seem to do it right that scares me.

I had a discussion about this with a getting-old friend of mine not too long ago. I’ll call it “Adventures in the Men’s Room.” (It’s not what you’re thinking, you disgusting animals .. just read on!)

I was telling this friend about using the men’s room in my office. I was heading toward a urinal to take care of business, when I heard the paper towel machine start up. Apparently, it’s based on a motion detector, and I must have set if off by walking too close to it. I continued on to the urinal (yes, I use the low one, ‘cause I need the extra length.) As I’m in midstream, the urinal decided to flush … spraying the water/uric acid mixture all over my pants! So I curse, finish up and head to the sink to wash up. I put my hands under the faucet. No water. I look for handles. Nope, it’s also a motion detector. But where’s the activator? I move my hands up, then down. Nothing. I do it more rapidly. Still nothing. I moved my hands to the left, and then right, when .. uh-oh, too far to the right. The soap dispenser squirts onto my shirt sleeve. I move my hands back under the faucet to rinse off, and finally, I get water. But as soon as it starts, it stops! I go for the soap again. I move my hands up, down, bang on the nozzle, wave the back of my hand in a frenzied motion… Nothing. I move toward the water, and the soap comes out! “Mother trucker,” I scream. (Not really) Defeated, I grab the already dispensed paper towel to wipe off my arm. As I open the door to leave, I am mocked by the once-again flushing urinal.

Or how about the self checkout at the supermarket? Has anyone EVER completed the checkout successfully? It seems simple enough. Scan. Bag. Repeat. Pay. Leave. But.. not so fast! I scan an item and put it in the bag. I reach for the next item to scan, and the machine tells me, “Please place the item in the bag.” I JUST DID!! So, I take it out of the bag and put it back in. The machine tells me, “Please scan the item before putting it in the bag.” I ALREADY DID, GODDAMN IT!! I interrupt the clerk, who I assume is in the middle of a very important supermarket conversation with a co-worker, to wave her over. She punches in a very secret supermarket “eyes only” code, and I begin again. But wait.. I have the shopper’s card, and it never told me when to put it in, so I’m paying full price for everything. I quickly think of how I can avoid going home for the next … ever, because, you know, Carrie! (“You paid full price for everything? That’s it. You’re not allowed to shop anymore!!”) Oh, one last handy hint: If you’re buying tomatoes, make sure they have the sticker with the code on them. If they don’t, you get a choice of 15 different types of tomatoes to choose from, and I don’t know about you, but to me, there is no discernable difference between “Beefsteak tomatoes (3061)” and “vine-ripe tomatoes (3151)” — except the price. And I’m always on the losing end of that game. I can hear television icon Bob Barker in my head: “The price is wrong … BITCH!” 

So, it if we can’t do bathrooms or supermarket checkouts, how am I expected to accept cars that drive themselves? How’s THAT going to work?

“Please say your destination.”

“Old Country Road, Plainview.”

I then sit back, smoke a doobie, and fall asleep. Why not? The car can drive itself! What better way to use my time? I awake in what I think is a half-hour, but is actually 17 hours later! (Really good weed!) I see a sign that says “Dallas, 65 miles.” Apparently, there’s an Old Country Road in Plainview… TEXAS! (Not sure if the problem here is the automation or the doobie! But if forced to testify under oath, I’d swear it’s the autopilot.)

And don’t even get me started on the “bots” that have replaced humans at call centers. I had THIS interaction just today trying to make an online payment on an account. For some reason, I couldn’t create a new account because I’d had one in the past, but that one was inactive, so I couldn’t make a payment OR create a new account. I needed tech support.

“Thank you for calling (ANY company!). Before I can get started, I’ll first need to get some information. Using the touch-tone keypad, enter your account number or social security number.”

I do that.

“You just entered XXX-XX-XXX. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t understand your answer. Is that correct?”

I think.. Is WHAT correct, my social security number, or the fact that the robot didn’t understand my answer?!?!? I re-key my number.

“OK. I’ve found your account. Do you wish to make a payment?”

“Representative.”

“OK, you wish to speak to a representative. Before I can transfer you, tell me a little bit about the reason for your call. For instance, you can say, “pay bill,” or “get a payoff figure …”

“Pay bill.”

“OK. You wish to pay your bill. You can visit our website at XXXXX.com to pay online, or pay now by phone. If you’re using a credit card or debit card, there will be a fee of $30 added to your payment.  Do you wish to pay now?”

“Representative.”

“OK, you wish to speak to a representative. If this call is about a delinquent payment, press or say one… If this call..”

“REPRESENTATIVE!” I start violently depressing the “O for operator” key and the “pound or hash” key. (so THAT’S why they call it a pound key!)  Then I hold them both down together, creating what I hope is one of those tones used by the CIA to inflict ear damage on ISIS!

“I’m sorry, I don’t understand that command. Please call back later.”

Aaarghhh!!

Like Charlie Brown, expecting a different outcome when Lucy says, “I promise I won’t pull the football away this time,” I call back.

We repeat the past 15 minutes of entering numbers, trying to explain to a robot what the call is about, and FINALLY, I get to a human. (SPOILER ALERT: Speaking to a human is not the advantage you’d think it should be.)

“Hello, this is Chuck,” he says in a familiar sing-song tone.

“Chuck? Really? Where are you based, Chuck?”

“I’m in Bangalore, India.”

“Yeah? Are there a lot of ‘Chucks’ over there in Bangalore?” Crickets. (I think they American-ize their names to make us feel more comfortable. So, I figure I’ll try to make HIM feel more comfortable. You know, break the ice a bit.)

“To whom am I speaking?” he says.

“I’m Sridivhar.”

“Let me try to help you, Sridivhar.” They have no sense of humor AT ALL. “What seems to be the problem?”

I explain my problem.

“OK,” Chuck says. “I can help you with that. But first, I’ll need your social security number or account number …”

If life were fair, no one would be subjected to the stream of expletives that rolls from my mouth at poor Chuck, who’s only trying to do his three-dollar-an-hour job!! But life ISN’T fair (see all of this above!) I think you feel me.

I slam the phone down and pour a drink to calm myself. It’s 9:45 in the morning.

Carrie comes into the kitchen and says, “Really? You’re drinking at 9:45 in the morning?”

I turn to her and scream: “REPRESENTATIVE!!!!”