that's getting old

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!!!!”

Remember when we were like 11, and we didn’t want to play with little kids and their stupid trucks and dolls anymore, but the older kids always ran us off? They called them the “tween” years. (I KNOW you remember this. You might not know where you put your car keys, but you know this. We can name every family on the block we grew up on, all the kids’ names, the neighborhood streets and the families that lived there, the name of the ice cream man, every inch of the parks nearby, where we played, WHAT we played! That was our generation. We were young, happy and OUTSIDE!!)

Today, we find ourselves as “tweens” again — between the really old senior citizens and the forty-somethings who already look at us like something to fear, something hideous they will morph into, like Jeff Goldblum in ‘The Fly.’ BRINDLEFLY!! AAHHHHHH!!! KILL IT!!!

The difference this time around is that we WANT to keep playing with the little kids and their stupid trucks and dolls, and enjoying the last vestiges of whatever youthfulness we have left. The last thing we want is to be welcomed into the really old folks’ homes.

Have you noticed just how many really old people there are out there?  Folks in their 80s, 90s, operating cars at astoundingly slow speeds, blocking supermarket aisles with their shopping carts, falling asleep on gym equipment, setting off Amber alerts … they’re everywhere!

And you know what else about really old people? They don’t give a shit anymore. They’re grumpy, probably in pain, and truly, they just don’t give a shit about anyone or anything anymore. Sometimes, I get caught behind an old guy at the bagel store, and he’s got that look on his face like the “Twilight Zone” episode where the mannequins realize a human has come into their room and they have to appear lifeless. (Either that, or he’s just enjoying an on-the-spot bowel movement. I can’t be sure). “Are you done ordering (or soiling yourself),”  I ask. And, he snaps back to reality and says, almost automatically, “Fuck off!”

Really? Does turning 90 do that to us? But even worse than the don’t-give-a-shit attitude is the amount of time it takes really old people to do, well, just about anything. Ever get stuck behind a woman rummaging through her change purse (!!)  to find the three pennies that’ll give  her exact change, while simultaneously stumping the cashier about how much change to give back? The odds of me getting out of there alive are about the same as an alien spaceship coming to Earth and choosing me — and ONLY me — to go back with them to impregnate their women and keep their race alive. (My first question would be, “The women don’t look like YOU, do they?” My second question would be, “Will I actually be impregnating ALL of your women?” It’s good to know what you’re getting into!)

I choose to look at this second period of “tween” years as  — to borrow a phrase from Hannah Montana — “the best of both worlds.” To the generation coming up behind us and loathing every minute of it, we can look ahead and borrow some of that really old attitude. Sometimes, when I’m at Dunkin’ Donuts and there’s a 40-something behind me, on his phone, being all self-important, I’ll get that faraway look on my face until he asks if I’m finished with my order. I turn, and gladly tell him, “In a minute. I’m just enjoying an on-the-spot bowel movement. Now fuck off!”

I’m getting old. I can do that. If you ask me, it’s moments like these that make life worth living!

 

 

 

 

Don’t you hate it when you go to see one of your all-time favorite bands in concert, and after a few of their biggest hits, they launch into an hour of music you’ve never heard before?

There’s only one reason I can think of to watch 75-year-olds perform — and it has nothing to do with little blue pills!! (I threw up a little in my mouth just writing that!) I go to these concerts to hear the songs I know. Bands must think that putting out new music keeps them relevant. They’re wrong. It’s their hits that keep them relevant. These are the songs that bring back memories of what we were doing when we first heard them. As the brilliant Ray Davies famously wrote, “You gotta give the people what they want!”

Quick story. You know “The Joker” by The Steve Miller Band. “Pompitous of love!” Right? One time, back in the day, me and a bunch of friends were driving around aimlessly, because that was our main activity. Because the car was packed, I ended up getting separated from a girl I was seeing, who sat up front next to the driver. Next thing I know, she’s making out with the guy! While he’s driving!! (Under different circumstances, I might have found that impressive!) Anyway, the point is, I can’t stand to listen to that song to this day! That taunting “Whoot, Whooo!” makes me want to take a tire iron to my radio!

Maybe that story illustrates a reverse point. Wait… I’ve got one! “Under the Boardwalk” by The Drifters. That was a song my wife and I were to dance to at our wedding (why I’m setting myself up for another reminder of what a schmuck I am, I’m not certain). But just before the band was to play that song, my college roommate came up to me and told me the pressure in one of his car tires was low, and asked me to go outside to check it out with him. (Clever, huh?)  Anyway, while I was out, the song came on, my bride danced alone, and the first of what would become many blows to the head was delivered. Again, not really a positive memory, but you get the point. Music is a powerful trigger when it’s associated with an emotion, and when a band plays songs that I have no emotional attachment to, then it’s time to hit the men’s room and get another cold one from the concession stand.

That’s why I am a total satelitte radio guy. I can listen to exactly the music I want, without commercials, without Cardi B interrupting my listening pleasure! 60s! 70s! Classic rock! Classic vinyl! That’s my kind of music. I don’t have to worry about them slipping in a song I can’t relate to. Sirius-ly!

Another side note .. My wife has missed some of the great performances in rock  ‘n’ roll history. The Who playing ‘Quadrophenia’ .. asleep at ‘The Real Me.’ Eric Clapton? Willed herself to sleep before it began. The Allman Brothers Band? “Why don’t you take a friend.. It’ll be more fun for you!” But Neil Diamond?? Screaming “Sweet Caroline” at the top of her lungs! She even swayed with the stranger standing next to her, but had a grimace on her face the whole time because … hands, touching hands! And poor Carrie.. wipeless!

To be completely honest, though, there are some new sounds that I’m tuning into. They’re the sounds my body makes when I try to get out of bed in the morning. I have to roll onto my left side (‘Oohhhh’), swing my legs off the bed, (‘Oyyyy!’), push up with my left arm to sit upright at the edge (‘Crack! Crunch! Owwww!’), and then stand (‘Snap! What the hell????’). As I rotate my head to stretch my neck… rocks in a blender. I bend to grab my flip-flops and hear an unoiled door hinge followed by what sounds and feels like a gunshot, as my back lets me know it wasn’t ready to bend just then!

This is the new soundtrack of my life. I give it an 8, ‘cause you can dance to it.