that’s getting old

Happy wife, happy life … or is it?

Posted on by thatsgettingold

Hey, happy 2026! How’s everybody doin’? Sorry I haven’t written lately; it’s because I just spent the last six months or so working hard each and every day to make my wife happy (in my mind!) Carrie, of course, would likely see it differently, if she had a platform on which to express her sentiments.

So here’s the thing. To me, making my wife happy means allowing her to decide what I should wear, where we should eat, what we should do, and so on. And I get it.. she wants me to look my best, to be healthy, and have fun! Yet, like most men, I don’t pay much attention to any of that. So a conversation between a man and his wife likely sounds something like this:

Husband: I’m ready to go out now.

Wife: You’re wearing THAT??? (choose from the following: shirt, pants, socks, shoes. That about covers it.)

Husband: Hey, I LOVE this (shirt, pants, socks, shoes). It’s so comfortable. But to make you happy, I’ll change.

Wife: I can’t believe you actually thought you could wear that outside of the house!

I’m sure you women out there can spot the problem immediately. I had to be shown the light.

First, It seems that in certain circumstances, it’s OK to wear a navy blue sweater with blue jeans, but not with black pants. Also, flannel apparently is never appropriate for anything, at any time. I never knew this until Carrie showed me what an absolute ASS I’ve been when it comes to dressing myself. So here I say, if I’ve offended anyone with my wardrobe choices over the years, I most sincerely apologize. In this case, ignorance IS my excuse.

Apparently, Carrie is not alone among women who desire their men to make decisions for things like where we should eat and what I should wear, but want to retain veto power. To my simple mind, we should be able to stop this charade by women simply telling their men what they want upfront. But no.. the game goes on.

Then, there’s the not small matter of where to dine on a Saturday night.

Wife: “What do you want to do for dinner?”

Husband: “I don’t care. Whatever you want is fine.”

Wife: Grrrrrr.

The husband says: “You really want me to tell you what I want to do for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“You really want me to tell you what I want to do for dinner.” (Spoken with the inflection of Billy Gambini in “My Cousin Vinny” when he says “I shot the clerk!”)

“Yes already. I’m getting hangry”

“Well then, when I lived in Texas, I loved eating chicken fried steak, with some tasty cream-ish gravy on top. Let’s have that.”

“No.”

Now, this is what we writers call an aside. (To my Long Island friends who might not know, chicken fried steak is basically a breaded salisbury steak, or a very thin piece of some kind of beef, that’s deep fried, or maybe pan fried, and served with fried french fries and a not-fried thick white gravy of unknown origin, likely very high in fat. I ate that quite a bit in the early ’80s because it was SO tasty, and because I hadn’t really yet understood the meaning of cardiology.)

Anyway, back to the conversation:

“Pick something else.”

“Well, how about Greek?”

“We had that last week.”

“Italian?”

“Red sauce gives me heartburn.”

“So, let’s recap: You asked me what I wanted and I told you. And then you vetoed it … three times. I’m out of ideas. What do you want?”

“FOR YOU TO JUST ONCE… ONCE! MAKE A FUCKING DECISION!”

“I thought I just did.”

“SIGH”

Or, there’s this:

Wife: (as we’re approaching a turn): “Are you going to turn here?”

Husband: “Well, I was going to go straight, but Yes, if that will make you happy.” (doing a two-lane sweep to avoid passing the intersection, while avoiding both traffic in the lanes to the left as well as oncoming cars).

Husband (as next intersection approaches): “Do you want me to turn here or go straight? I just want to make you happy.”

Wife: “SIGH!” (under breath: “Asshole!”)

And friends, that explodes the myth of “happy wife, happy life.” Another episode of life’s “Conundrums and Paradoxes,” brought to you by… “honey, what sponsor would you like me to choose!”

“Asshole.”

Looking forward, looking back

Posted on by thatsgettingold

In my mind, I’ve had an illustrious career in journalism – despite the lack of any awards that would prove that statement. I’ve interviewed many people, from the moderately famous to complete unknowns. But this most recent interview was a first for me.

We did it over a Zoom call, and when I logged in to the meeting, I saw a boy in front of his camera. I said, “Hi.. is [the person I’m supposed to be interviewing] there?” He replied, “Yes, that’s me.”

He literally looked like his Mom took him out of eighth-grade homeroom to do the interview, which was all about the work experience of software developers. And yet, this kid was already on his way to his first BILLION! (And to think, I dropped comp sci at Maryland because it required logical thinking, and those of you who know me, well… ‘nuff said. )

Anyway, when I asked him about how he got to where he’s raised multiple millions of dollars for his company at the age of 21, he started his response with “Well, early in my career….”

Early in your career?? I’m thinking, what, you got your first job when you were 9?” (My first job, foreshadowingly enough, was delivering the Long Island Press on my bike before school. I was on my way to my first billion, but instead of riding the bullet train to the top, I’m taking the stairs.)

Then I asked him, what do you see when you look down the road? He started answering, and I of course got derailed by my own thought … he’s looking ahead, while I’m spending more and more time looking back!

Why, as we are getting older, do we spend more time on nostalgia and the good things in our past? Two easy answers. The first, obvious, answer is because I can remember everything about life in eighth-grade homeroom, but can’t remember who I’m supposed to call in an hour.

The second reason we look back is because we don’t want any part of what’s inescapably coming ahead.

The beauty of looking back is that we can cherry-pick what we want to remember. The successes we’ve had, the thrill of first friends, first kisses, first trophies. (Wait, they give trophies for first kisses? What town did YOU grow up in?)

The other beauty part is that we can filter out all the bad stuff, like the dropped fly ball in right field that cost the little league championship. (It was Steven Rosensweet’s fault!) The times you got dumped by girlfriends (NOT Rosensweet’s fault). The times you got suspended from work for off-color remarks (they were JOKES!). Like the time you got married.

I mean, really, who wants to think about those things?? (Just kidding, honey.. Love you!)

But looking back, I also realize how truly blessed I’ve been, with life experiences that brought me to foreign lands (Spain, Israel … Texas!), with the people I’ve met and friends I’ve made along this crazy road. And of course, by having met my partner for life Carrie and the girls we’ve raised to become the amazing, impressive and FUNNY women they are. And there is so much more to look forward to. (Some journalist.. Doesn’t even know you can’t end a sentence with a preposition! What a maroon!)

Anyway, Jerry Garcia almost got it right: “What a long, strange (and wonderful) trip it’s been!”

So, while I enjoy looking back, I’m going to keep looking ahead to the good things that life will bring.

Keep on truckin’ everyone!!

Hold the phone!

Posted on by thatsgettingold

Muses are like taxis. They’re never around when you need one. But finally, after months of hailing, whistling and showing some leg, one actually stopped for me! (A muse, not a cab.)

My friends, it’s been a while. So what’s been going on? How’re the kids.. and grandkids?? Glad to hear it!! Me? I’ve spent the last months just kinda getting old. And reading.

I saw an article about determining the correct time to take a getting-old person’s car keys away. The answer was, when that person could unwittingly do harm to him/her self and other drivers.

Apparently, there’s also a time to take something else away from us older folks — our cellphones. To be clear, I write this a person well known for unresponsiveness and lack of small talk or even common decency.

Oh, don’t kid yourself. In the wrong hands, a mis-sent text or email can do a great deal of harm, from a social and emotional standpoint. That must be why I’m seeing more instances of texts being sent to someone’s phone number, and the reply coming from the spouse. (Anecdotal observation: it seems more wives are handling their husband’s phones than the other way around. You girls must think we’re IDIOTS!!)

A recent text exchange among friends supports this hypothesis:

“Wow.. I can’t believe Helen let you go to the concert with us. I guess she wanted a night off from babysitting you. LOL!”

“This IS Helen, and you’re a dick!”

See what I mean?

There’s so much to unpack here. First of all, it’s a fact that women understand how phone texts work much better than men do, just by the mere fact of being ON the phone for so many hours a day.

And guys, don’t you know how to lock your phones? Do you just leave it laying around, unlocked, so your wives can just pick it up and start replying to YOUR texts?? I would NEVER, under any circumstances, give my wife access to my phone call logs or text streams (unless, of course, she asked me for it.)

There should be a flag, or something — a light, perhaps — to let you know when a guy’s phone is in the hands of his wife. That could save a lot of embarrasing back-pedaling and denial.

[Guy texting with someone he believes to be a guy friend]

“Hey George.. had a great time with you guys last night. I especially enjoyed watching your wife finish off that 24-ounce porterhouse all by herself! Mooooo! LOL!! JKJKJK!”

“This is George’s wife, and you’re a dick.”

“Oh, hey… I, uh, meant I was Mooo-ved by how much you seemed to enjoy your meal! So glad we could spend time together.”

“You’re still a dick.”

“Uh, sorry. Anyway, that was for George.. why do you have his phone?”

“To make sure HE doesn’t act like a dick.”

Perhaps the worst thing is when a getting-old person is dealing with multiple conversations at once. Literally, there is no margin for error.

“Say, what’d you think about the game last night?”

“Me too! Cheese always make me fart!”

“What?”

“Sorry. Wrong convo. Yeah, it’s too bad they fell short of winning it all.”

“What???”

“Dammit! Wrong convo. Hahahaha! Beans also make me fart.”

Of course, an equal amount of harm can be done by simply not answering the texts. Forgive me, but I do not live with my phone Crazy-Glued to my hand. I’ve either left it someplace I can’t remember, or I have it but its charge is zero percent, or I’m actually busy doing something else. Frustrating for folks trying to reach me, I know. I envision them holding their phones close to their faces, ready to pounce when a message comes in. (In fact, I often get gifs of folks tapping their hands to show they’re waiting impatiently for a reply.)

But in defense of my response times, I say, ‘Hey, it’s still faster than carrier pigeons!’ And a lot less messy.

The sporting life

Posted on by thatsgettingold

I am an unabashed sports fan. Pros, college, even high school. I follow them all. It started when I was a kid, listening to Marty Glickman doing Giants games, and Marv Albert doing Knicks and Rangers play-by-play. “Kick save and a beauty by Giacomin!” DeBusschere from the corner… .YES! (DeBusschere’s grandson is an up-and-comer at Chaminade High School here on Long Island.) There have been colorful characters like Looie Carnesecca at St. John’s and Butch van Breda Kolff coaching Hofstra basketball. And of course, the players themselves. From Namath and Clyde to The Mick and Rod Gilbert, I was hooked on the personalities as much as the games.

So, my friends are taken aback when they ask me things like, “Hey did you catch The Masters? Koepka really blew it,” and I say, “No, I don’t watch golf.”

I love to play golf, but watching it as a sport on television ranks just below curling, which is only on once every four years! Golf ranks below cornhole.. and now even pickleball, which is the hottest sport in our age group! (“Hey, did you see where McEnroe and Agassi played pickleball for charity?” I did not.) Golf, in my mind, should be relegated to ESPN 8 (“The Ocho”), where it can follow spirited dodgeball action!

Anyway, I was able to take advantage of a recent summerlike day and got in a round of golf with a guy I’ve run outings with and a couple other guys I didn’t know. Three of us had something in common, and the other one was a kid. You do the math.

Among the topics of conversation were: “I’m glad to be playing. I recently had a cyst removed from an area between my navel and [lower area.. my edit].”

Wait.. hold on.. didn’t we JUST MEET?? This does NOT even come CLOSE to passing for light golf banter among strangers, with whom I’ll spend 2 1/2 hours and NEVER SEE AGAIN!

A couple of holes later, I was squatting to line up a putt (yeah, like THAT ever works! I meant the lining up of the shot, but it could also apply to the squatting). After a bit of looking like I was actually doing something beyond merely squatting, I stood up, walked to the left for a better angle, and squatted again behind my ball. “Now you’re just showing off,” the other not-a-kid said. “I’d do that, but my girlfriend tells me to ‘save your get-ups.'” He went on to explain, though he didn’t have to, that there’s a limit to the number of times he can lower himself and then get up. I’m assuming he meant getting up without assistance.

A few more holes..,”I can’t wait to get home so I can take 10 Advil!”

“No,” said the other, “the trick is to take them before you play!”

“I did,” said the first guy. “This is just how I move.”

I imagined the kid thinking all kinds of things about getting old, but it’s more likely he was thinking he’d go on ahead of us, since the “pace of play” rule clearly wasn’t being enforced.

Some spring in my step

Posted on by thatsgettingold

Here’s some good news. Pitchers and catchers report in FOUR DAYS! And we all know what that means!

Uhh… six more weeks of winter??

No, you moron! It’s the first sign of SPRING, that eternal season of renewal!

Not that this winter’s been so bad here on beautiful Long Island … only a couple days below freezing, and virtually no snow. You can almost feel the depression melting away!

I’m a lifelong, died-in-the-wool (what exactly does that even mean?) Mets fan, those lovable losers! But the new owner of the Mets, a hedge fund billionaire named Steve Cohen, has not been shy about spending to get the best players that literally only his money can by. We picked up ace pitchers Justin Verlander and Max Scherzer, the great shortstop Francisco Lindor, and re-signed fan faves Brandon Nimmo and Jeff McNeil. Next up? Pete Alonso, the home run-swatting ‘Polar Bear,’ who’s next in the “Strike it Rich” lineup card. Is there a World Series championship in our future? The anticipation is killing me!

Back in the day, my lifelong friends Victor, Greg and I made a point of going every year to Opening Day at the old Shea Stadium, where we’d clamor up to the top deck so as to be in the sun for as long as possible. (Opening Day at Shea, near Flushing Bay, could still be quite cold in April.) We’d start in the left field upper deck and make our way around to the right field side to stay warm, following the sun as it crossed the sky.

(One of things we’d always say when a batter hit a foul ball into the stands was, “I got it,” even if the ball was hit 27 sections over from us. Another gem was, “If you miss the first pitch, you miss the game.” Still true, in my book. And what would a ballgame be without a loud “Down in front,” screamed at the guy sitting in the seat right in front of us! Vic and I would laugh, and Greg would call us a couple of dorks. He was right.)

We’d try to drink a beer an inning, but back in those days, before batters had to adjust their helmets, gloves and cups (most definitely not for drinking out of!), quick 1-2-3 innings could move the game right along, backing up the beers. Somehow, though, we managed to catch up by the end (and invariably stagger back to the 7 train to Woodside, where we’d switch to the Long Island Rail Road to get home.)

And, spring also means that we’re coming up on another season of golf. How can something be pleasing and torture at the same time? (See: ‘Life with Carrie’.. JUST KIDDING, Hon!) I started swinging crooked sticks at little white orbs when I was 15, after my dad bought me a custom set of Lee Trevino Faultless clubs. Why he bought them for me, I don’t know. I can’t recall ever having any particular love for the game.

The top players that year, 1971, were of course Trevino, and Jack Nicklaus and Arnold Palmer. Nicklaus went on to win a record number of major tournaments, and Palmer went on to put lemonade and iced tea together, in the same bottle! The man was a genius.

I guess I caught the golfing bug from my Aunt Emily and Uncle Irv, who lived next door to us and loved the game. After I got my clubs, they would take me out to what was then Salisbury Park (later renamed for WWII hero and president Dwight David Eisenhower) for a lazy 9 holes, then stop at what was then Mr. Donut on the Turnpike for coffee (for them) and donuts (for me!) Quick aside how nothing stays the same: Mr. Donut became Dunkin’ Donuts, then just Dunkin’, and now it’s an Arby’s!

A second quick aside: Aunt Emily (my beloved mother’s sister, may they both rest in peace) had an amazing knack of finding the closest parking spot to any building she pulled up to. And to this day, whenever we pull into a crowded shopping center or supermarket, we chant, “Em-i-ly, Em-i-ly,” and as if the Red Sea parted, we always get a spot up close. It’s both incredible and kinda creepy. (It’s about this time in the story that my oldest daughter, Alexa, would chime in with “hashtag: adjectives.”)

Anyway, Uncle Irv wasn’t a great golfer, but he was better than my aunt and I, and was one of those guys who just had to critique literally every shot we took.

“You lifted your head on that one,” or “You didn’t follow through,” or “Not enough backswing,” and the classic, “What were you aiming at??” And then, as if on cue, he’d shank one into a sandtrap, muttering under his breath. I was always tempted to say, “You lifted your head on that one,” but he was much larger than me, and didn’t really have my sense of humor, so “Tough break” was all I got out.

But none of that mattered. It was just great to be with them, outside, for hours. Anyway, I think I shot about 115 — on a par-72 course. That adds up to a 43 handicap. Today, Carrie would say that’s not my only handicap! (She’s so funny!)

This spring will mark the 52nd year I’ve been playing. And, for the record, I still shoot about 115. And it still doesn’t matter. The game has evolved for me — no more donuts, lots more scotch — but it’s still about playing, outside, for hours, with people I love being around.

Bring on the spring!! As the Polar Bear himself says, “Let’s Fucking Go, Mets!”

Transitioning (not the Bruce Jenner way.. and not the ultimate way, either)

Posted on by thatsgettingold

For a few years now, we’ve taken this journey together towards old age. We’ve laughed, we’ve loved, we’ve shed some tears, and still the inexorable march goes on.

I was ruminating about getting old the other day and I was struck by a thought: How do you know when you’ve gone from “getting old” to simply “being old?”

Think about it: I remember being about 8 years old, and talking with some friends whose uncle was staying with them. “How old’s your uncle?” I remember asking one of the friends. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I think he’s in his 40’s.” “Wow,” I said. “He’s OLD!”

Now, of course, having gone from 8-year-old Long Island Press paperboy to a 66-year-old, grizzled veteran of the newspaper wars, when I see an obituary for someone in their late 80s, I think “Too bad. She wasn’t that old.”

Perspective is a funny thing, right?

So, I asked folks in my circle how they can recognize that they’ve gone from “getting old” to “being old.” And the platitudes began:

“You’re only as old as you feel.”

“Age is all in your mind.”

“You’re only as old as your birth certificate says you are.” (Wait … what??)

OK.. so, I’m only as old as I feel. Well, I’ve never been 90, so I don’t know what that feels like. But when I need an hourglass to time how long it takes me to pick something up from the floor, that’s not a young person’s problem. I do, however, take pride and admit to showing off just a bit when I show my family that I can still bend down and touch my … knees.

Age is in my mind? What mind? To quote the late, great actor Ned Glass from the motion picture “West Side Story”: Do I mind? I have no mind. I’m the village idiot!

As for the birth certificate, that’s long gone. Besides, in the context of this discussion, what does that even mean?

I think you’re officially old when physical pain or cognitive decline (bad words!) prevent you from doing things you always could. In our current age bracket, we can still do the things we’ve always done, and laugh about it taking longer to do them. Like coming up with what you ate earlier — in your mind, not from your stomach! UCH!!). Or, picking that thing up off the floor. Or, riding a cart for a round of golf, because a cart gets us back to the clubhouse much quicker if we have to take a leak during play. (Leaking during play? Is that ANOTHER sign of oldness? I guess that depends!) OH NO HE DI-IN’T!!

Carrie and I went out to dinner last week with my older brother and MUCH older cousin (what IS time, after all?). We compromised at 7 p.m. Alan, my brother, likes to eat at like 5 o’clock so he can be in bed by 8 because …. he’s retired?? And the next day was … Sunday?? [HUGE points and a shoutout for anyone who can name the earlier blog post in which this similar phrasing was used! Family members and their friends are ineligible to win and need not apply. Prize details are … nowhere.]

Anyway, as most getting older folks do on a Saturday night, we talked about this very topic. My MUCH older cousin — let’s call her Barbara — who will be celebrating a milestone birthday this year, pondered the question overnight, and messaged me this:

“Growing older is having the ability to fondly reminisce while we are still able to share precious time with loved ones. Growing old is when all we have left are those memories.” Then, she said we should make more memories before we are too old.

Nice, right? She’s a doll. And I’d say she’s wise beyond her years, but frankly, in terms of the history of mankind, not much has happened beyond her years.

She’s laughing, right?


Summer, then fall

Posted on by thatsgettingold

So another summer has come to an end (about a month ago). Yet you ask, what do assembling furniture and walking down steps have in common? Give up? OK, I’ll tell you. They are two things I don’t do well.

Part I: Assembling Furniture
It was September… summer was waning, but the Mets were amazingly vying for a playoff spot in the National League! My cousin, who lives outside Philadelphia, thought it would be fun to go to a game together, as the Phillies were also in contention at the point. We agreed we’d meet at Citizens Bank Park in Philly. Game time, 4 p.m.

Earlier, in late August, we moved our youngest into her first apartment, off-campus at the University of Delaware (Go Blue Hens!). Not sure why it’s “off-campus,” as it’s across the street from the music building (she’s a music major, among other things) and is surrounded by, well, campus! But I digress. The only drawers my daughter had for all her clothes were these two little plastic … I don’t know what you call them. Not dressers, so perhaps, night tables? They have three small drawers each, and my wife said she needed a real dresser. And, as she is wont to do, she ordered one up from the Internet and had it shipped to my daughter. It was one of those that came in long, impossibly heavy boxes — some assembly required. Since my daughter couldn’t begin to know how to put the thing together, we decided we’d stop at Delaware (Go Blue Hens!) to put the dresser together, then head over to Philly for the game. (Mets won, but neither team ultimately played October baseball.)

We got to the apartment, and I opened the boxes. Literally, a thousand parts and pieces. There were 14 2×8″ screws, 28 of those posts that attach the sides to the back, and 28 matching receptacles for the posts that you turn to tighten, and wooden pegs that hold other things together, and clips that I have no idea what they’re for. Also, a somewhat mysterious bag of glue! There were 36 steps to follow to complete the dresser. After two and a half hours, I was on step four. Along the way, I had broken several pieces of pressboard and lost what I hoped were extraneous screws. (One positive note.. I think I lost 9 pounds in sweat!) Thankfully, we were able to pay Amazon to send someone to her apartment to finish what I had started. I’m told he finished the entire rest of the dresser in under an hour. Sure, it’s easy when someone else does the heavy lifting to get you started! But did I get any credit?? No-o-o-o-o.

What follows here is what we writers call an “aside” … not relevant to the story itself, but worth telling. It’s a quick story that everyone but me seems to think is hilarious. We had loaded up my SUV to move her into the apartment near UDel (Go Blue Hens!), which is located on a small dead-end street — the apartment, not the university. #moresloppywriting. Anyway, we parked the truck right outside her door to make carrying things in easier. Well, as Carrie went down to see if there was anything else to take up, she was met by a local representative of the Newark law enforcement community, writing out a summons. (The town is pronounced New-Ark — like Noah’s — in Delaware, and a town with the identical spelling in New Jersey is pronounced ‘Oh, shit!’) Carrie came back inside and yelled to me upstairs, “Doovie, we just got a ticket!” Apparently, the officer claimed we were parked illegally. “How much is the fine,” I asked. And she said, “You don’t really need the details now.” So thoughtful how she didn’t want to aggravate me! Guess there’s a first time for everything.

“How’d we get a ticket?” I asked. “There’s not even a ‘no parking’ sign here. I’m fighting it.” I backed up the car as we were preparing to leave, and noticed large swaths of yellow paint on the pavement. It wasn’t until I backed all the way out that I noticed, in letters writ huge, the words “FIRE ZONE. DO NOT BLOCK ROAD.”

Oh. Guess there WAS a sign. Just not on a pole, where signs should be. I sent in a letter stating that signs should be on poles, and that as an old man, I’m unable to park legally and carry a bed and furniture 700 yards from the nearest metered spot. A week later, I get a letter in the mail (yes, that still happens). Appeal denied.

Part II: Walking Down Steps
So, this summer, we localized the wonderful social bonding time known as “Happy Hour.” After spending leisurely weekend days at the beach, we’d retire to someone’s home for adult refreshment. Nice, right? I’d tell you more about them, but I’m not at liberty to discuss pending litigation. However, against the advice of my legal team, I’ve written this account (which they have graciously edited for me — at $275 an hour). I was leaving {REDACTED} house after a very nice time on their {REDACTED} backyard deck, featuring {REDACTED} cocktails and nice light snacks. We got up to leave, and as I was walking down the steps, I missed the last one and took a nasty fall, badly scraping my left knee. It turns out the last step down from {REDACTED} house is not regulation … it’s off by a good three-eighths of an inch, which caused me to stumble as I descended. After we stanched the bleeding, I began to favor that leg, which led to great pain in my other ankle, which had been badly broken about four decades earlier in a devastating touch football accident. So, as my case winds its way through the court of public opinion, I am sure I will be cleared of all charges, and that my {REDACTED} “friend” will pay the damages.

Or not. {REDACTED} it.

Check your pressure

Posted on by thatsgettingold

As we head into life’s final trimester, one of the keys to survival is keeping our blood pressure in check. Some of us take pills to keep it under control. Some folks diet and exercise. Feh! Me? I look to avoid interactions with customer service representatives.

But it’s hard to do. The simple acts of making a deposit at the bank, or checking to see if your car dealer as promised made the last payment on your expiring lease, or renewing a driver’s license — all of which I have tried to do in the last month — are enough to get your blood boiling.

You know, one of the best things about getting old — aside from the obvious “still alive” thing — is how much wisdom you gain simply by lasting this long. And, along with knowledge, you gain a common sense and a clarity of thought that allows you to cut right through the BS and get to the very heart of a matter. (Ironic, isn’t it, that you’re at your clearest right before the dementia kicks in. It’s a pity, really.)

Case in point: I went to the bank the other day to deposit some money, and I saw a couple of checks payable to my daughter that she wanted cashed, so I took those along. I get to the bank, which I really shouldn’t name (fucking Chase, East Meadow Avenue, teller No. 3), and hand in the slips. I’ve been banking at this branch for years. Everyone knows me… except, apparently, teller No. 3.

“Do you have your debit card? Please insert it into the reader so we can verify who you are.”

“Really?” I say, before grudgingly complying.

“Thanks, David. What can I help you with today?”

“Just depositing some money and cashing a couple checks.” I start to make smalltalk with the other tellers I know, when teller No. 3 says, “Who’s Hallie?”

“That’s my daughter.”

“Well, we can’t cash that because it’s not you.” They’re payroll checks, I explain, instructing her to put a hold on my account in that amount until the checks clear. I know they are good.

“Sorry, David, we can’t do that.” After a moment, I suggest depositing the money into my account. “Just deposit it, then,” I say. Common sense, right? I’m not taking cash, I’m giving them cash. As I’ve said, I’ve been banking there for years, they know me, they know my wife, who shares the account with my daughter… there should NOT be a problem here.

“Sorry, David, we can’t do that. We don’t know who Hallie is, so we can’t deposit it.”

They were on to me! And here I was, thinking I was such a clever criminal, putting money INTO an account and then leaving the bank with LESS MONEY!! What master detectives, masquerading as bank tellers to thwart diabolical depositors like myself!

“Just give me back my fucking checks, you a-hole,” I say… to myself. “Well, this has been a complete waste of time,” I say to the teller.

From there, on to motor vehicles to renew my license. That took THREE TRIPS to the DMV. Trip one: line wrapped around the block to get in. I bailed. Trip two: Didn’t have the requisite paperwork to upgrade from my current license to one that will identify me at airports.

Trip three, and after an hour-and-fifteen minute-wait, I’m at the window.
“How can I help you,” the nice lady says.
“Just renewing my license. Here are my current license, my passport, my social security card, utility bills … oh, and a picture of my first-born.” I was joking.

“We don’t need the picture,” she instructed. No shit.

“OK,” she says, “everything appears to be in order.” Great. I start making out the check. “Oh, wait.”

Uh-oh.. “Wait.. for what?”

“This isn’t your social security card,” the less nice lady says. It sure looked like it to me, still stapled to the card it came on that reads “This is your social security card.” Still signed in the handwriting of my 14-year-old self.

“This is the stub portion, not the actual card.” Wow. “Well, isn’t having the stub proof that I have a social security card? Also.. I have my passport, which is still valid, and which required me to produce my social security card. Isn’t that proof enough?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“So what do I do now?” I ask the not-nice lady. “You can come back with the card, or a W2 form, and get the enhanced license. Until then, you have to get the regular license.”

“Just give me back my fucking documentation, you a-hole,” I say… to myself. “This sucks,” I say to the horrible lady.

Last week, I got a letter from, yes, fucking Chase, telling me the last payment on my lease hasn’t been paid, despite the dealer telling me he’d take care of it. I call Chase customer service.

“Hi,” I say, most chipperly. “Just checking to make sure my dealer made the last payment on my lease.”

I go through the rigamarole of providing every bit of personally identifiable information that I have.

“Thanks, David. Please hold while I pull up your records.” No hold music. Just silence. After what felt like an hour but was more like three minutes, “Thanks for holding, David. Your account is closed, and you’ll be receiving a final invoice within 30 to 60 days, covering any mileage overages or unusual wear and tear on the vehicle.”

“Thanks. So, has my last payment been made, or will that be included in the invoice?”

“Please hold while I look further into your account.” Trying to hold it together.

“Thanks for holding, David. Upon further review, you won’t be receiving a final invoice, as your dealer has purchased the vehicle from us.”

“Okay, so I don’t owe the final payment, right?”

“Your account has been closed.” WHY CAN’T YOU JUST TELL ME IF THE PAYMENT WAS MADE?? I assume it has been, because the account has been closed, but why do I have to infer that from her remarks? JUST FUCKING TELL ME IF I OWE ANY MORE MONEY!!!

So, the pressure’s rising, and then, as I’m just about at the bursting point, each of these people pour gasoline on the fire with the line that sends the mercury, like in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, exploding out of the top of my head.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Anything ELSE?? YOU COULDN’T HELP ME WITH THIS!! I HATE when people say that after they’ve been completely useless and sucked a half-hour or more of life from you. They should say, “Is there anything at all that I’ll be able to help you with?” But I already know, the answer is no. These people are robots, not free thinkers, instructed to follow a process over using common sense. Just wait until they’re older. Then they’ll see.

Meantime, my accounts are no longer at Chase. Common sense. Clarity of thought.

You’re only as old as … your age

Posted on by thatsgettingold

All those aches and pains, and moments of forgetfulness, certainly make us think of ourselves as “getting old.” Well, let me tell you the best way to get over that. Sit at a lunch with REALLY old people!

I had the unfortunate circumstance of attending a funeral this weekend for my wife Carrie’s uncle. The family and his friends gathered, and Carrie and I sat at a table with some of the departed’s old friends. On the back side of 85, these folks were still with it mentally (mostly), but they had other problems. The husband can’t hear, and as such doesn’t so much speak as YELL… in ALL CAPS!

“SO, DAVID, IT’S BEEN A LOT OF YEARS. YOU STILL EDITING?”

“Yes,” I replied. “Still doing it.”

“WHAT???”

“I SAID, YES.. STILL DOING IT!”

“DOING WHAT??”

“EDITING.”

“YOU’RE AN EDITOR??”

And so it went.

At this point, I was hoping the attention we had drawn by literally shouting at each other would shift off of me, and thankfully, at that moment, his wife asked him to get her her morning pills.

Now, I take three pills every morning, and think that’s a lot. This women takes nine pills in the morning, and as she put each one in her mouth before swallowing it down with water, she gave a little play-by-play. “This one’s for diabetes,” she crowed, taking a gulp. “This one’s for my blood pressure.” Another gulp. On she went. Someone else at the table commented, “They’re very colorful pills.” (Hey, an opening for a wisecrack remark that would really kick the conversation into gear. But it wasn’t my shot to take.) The woman replied. “That’s how I can tell them apart.” (Not quite the pointed pith I was hoping for.) Anyway, I thought they looked like those weird-flavored jellybeans you see in those specialty candy stores. Her liver pill looked like the “vomit” flavor, while her thyroid medication looked like the flavor “Leaking Rectum.” (Or did I just confuse that with my wife’s favorite nail polish color? You know I would love the job of naming nail polish. I’ve got it all figured out. Just find anything random. Literally… ANYTHING… RANDOM… and you’ve nailed it. “Dumpster Dive” — a greenish-grayish, and “Itchy Elbows” — pinkish-reddish, are two that I think could really sell!)

But back to the lunch. After the woman had taken her pills, she told her husband he needed to put drops in her eyes. He didn’t budge. “I NEED MY DROPS,” she yelled. He reached into his pocket and said, “TILT YOUR HEAD BACK.” By now, everyone was watching this.

His hand wasn’t steady, her head wasn’t steady. This would not go well.

“HOLD STILL,” he said.

“It’s running down into my ear!!”

Moments later, “You’re putting in too many drops!!”

“WELL, YOU KEEP MOVING AROUND.”

“I’M NOT MOVING!!!”

When I looked over, she was wiping drops off her cheek and chin. The husband beamed as if he had just completed a delicate brain surgery. The wife’s rapid-fire blinking indicated that none of the drops actually made it into her eyes.

Speaking of drops … Believe it or not, not a single drop of alcohol had been consumed.

The day wore on, until it was time to leave. You know, for a long time, I was under the clearly mistaken impression that saying ‘goodbye’ meant you’re leaving. Apparently, goodbye really means, “so what else is new?”

“It was so great to see you. Wish it could have been under better circumstances. But I’ll call you and we’ll get together soon! Take care now.”

“Thanks, you too … say, was that a new car I saw you drive up in?

“Yeah, you like it? Funny story…”

The kids, and a 62-year-old child we’ll call “David,” fell to the floor, writhing, kicking the air and loudly moaning as if the act of leaving held the only key to our survival. But as the grownups prattled on, I realized that I was ABLE to writhe on the floor and kick the air. And NOTHING HURT! So take that, aging. You’re going to have do more than make me forget a few ‘Jeopardy’ answers before you get me. Besides, I saw a report this week that said 70 is the new 40, due to how much we exercise and generally take better care of ourselves than our grandparents did. So that should get me to about 110. Hey, original black-hoodie guy with the scythe… suck on that!!

The turn of the millenials

Posted on by thatsgettingold

Those of you who know me know my rants about millenials. We’re blamed for ruining them with the invention of the “participation trophy” — awarding them for simply showing up (and often even if they didn’t). We’re blamed for ruining them by allowing their use of technology at young ages, so they don’t speak and can’t figure anything out without the aid of their cellphones. (Some far-off day, in generations yet to come, humans will have evolved to the point where children are born with the phone attached to their hands. Might as well, since they don’t use them for anything but typing anyway!) We’re told we coddled and spoiled them, never pushing them nor preparing them for life outside the home.

This was the subject at a lunch I attended at a recent technology conference. One of the people at the table was a Gen-X woman who said she works at the company “that gives you wings!” I had to ask the guy sitting next to me on the other side. He didn’t know either. Eventually, someone at the table identified the company as Red Bull. The drink of millenial champions!

Anyway, I was telling this GenXer, who lives squarely between boomers like myself and the millenials, about an email exchange I had with an employee. Here’s how the exchange went. Worker: “WFH.” Me: “WFH? WTF?” Worker: “LOL! Working from home.”

I was railing about how that’s not part of our company policy. The GenXer interrupted. “So, what’s wrong with working from home?” I said, how is it that someone can just decide not to come into the office on any given day? We have an office so we can work collaboratively, exchange ideas, in the hopes that all of us thinking about the same things will come up with something better than any of us could come up with alone.

But now that I think about it, when they’re at work, millenials just plug in headphones and don’t talk anyway. I have to wave semaphores while jumping up and down to get them to look up.

The woman next to me said, “Well, don’t you use Slack, or Teams, for collaboration?” I replied that we do use Slack (it’s an application for sharing projects, messages, comments.. basically, a collaboration platform.) “So, what’s the problem,” she asked. “Haven’t you ever been Slacked? (The problem is, the verb “to slack” means to do less than is required. Hey, a perfect fit for millenials!!)

But I fumfurred a bit, and then blurted out, “Because that’s just not how we work.”

That’s when I realized that I’ve become my Dad… or worse .. Tevye! (See: “Fiddler on the Roof”) “We work this way because we’ve ALWAYS worked this way. It’s TRADITION!”

Then I had another epiphany, right after I had a delicious chocolate-y mini-tort thing with melted dark and white chocolate inside, with marshmallow and a Hershey’s square on top … Whoa! Almost lost the train of thought there.

The epiphany was this. I am old and set in my ways. The millenials simply work differently than I do, and I am the one not changing and keeping up with the times. Studies show that in the next decade or so, more people will work from home than go into offices. In fact, they say, if you offer that arrangement now, you’ll attract better talent!

As for not figuring things out without technology, well, why is that bad? As long as they can find the answer, does it matter if they thought of it on their own or Googled it? And the fact that they know how to use all this tech means they can do things in a minute that would take me an hour!

I never thought of myself as unchanging, and stuck in the past. I know what “finsta” and “Snapchat” and “Pandora” are. But today was a realization, and one I didn’t particularly care for. I think I’ll go online and buy one of those new robotic bartending machines and have it fix me a strong one!