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Archive for the ‘Who Me?’ Category

Change is o.k. I guess.

But at what point should one begin to think about starting over?

I am giving serious consideration to reliving my life with new loves.

No, I don’t mean acquiring new relationships.

Well, maybe so.  Maybe some relationships.  Relationships with places and things.

Long-time favorites once loved and counted on are either going, going, going, or gone.

  • The downtown gift shop I loved and even wrote advertising copy for is selling out!
  • The health food store I depended on for expensive delicacies and youth restoring vitamins  has already closed its doors.
  • Long nylon nightgowns that helped with silky, sleepy, bed-turning are now considered “Vintage” and impossible to find unless you want to sleep in something slept in by somebody else.
  • Big terry cloth pot holders with pockets are missing. They may be another vintage item. (Hurrah Ebay!)
  • My quilted barn coat is getting frayed from 12 years of use and is irreplaceable.  The store that carried it no longer carries it. Neither does anyone else.
  • Favorite tea flavor (Vanilla Caramel) is gone from our local grocery stores.  Is there such a thing as Vintage Tea?  (Yay! Amazon!).

Every day something else is NA (Not Available – To be youth oriented, I am practicing talking in initials) and the search begins for replacements.

“Such is life,” my sainted mother used to say.

She never told me I would lose so many old loves and would have to start life over.

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Image from www. vintage-ads.livejournal.com

I have suffered numerous bad habits over the years, beginning with Thumb Sucking.

My parents tried everything including rubbing something on that tasted bad.  Nothing worked.  Finally, on the first day of kindergarten the teacher announced, “Look around children.  We have a baby in the room.”  And there they were all looking at ME!  I do love commanding attention (still) but that was the last day of thumb sucking.

Then in the teen years there was the Nail Biting habit.

Would you say these habits were symptoms of an insecure personality?

In those days, long fingernails were a sign of beauty (but mostly a sign of control over one’s habitual impulses).  I proudly decided to stop nail biting and stopped.  Congrats to that determined young woman.

Smoking was another horrible habit which took hold for years until I stopped “cold turkey”.

I still feel rather smug and self-righteous about that and sincerely try not to lecture friends about the evils of smoking.

Oddly enough, Rubbing-it-In can become a habit too.

But now my latest habit involves Reading Books!

READING BOOKS?

Habitual reading maybe?

Habitual reading of special interest books?

Too much reading?

Too much of the same kind of reading?

No, No, No and No.

What happened the other night revealed  an entirely new habit to break.

The story goes like this:  I was reading a “real book.”

The definition of a real book is one you can hold in your hands and turn pages.  If you are destructive you can even write in it or turn down page corners (but this is a travesty and can be considered inhuman behavior).

Anyway, I was reading a real book for a change and suddenly found myself tapping the side of the page.

Nothing happened so I tapped again.

Then I tapped more aggressively.

Nothing happened.

Until it finally clicked in that I was not reading on my Kindle, and could not tap the margins of a real book to make it turn a page.

 I had to turn the page myself!

Talk about a strange habit in late life!

THE PAGE TAPPING HABIT!

THE KINDLE READING HABIT.

THE HABIT OF READING BACKLIT PAGES WITH NO PAPER CORNERS.

THE HABIT OF TAP TOUCHING THE MARGIN TO GET TO THE NEXT PAGE.

This habit of page tapping has become so ingrained I may need lessons on how to read a real book – the kind you can find in the library – or at least some libraries.

I hear some university libraries are doing away with real books and going fully digital.

Yikes!

Any suggestions for a cure though?

I am a Habitual Page Tapper and need help to break the habit.

 

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cartoon-clock-clip-art-clipart-free-clipart-OFP7yV-clipartI am Afraid of Clocks.

Maybe it is because I missed the second grade class when Mrs. Weinberg taught us how to tell time.

I was an asthmatic kid who could be “absent” for days and happened to be home listening to Stella Dallas on the radio (anyone remember that soap?).

Who knew those few stolen days would be the cause of a lifelong handicap?

Anyway, when I did return to school, Mrs. M gave a private lesson which went like this, “It’s easy.  Just count 5, 10, 15, 20 minutes around the clock.”

And no, I had not yet heard the lyrics to Rock Around the Clock yet.  Elvis may not have even been born!

And from then on, when the big hand made it to the left side, I could not tell you what time it was.

Still can’t.

I tend to simply hold up my wristwatch to strangers who ask, “Pardon me, do you have the time?”

A Clock Allergy?

I think there is something wrong with my blood flow or energy fields.  Inevitably the watch on my wrist winds up (pun intended) to be about 10 minutes fast.  That’s as the big hand goes “5, 10, 15, 20.”

Rushing through life is what I call it.  Think of all the time lost with just those regular ten minute skipped intervals.

And of course, Setting Clocks is a Challenge.

We just had a very brief power outage – enough to make all the timepieces in the house flash in outrage.

The kitchen stove clock is important for making dinners so I inhaled deeply and poked and pushed buttons until there was a positive response.

Hopefully I did not set off the “self clean” option instead.  It’s  always guess work with no guarantees.

The bedroom clock on the dresser isn’t too hard but continues it’s yearly flashing warning “low battery.”  I never listen since that clock is permanently plugged into the wall and the dresser is too heavy to pull it out far enough from the plug.

The bedroom clock on the dresser has been low batteried since 1998.

There is another bedroom clock that flashes on the ceiling and tells how cold it is outside too.  It is the only clock in the house that resets itself except for the battery operated one in the living room that is eternally dependable.

Maybe getting rid of all but the latter two would be the sane thing to do.

Unless you know of a second grade class teacher who would allow a senior citizen to audit the segment on telling time?

Time Changes are Annoying.

The car clock is the MOST intimidating and takes immense courage for me to go at it.  Somehow it gets done (husbands help) but for now I would rather count out loud.

Let’s see….. it’s 10:15 AM on the dashboard, which means it’s really 11:15 AM now because it was 10:15 AM before the time change.

Who needs to change settings anyway?

Good thing the car clock is digital or I would have to be counting,“Five, Ten, Fifteen, Twenty” and if the big hand is in the wrong place you would never get the right time.

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ghostly-dor

 

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I had an easy day yesterday.  No hard labor, sweating or dropping food on my shirt.  Everything I wore was still clean and crisp by bedtime.  So in an odd change of habit, I hung everything up to air overnight (except the used underwear of course) and decided to wear the same things today (with fresh under garments of course).

After dressing and when I was all set to go, I met up with Bill and said, “Good morning Bill!”

“You look nice,” he replied.

“It’s exactly the same thing I wore yesterday,” said I.

“Oh.”

There was not much to say after that, but there is nothing like Morning After Laughter in yesterday’s clothes.

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I have just returned from a trip down “memory lane” with my friend, Kate of CoffeeKatBlog who wrote Things About My Youth.

We sort of grew up during the same era and many of Kate’s memories are mine.

Her funny, delightful post reminded me of a poem I wrote a long time ago about a girl in a photograph.

Who is that girl in the photograph,

the one with the spark of youth

dressed for a prom in a silken gown

with a faraway look of hope?

Who is that girl in the photograph,

the one with the faraway dream,

dressed in her best to celebrate?

I think she may have been me.

I remember that dress in the photograph

and the boy who was just as scared,

that soft starry night of the senior prom,

I remember the night clear and fair.

But who is that girl in the photograph?

She seems someone else I once knew,

the child I was, growing up and out

in a world that was changing too.

And onward time marched in quick-step

When a different boy called her wife

while the glowing girl in the photograph

stayed young and full of life.

The seasons passed and the years ticked on

while the picture stayed the same,

through challenges of work and home

and a son making Mom her name.

Running and running the years went by.

Now a grandma looks to the past

at an image of hope for an unknown life –

the young girl in the photograph.

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A chalk drawing of a little girl

always hung in a living room space.

She’s all grown up now of course,

but it still holds an honored place.

The little girl was me before

 and hangs again on our living room wall,

a reminder of who I once was growing up

and who I am still, after all.

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