The AARP is Driving Way to Close Behind Me

Yes, they are way too close. And if I had to brake quick, they'd be in my lap. It is so completely bizarre to these two babies - are talking about retirement. And more bizarre still is that we should be talking about it. But these photos of Bob and me are in black and white - not sepia - and we are smiling - not stone faced like the baby photos of my grandparents. It is unfathomable to me that we are discussing pensions, social security, the health (or not) of our IRAs and 401K, Medicare, Long Term Care Insurance, and at what point it no longer makes sense to pay for a life insurance policy.

It is totally bad enough that the AARP keeps sending me crap in the

mail. Or that I alone seem to be responsible for the integrity of L'Oreal Hair Color's annual sales figures. But the tsunami sized wave of aging reminders - when I just got done talking about whether or

not to keep up the Tooth Fairy charade - is just, well, weird. I mean, I'm coming to realize that my morning aches and pains are not so much about sleeping in a strange position as they are about warnings of more painful mornings to come.

And it's funny too because I remember being very young and watching "The Lawrence Welk Show" with my grandma (it was her favorite) and listening to the Geritol commercials. And while I liked watching with Grandma (remember Bobby & Cissy?), I knew then that this was programming for old people. And old people seemed like a different species. Is that how young children view me? Don't I seem ageless and cool? Well if I am truthful the answer is - no. Not at all.

I realize that my rants about getting old know no end (sorry) but I must tell you that it isn't so much an obsession as it is a fascination! Time rolls along and it takes me with it. Like everyone else my age (or thereabouts), it doesn't feel like it - but look at my neck and there it is.

So anyway, like a lot of responsible mid-aged adults we are looking to secure our investments (ha!) so we're about to go look at buying and "income property". Something we can buy outright with the 401K funds and use as income for the looming retirement years. And there really are some excellent properties for sale at prices we will never see again. Largely due to short sales - and finding gain from someone else's financial devastation makes me feel a little guilty. To say nothing of the fact that it is a HUGE step. Not only from an investment standpoint, but from the realization that we actually don't have 25 more years to recover from any further financial mess that we might make. Not that we are fully responsible for the hits we took to our retirement funds in the fall of '08. But we did stand by - incredulously - and take the full ride down the "great Dow Jones slope of tears", with our jaws on the floor - saying at each milestone (10% loss, 20%, 25%, 30%): "we can't pull out now, we'll miss the recovery that certainly must be coming tomorrow". And so we lost 40%. Ahem.

So we're going to scout out Temecula this weekend. Sounds like a disease. But we really do have to get serious about retirement plans because I am 62 in nine years.

Do they still make Geritol?

Groupie Leanings

I am going to tell you something that no other respectable, married woman will tell you (and so I suppose, there you go...)

You can be completely in love with your spouse and still develop a serious , teenage crush on a musician in a band.

Which might explain why I don't go to concerts.

Not that I'm worried that ever I'd act on such a crush. The embarrassment of having succumbed to cougar tendencies aside, who wants to feel like a obsessed 17-year-old school girl again? So I don't know whether to be grateful or sorry that our friends Chris and Jack had to cancel their plans at the last minute and so offered Bob and me tickets they had purchased to see Jim Messina at the Canyon Club tonight.

Obviously we went (or why would I be writing this?) and I will just sum it up for you. Amazing. For the most part, I enjoy classical music and "pretty" melodies that soothe my soul. This band however plays some serious R&B and ol' time rock and roll with country leanings and the sounds were so hot I got all caught up in it but I gotta tell you - the bass player was hotter. And he's as old as me.

There is nothing like a really good bass player. And it doesn't hurt that this guy was what ladies from the south call "a tall drink of water". Blond curly hair, chiseled jaw, diamond stud twinkling in his right ear. See, bass players hold the rhythm - they sustain the pulse, they close their eyes and lose themselves in it - they move steadily and controlled to the beat, they get these intense grimaces on their faces, and they smile when it really comes together and you start getting the feeling that whatever it is they are experiencing is so highly personal that you really shouldn't be watching them.

So of course that is all you do.

So I ask you: Does it feel like 1975 to you? I mean my dizzy head is telling me it is but I know it can't be because they didn't have google in 1975 and I came home and googled the guy. (A cougar stalker!)

Anyway, Bob and I had a wonderful time tonight. And it all ends happily. Because my Bob can play guitar beautifully, and he sings and he dances and we came home and sang some harmonies and he got lost in his guitar and smiled when everything came together. And suddenly I crushed on him all over again.

Little "hair of the dog", as they say in the south.

On Being Thrown Under the Bus

There was a day when, after being thrown under a bus (so to speak), I felt it was my place to lay there without too much squirming. My thought was that while I was thrown under a bus to protect someone else, I at least could bear the weight of the bus and so I should just do it and there would be much gratitude and indebtedness. And I would be rewarded for being willing to "take one for the team".

I was stupid.

The fact is, if you are thrown under the bus, you are thrown because they think you are light enough to throw and they think they can get away with it. And if you stay there, you will just die. And when you're dead, no one feels indebted. And you can't be part of any team.

I am no longer stupid.

After many hours of deep breathing I have polished that solid brass tiara of mine and placed it firmly on my head. Fitting, as it does, like a glove, it is there to remind everyone (and myself) that I am of the mind not to be meddled with.

It doesn't matter what the incident was to drive me to this anger and resolve, but suffice it to say that I have rolled out from under the bus, gotten into the driver's seat - and I'm about to take it for a little ride.

Wheeeeeeeeeeeee!!!

Unfortunate Yard Ornamentation

Shame on me! I'll go ahead and say that upfront. It seems ludicrous that with all the things I could focus my thoughts on - not the least of which would be removing the tacky plank from my own eye - I should focus on the need to remove the tacky splinters from the neighbors'. "Tacky" is a subjective thing. One person's tacky tchatchke is someone else's tacky treasure but what we can all agree upon is that tacky does exist. I can put up with a lot. But tacky in the neighborhood is one thing I cannot abide.

I do think that most people would agree that cars on the lawn, RVs or boats on the street in front of the house for more than a weekend, Christmas lights left up past January 7th, pink flamingos, "lawn jockys", pre-fab metal awnings, chain link fences, and neon colored house paint are an eye sore. But my personal sense of tackiness extends to stained glass windows on front doors, topiary, ornamental statues of significant size, dead grass (I am guilty of that myself), newspapers not picked up on the driveway (guilty again), marble columns on a tract home, and finally wall ornaments that can be seen from the curb.

Now I have seen a lot of wall ornaments that I like and some might even be attractive in the front, but given the mistakes that can be made, unless you want me to choose them for you, best to keep them all in the back yard. Just sayin'.

So let me tell you about what the neighbors have done that is giving me such anxiety that I have taken the time to write about it. (After 16 years of living here I still don't know any of my neighbors well enough to do more than nod at them in passing - so I think its fairly safe to say that none of them will be reading this.) The neighbors down the street have been working on their house for some time. And they have been extremely organized and neat and clean about it - which I really do appreciate. It is clear that there has been some expense in the selection of the materials used and I would say that they had immensely improved the curb appeal of their house since they moved into the neighborhood.

Until...

Until they hung (between two picture windows on a very large, prominent, and highly visible wall facing the street) a Great. Big. Granite. Angel. Now I have nothing against angels. I quite love them actually. But they belong above a child's bed. And this was not a Christmas angel - which would have been justifiable if only for one month out of the year. This was a warrior angel. A mighty warrior angel, holding in one mighty arm what appeared to be a wounded (or even dead) naked, man (covered only by cloth placed strategically), while the other arm is poised toward heaven like Superman on takeoff.

This angel caused me great despair each day as I passed it - coming and going. I could not imagine who would ever have thought "Look at that magnificent, granite angel holding a dead man! I have just the place for it!" Every time I passed the house I would look to see if I could see the owners - hoping to see if they wore a nun's habit or clerical collar or a space suit -anything to explain this peculiar choice of ornamentation. I never did. Have NO idea who they are.

I thought of calling our homeowners' association - but we don't have that kind of a homeowners' association. Ours is just responsible for keeping the neighborhood grounds kept up. We don't have a lot of enforceable rules. And I felt guilty too. Because angels are good things. And maybe we need to be reminded of their presence. And if I were ever in trouble, I would sure be happy to see one. But probably not that one. And especially not there.

Then one day, the angel disappeared. The space where it once hung was empty. I don't know if it broke, or the homeowner's association had an emergency meeting, or if it flew away. But it was gone. And I was much relieved.

Until...

Until about two months later when, in the angel's place, there appeared a great, big, round, cafeteria-sized - clock!! It has a brushed nickel frame. And all 12 numbers are present. Not even in roman numeral format. Like a kitchen clock. Only giant.

And it works.

And about now I'm thinking that a big ol' RV on the street would be just the thing to block that view.

August 2nd? What About It?

Last night, August 6th, Grace got out of bed, walked down the hall to the family room where we were, and said: "Mom? Dad? Happy belated anniversary, 4 days ago."

Bob and I looked at each other. On Monday we had been married 19 years. And we completely forgot our anniversary. For the 11th year in a row.

On August 3, 2007, I was sitting pool side at Disney's California Wilderness Lodge after a big client event held at the park the night before. Bob had left early that morning for an audition so I was lounging next to and visiting with a colleague's husband and asked him how he and Jody met. He told me the story and then he asked me how long Bob and I had been married and it was at that moment that I realized that our anniversary had been the day before and we had forgotten - again. I was embarrassed.

But I guess not enough.

Now I ask you, how is that possible? No married couple I know ever forgets their wedding anniversary. Maybe some of the husbands need to be reminded, but never the wives. A couple of weeks ago my friends Jackie & Rick celebrated theirs - Jackie posted a photo on her Facebook. I remember looking at it and thinking that Bob and I would be married 19 years this year. But no bell went off in my mind telling me it was coming up. And clearly nothing went off in Bob's mind.

So I have to look at my calendar and remember how we celebrated.

1. I got up at about 7:30 and went to work in my office.
2. I checked Facebook and wished a friend Happy Birthday (no joke).
3. I read emails.
4. I sent emails.
5. I made phone calls.
6. I ate Jenny Craig for breakfast, lunch and dinner
7. I ran errands and prepared Grace for a 3-day camping trip she was going on.
8. I ate my share of Weight Watcher's frozen yogurt bars.
9. I watched TV.
10. And while I cannot specifically remember it, I'm sure that I had a fight with someone at home because that appears to be the law.

Bob, on the other had, did whatever Bob did. He was here too but I was busy doing what it is that I do so I didn't notice. I know he went to the grocery store at some point.

I googled how we should have spent it. At the 19 year mark, there is no "traditional" gift (although next year I should be in line for some china). The "modern gift" is bronze. Which I suppose could have meant a water feature for outside somewhere. Bob wants one of those. Didn't get that. Jewelry would have been an aquamarine (I have one from husband #1 - never wear it) or a garnet (not a fan). So no jewelry. But then I saw they have a new category - travel gifts for each anniversary. This year we should have gone to the South of France. And I am now officially feeling gypped. It is especially disappointing when I further read that next year (our

20th), we are supposed to go to San Francisco.

So what am I to make of this continual omission from memory of the significance of this date?

Maybe it means something awful. Or maybe not. Who cares? The fact is, we're married. We're sticking to it and I gotta tell you - at pretty big odds. We are hardly what anyone who knows us would call "made for each other". In fact, we are about as different as two people can be. And that has made from some pretty tough times. And interesting. But we love each other.

And we haven't killed each other.

Yet.

On New York

A few weeks ago, I was in New York for business. I was really excited to go. I hadn't been in

New York in about 5 years, I think, and I was due for a "big city fix".

I have been to New York several times in my life. I have had only one incredible, memorable time there. I stayed at The Algonquin with my friend Glenn who was the musical director for Andrea Marcovicci's cabaret act. She was singing at the famous Oak Room there. (She was memorably and ridiculously dramatic.) But Glenn and I explored - asfriends - all the best the city had to offer and I will never forget that trip. It was New York as New York is described in "Marjorie Morningstar". Perfection.

I have wanted that kind of experience since. But the city as a whole isn't that kind of romantic anymore. Time Square looks like the Vegas Strip. And the rest of it is just busy.

Not to say there isn't much still to see, do and enjoy, but I guess I have grown a little weary of it. On this trip, tourists stopped me to ask for directions. That has never happened before. Clearly the shine is off - I blend. So during the day, I attended the Fancy Food Show and gave presentations to advertising agencies and in the evenings, I visited friends. Friends I hadn't seen in a while. Some in a long while.

I did a little bit of sightseeing too. I walked over to Rockefeller Center and went in the shops to escape the mind numbing heat. And then I ventured over to St. Patrick's Cathedral across the street and went in. It was really beautiful. And even though I am not a catholic, I lit a candle for my departed Catholic family - Anne, her mother, her brother Donald and my mother-in-law Marilyn. I ventured down the aisle and sat myself down at a pew about midway up. The church was fairly full but mostly with tourists. It would probably have been a more profound experience if not for all the camera flashes. Cameras, cameras everywhere. More than if you were there for a

wedding. I found all the cameras somewhat disrespectful and more than a little annoying as I tried to concentrate on prayer and being thankful - for the blessings in my life, for my job, for

my family, for my girls. I spent a full 30 minutes in there - taking it all in. It was a truly

beautiful place. And then it was time to go.

So I took a picture.

I had a marvelous dinner at some little Italian restaurant on 9th Street in what is known as Hell's Kitchen, with Matt, an old friend from my two years at the San Jose Civic Light Opera. He and the risotto were delightful!! Saw my hilarious friend Sandy as well - great career AND townhouse. Saw Errol, a friend and colleague from Disney, who invited me and my family to his home in "up-state". And then Monica - whom I hadn't seen in 37 years when I was a junior in high school. She looked the same! No, seriously. The. Same. She has had quite a amazing life and it was really something else to connect with her again. It felt rather like rolling off a log.

I am always a little amazed that people live normal lives anywhere other than where I live. I saw my friend Marsha and she was talking about having returned from a trip to San Jose (where we met so long ago) and how, once her cab drove her from the airport back into the city, she felt that comfortable feeling of "home". I know that feeling. But I can't image feeling that feeling approaching New York.

I met Marsha at a little health food deli across the street from The Algonquin Hotel. Marsha has been doing quite well doing "voice overs" (who knew!) and had just come from an audition for a production of "Sunset Boulevard" My brain quickly raced to imagine what role?

I mean, aside from Norma Desmond - the deluded and aging former star of the silent screen - how many significant female roles could there be? I couldn't think of one. "Which role?", I asked. "Norma!", Marsha replied. I looked at her like she had two heads. "What?? You're not old enough to play Norma." I mean how could she be? I am certainly not old enough to play Norma. Maybe a little too old to play Marjorie Morningstar but certainly not NORMA! However, upon later reflection I realized that Gloria Swanson was 2 years younger than I amnow when she originated the role in the 1950 movie. And when I googled it, I could see that minus the campy make-up and grandma pin curl hairdo, she looked a great deal younger than I do now. Yet - she is the deluded and aging movie star. Deluded and aging. Sound like anyone I know?

I hate that show.