Author: Susie (Page 29 of 48)

Over the last ten years or so – possibly more – I’ve heard and read a lot of comments about the “younger” generation.  According to many reports and opinions, these young people (mostly millennials) have a different work ethic, a different view of life, and different values. Many times, I’ve heard comments to the effect that the world is going downhill quickly and it’s the fault of this “younger generation.”

               Well, I’m living testimony that this is simply not true.  At least, not in my world.  The younger generation (the ones we raised, by the way), do have different work ethics and different values.  They don’t stay in one career for their entire work lifetime.  But wherever they do work, they do their very best work for the paycheck.  That’s a good work ethic, I think.

               Yes, they were born with technology in their hands.  They wield a keyboard or a phone like we used to handle our 8-track stereos.  All confidence, all speed, and pretty smug.

               There’s a new phenomenon that is pretty disturbing, however.  It’s so prevalent that there’s even a name for it – phubbing.  Phubbing is the behavior of snubbing the person you are having lunch or coffee with by attending to your phone.  We’ve all seen this – and likely made fun of it.  People sitting across from each other, each on their phones, staring down and typing madly while not speaking to each other at all.

               But let’s not blame the younger generations for this.  Last week, I went to lunch, a different place for coffee, and the next day out to dinner.  At all three, separate locations, I saw a number of couples phubbing.  These people, however, were at least my age.  They weren’t the younger generation at all – they were people who “supposedly” have better values and more manners.

               Huh.  And let me also just say that watching this made me think of the time I was in high school and my mother wore a pair of hip-hugger bell-bottom pants.  I was embarrassed and distressed. 

               I suspect our children are embarrassed and distressed by our phubbing.  We barely know how to use our phones correctly and have “apps” we don’t understand, but we have that phone in our hand like it’s a life-alert device.  Hey, maybe it is.

               But it was that last dinner out that reinforced my faith in the younger generation.  I was with a friend at a Waffle House and a young couple (mid-twenties) came in and asked the few of us there, “Who has the Buick?”    

               It took me a second to realize that was me.  When I finally responded, the young man came closer and said, sincerely, “I’m so sorry.  I backed into your car and I think there’s a dent in your bumper.”

               He was so apologetic.  I went and looked at the car, and sure enough, under the salt and dirt, was a small indentation.  The paint wasn’t even scratched.  Still, he appeared distressed.  He kept saying, “I thought I’d run over a cup.”

               Finally we all returned inside and after assuring him that I was only glad no one was hurt, I resumed my conversation with my friend and finished my eggs and cheese (so good).

               When we went to leave, we found our bill had been paid.  The young couple had paid for our meals and left without another word. 

               Honesty.  Concern.  Restitution. If those are examples of the values of the younger generation, I think we’re in good hands.

This was the twelfth year that we have taken three days in February and met two other couples in a state park for a mid-winter retreat.  Last year, 2021, was an adventure in a different way, thanks to the global pandemic.  Each of the six of us was quarantined for 10 days prior to the trip and maintained at least 6 feet away from each other while indoors.

               Still, thanks to the many walking trails and the wonderful size of the cabin, it wasn’t too much of a challenge and was a great time.

               Each year we go, we share a new adventure.  The first year was perhaps the strangest.  We were in a state park deep in West Virginia.  This park had a large field adjacent to our cabin and once you had walked through it you entered an immense forest.

               After walking about a half mile into this forest, I started noticing some disquieting things.  What I noticed was nothing.  I mean, absolutely nothing.  There were no birds tweeting or flying around.  There were no squirrels rustling.  No deer were seen, not even tracks.  There was simply no sound at all, save those of our footfalls and chatting.

               This started to bother me, as I am one of the oldest of the group and was – at that time – the plumpest.  If something awful in this forest was plucking off the living creatures, I was pretty sure I’d be the first to go.  After all, the group didn’t have to outrun the beast – just me!  And I was positive I was the slowest.

               We hiked another mile or so, and then, thankfully, found the main road.  We made it back safely (obviously, or I wouldn’t be relating this tale) to the cabin. 
               The haunted woods bothered me, though, and still puzzles me.  We have since found other state parks which have woods filled with sounds.  This is a comfort.

               I thought that was the strangest adventure we might have had until this year.  Fully vaccinated, we all arrived at the designated cabin and had a grand first evening.  However, on the second evening, only three of us stayed up to chat and nibble.  We gathered around the counter in the kitchen when we heard the first sound of something  by the refrigerator.  As the bravest of us went to investigate, he saw a mouse run across the floor and under the stove.

               We pulled the refrigerator away, and there was a second mouse, unperturbed by our light and noise, eating something out of a box.  We deduced this was some kind of trap, but it didn’t seem to be effective.  You’d have thought, from our behavior, that we were expecting to see moose or beavers behind the fridge.  We were that brave and that hysterical.

               So the next morning, two of our group went to town and bought mouse traps.  We set three of them out and within a couple of hours, we had successfully rid the cabin of three mice.  Later that evening, as we played games and drank margaritas, the traps snapped again.  And again.  And much later, again.

               Six mice in all. Now, it’s winter in the Midwest and obviously, mice try to come inside.  But we’d never had them before!  In twelve years, I’ve snapped photos of deer, squirrels, raccoons, chipmunks, and even a fox.  But we never saw or heard a mouse in any cabin we’ve rented.

               We left the cabin rodent-free. And no, I didn’t take a photo of any of the living mice. 

As an adult, I’ve always had just a little swallowing difficulty.  It isn’t enough to warrant a medical evaluation, just enough to scare the living daylights out of me about twice a week.

               For example, after drinking a milkshake or eating thick soup for many bites, I will suddenly be unable to swallow easily.  The thickish stuff gets kind of stuck in my throat.  I don’t choke, but there’s a paralyzing second or two when I think I’m going to do just that. I can’t get the food back up and I can’t get my throat to swallow.  Then, I realize I can still breathe, and the lump goes down the hatch.

               Sometimes, I have to jump out of my chair to get that to happen.  It used to alarm my husband a bit, but I think he’s used to it by now.  (I did tell him to watch for the international sign for choking just in case my worst nightmare comes true some day).

               Anyway, so it’s not just soup or milkshakes, sometimes it’s a bit of chicken, or a piece of green bean, or even a sip of water.  But, I just go on about my life, not thinking about it consciously because it’s not a daily event by any means.

               The only exception to that is…pills . It’s so difficult for me to consider swallowing a pill whole that I go out of my way not to take medication.  When I have to take it, I try to find the smallest and/or most slippery capsule I can.

               Every day, I take a vitamin D (very small, slippery pill) and a vitamin C capsule. These have been recommended by my doctor based on blood work, so obviously I can’t skip those.  The vitamin C is a biggish capsule, but very slippery. 

               I prepare myself for these mentally, and thus far, have not had a problem. 

               Because of my osteoarthritis, I also take a pill for my joints and a magnesium tablet.  These are both fairly small, too, so twice a day I manage to get them down.  Once in a while, the magnesium causes a little cough because it’s rough, but usually it’s okay.

               Sadly, I recently have had to reintroduce glucosamine into my regime.  This is a concern on two levels.  The first is that my arthritis is worsening and I need the additional support to be able to walk with relatively little (or no!) pain.  The second is that glucosamine comes in two forms:  huge and horse-pill size.

               Now, every day, we have three little cups from our china set that we put out on the breakfast table.  I believe the intended purpose of these adorable ceramic dishes is for food such as poached egg or custard.  But we use them for pills.  My husband has one for his, the dog has one, and I have one.

               This morning, I added the glucosamine pill to my cup.  It sat there, large and intimidating, on the top of all the others. In fact, it totally masked all the others, it’s so big. 

               We ate breakfast and removed the dishes to the counter.  I went back to the table to take my pills with my water and the cup was gone!

               I asked my husband what he had done with it, and he told me the last he saw it, the cup was still on the table next to my coffee.  But only my coffee cup was there.

               We looked all over the kitchen counter and even in the dog dish.  My pills were nowhere to be found.

               Finally, I looked in the cupboard and I had – in a moment of pure Freudian mindset – placed the little cup, still full of pills, back into the place it belongs!

               Apparently, even my subconscious does not want to take that pill.  (Never fear, I have a pill splitter and am not afraid to use it!)

               Two years ago, in January, we moved from our master bedroom on the second floor to the guest room on our first floor.  We were having a new shower installed in our bathroom upstairs, and thought that sleeping downstairs, next to another bathroom, would be smart during the work.

               We also have a third bathroom off our family room.  It is also downstairs and the furthest possible point inside our home from the upstairs bathroom.

               So, two years ago, we moved to the downstairs bathroom for a week or so. The actual work took two full months, because the shower stall didn’t fit the first time, then the installer broke a pipe under the sink, and eventually, the drain came unseeded or unhinged or whatever…so anyway, a lot of work got done in that upstairs bathroom.

               Meanwhile, we gradually moved many of our clothes downstairs.  We found out that we could easily share a small closet and use one dresser drawer each.  Of course, the close-down/lock-in of the pandemic helped, in that we didn’t have to go to work or dress up for anything.  I think I wore one of three outfits on any given day for about a year.

               But I digress.  During that same time, the toilet in the bathroom next to our new master bedroom started to leak. So we could go upstairs, or if in a hurry, race to the family room, but we gradually started not using the bathroom off the spare room.  Also, we got the brilliant idea to renovate (all those home remodeling shows we binged on!) both downstairs bathrooms.

               So, in May, 2021, we contracted with a renovator.  He said he would be able to start the first bathroom before Christmas.

               When Christmas arrived and he hadn’t, we realized he hadn’t said which Christmas, exactly.  In January, my husband and all-around problem solver contacted him and he said there had been material shipping delays and he’d start in February.  We totally understood about delays, and prepared to have a bathroom and the spare room torn up.

               We were moving upstairs!  So, we had to clear out both bathrooms, the downstairs bedroom, and the linen closet and utility rooms that are attached to one of the bathrooms.  I began to sift through cupboards and drawers and dressers and closets, filling trash cans, recycling bins, and donation boxes.

               For an organized person, the state of my bathrooms was pretty awful.  I mean, we’ve been in a pandemic for nearly two years now, and apparently, I have been stockpiling and/or not cleaning for way longer than that!

               Among the masses of things I found included seven (7!) tubes of antibiotic cream. (Let me digress again to say that these are things I can’t seem to find when I actually need them!)  There were three tubes in the downstairs bathroom, all three of which were hidden in various containers of other things – like bandaids and q-tips.  One was current, but two had expirations dates of 2019 and 2020. The other four were upstairs.  One was hidden behind an open, half-empty container of Tums.  It had an expiration date of 2018.  The second was behind another open, and also half-empty container of Tums.  It expired in 2017.  The third was okay, but was smooshed inside a container that held some loose Tums (clearly a makeshift travel package).

               I also discovered eight hairbrushes, six combs, and an Afro-pick.  There are only two heads in this house and neither of us has curly hair (okay, I had a perm that required the pick – but that was 30 years ago). 

               Good news!  Our house is clean and organized and ready for remodeling.  February has arrived, and the contractor has not.  But then again, he didn’t say which February….