If you read my last entry, you know that I recently misplaced my driver’s license and had to get a replacement. That is always a fun experience and typically one I do not look forward to with any degree of excitement.

               This trip to the DMV was no exception.  It didn’t help that I was already aggravated over losing the stupid license.  But it’s just something that a sane person doesn’t want to be without – a sane person who drives, at any rate. 

               So off I went to the nearby license bureau to explain myself.  The young man behind the Plexiglas was much less concerned about my loss than I felt he should be.  He was also not very interested in my answers to the multiple questions he had.  These questions seemed a bit insipid – like “how long have I lived in Ohio?” and “where was I born?” First of all, shouldn’t the massive database have all that information?  Some facts about my life simply do not change from year to year.  And secondly, why is it important to know that I’ve lived in Ohio for 56 years?
               Ah well, he finally got through the amazing list of questions, most of which I had difficulty hearing through his mask and the glass, and got to the really awful part – the photo.  Now, this is a photo that will be on your person or in your wallet for the next four years.  It will identify you to all manner of important authority figures in important life situations. Yet, they seem to train the photographers to take the picture at the exact instant at which you are making a face that you’ve never made before and that makes you look positively loony. And there are no do-overs!

               I’m not basing this assertion on my own experience alone.  My husband – a very attractive man at any age – carried around a picture for four years that made him look like an escapee from San Quentin!

               But I got the picture – a black-and-white version on a printed piece of paper that had to be folded six times to fit in my wallet.  This is temporary until I receive my “real” license.  It will be hard plastic that fits perfectly into the designated slot.  The photo will be the same hideous one.

               Ah well, speaking of photos.  I was in the lab the other day to have routine blood work taken.  While there, I noticed a sign posted that said “ABSOLUTELY NO PHOTOS, VIDEOS, OR RECORDINGS OF ANY KIND IN THIS ROOM!”  They seemed serious about this, and I inquired about it.  I just couldn’t imagine why you’d have to tell people having their blood drawn not to photograph it.

               The phlebotomist explained that some folks enjoy taking videos or photos and posting them on social media.

               Seriously?  I don’t like watching it happen to me.  In fact, I do not watch it happen; I studiously stare at posters on an opposite wall. I sure as heck don’t want to watch someone else have blood drawn on their Tic-Tac-Toe wall, or whatever.

                It takes all kinds, I guess.  Speaking of all kinds – I went to the bank this morning and when they asked me for my ID, I pulled out my six-folded piece of paper.  Along with it, my driver’s license slipped out as well.

Of course, it’s not valid now.  But it’s nice to know I didn’t lose it – I just put it in the wrong compartment!

I do like that song from years ago, though my memories of late have been more of the “misty, water-colored” type they mention in the lyrics.  I’ve become quite forgetful the past two years, it seems to me.

               As we enter the beginning of the third year of this global pandemic (which I hope and pray is on its’ final notes), I became quite interested in the research done in the UK and other European country’s Departments of Health.  They have been finding that – not surprisingly – as a result of the pandemic loneliness, feelings of isolation, depression, and anxiety are on the rise all over the world. Even with folks who weren’t feeling lonely or depressed, however, these studies found increased problems with memory.

               Huzzah!  Oh, thank goodness!  There are a lot of reasons why my memory might be going haywire, and I’m happy to blame the pandemic for it rather than any of the others! 

               Mind you, I’m not talking about my normal memory skills.  I mean, I realize that even before the pandemic I had a tendency to do ditzy things.  For example, once I called my husband in a panic, sitting amongst the detritus of my updumped purse, sobbing to him that I couldn’t find my phone.   He calmly replied, “Honey, look in your hand.” 

               “It’s empty,“ I wailed, looking at my right hand.

               “Look in your other hand,” he said.  Well, duh.

               And then there was the time I walked past his car on the driveway, got into my car which was in front of his, and backed out of the driveway – smacking his car right in the radiator. 

               So, yes, strange brain things have not been a stranger to me.

               But this past week was something else.  First, I went to see a friend and we went out to lunch. When the bill came, I reached into my purse to pull out my wallet.  Gone.  Not there!  I took every single thing out of the purse and no wallet was present.  I went to the car and searched.  My poor friend had to spring for the whole deal – and I drove home without a license.

               Okay, maybe misplacing your wallet doesn’t seem like a big deal, but I never don’t have my wallet.  Never.  Seriously.  So that was freaky.      

               The very next day, we went to a play.  I carefully put some cash, my ID, lipstick, some readers, and my phone in the tiny cross-body bag I take to the theatre.  After dinner, I opened the little secret zippered section for the money and paid.  I also did that at the theatre to buy a drink.

               When we arrived home, I emptied the little bag to put all the items in my big purse.  The lipstick, readers, phone, and money were all there. My drivers’ license was not there!  Nor was it in the car, at the restaurant, or at the theater!  So now I get the delightful task of going to get a new license – three full years earlier than necessary.

               Joy.  These things usually come in threes, so who knows what I’ll be forgetting this week.  But whatever it is – it’s all the fault of the pandemic!  That’s my story and I’m sticking to it! 

Our family is no stranger to miscommunications.  When our son was just a little tyke, we had a giant one when we enrolled him in pre-school.  He loved the first day or two and made a best friend right away (they stayed best friends all through school, too.)  But when we told him, happily, that he would be attending every day, he grew quiet, and then tearful. 

               The next day, he balked at getting into the car.  This was an unusual behavior for him, and he cried quietly all the way to the preschool.  My husband was stunned and felt a little out-of-depth at this.  When I picked him up, he was quiet.  He said he had fun, but pleaded not to go back the next day.

               Finally, we sat down with him after dinner and asked why he didn’t like it anymore.  He confessed he liked it a lot, but didn’t want to go “every day.” Then he added, “You don’t go to work every day!  I want to be home with you!”

               Duh.  “Every day” does not include weekends, but we didn’t think to mention that.  When we explained it was only the days we worked, he was suddenly all smiles again. 

               Many years later, my husband and I were contemplating retirement.  We were driving along one day and I asked him what he wanted to do with his upcoming new, non-scheduled time. He replied that he’d like to use his creativity more.

               I immediately went to a dozen places in my head.  He is very creative in both music and art, so I imagined him joining a men’s choir, or perhaps taking art classes.  Maybe he’d even open a little studio.  We could create one over our garage just for him!

               I took out my pad and pen from my purse and began writing notes furiously. Glancing over, he asked what I was doing.

               Replying that I was making a list of materials for a studio over the garage, he looked puzzled. “What for?” he asked.  I said, “Well for your retirement.”

               “Oh,” he laughed.  “I don’t need a studio for it, just my head!  I want to put my organizational skills to work in some way.”

               Hmmm.  Organizing to me is a left-brain activity, not a right-brain one.  But to each his own!

               These days, we don’t have many verbal miscommunications.  We do, however, have many with our technological devices.  Almost daily in fact!

               Just yesterday, I opened my phone to see two texts that had come in.  I read the second one first and answered it, also asking a question. Then I read the first one, and it had the answer to my question in it!  So I responded quickly and apologized for responding without reading the first text.

               “What first text?” came back her reply. 

               So I put on my glasses and reviewed my texting.  Sure enough, two different people had sent me texts.  Geez Louise!

               But this morning, my husband had the biggest one yet (though I’m sure there will be more on both our parts). I was out running errands and asked him to text me the number of our accountant.  So he said to his phone, “Okay, Google” to ask them to look up the number.

               While he was doing that, our photo device on the counter responded as well – “looking up accountant.”  His phone and the photo device were both looking up the number and dialing.

               Well, who knew our photo holder could make phone calls?  Apparently many people know that, but we aren’t among them!  My husband didn’t know how to tell the photo machine to quit dialing without canceling the call on his phone.

               It took a while, but he finally texted me the number.  And now we know that more of our technology is listening to us than we imagined.  I’m not sure that’s comforting!

I had the occasion a little while ago of returning to a high school – not my high school – but one locally, at which I enjoyed their production of a spring musical. 
               But returning to a high school after so many years was both familiar and strange.  I knew, of course, that “times had changed.” Our own son was in high school several years (okay, many years) ago, and I had an inkling from those days that times were, indeed quite different.  And it goes beyond the fact that our son did not have to walk to school barefoot, in the snow, and uphill both ways. A critical difference between our son’s high school experience and mine was in math classes.  In my days, we were punished severely if we were caught using a calculator, slide rule, compass, or even our toes in a math class.  Heaven forbid we tried to use those things during a test!

               By the time our son reached high school, calculators were required equipment to bring to class.  And these babies weren’t the three dollar ones, either.  They had to do trigonometry and calculus and – for the price – they should have prepared dinner, too!

               So I knew that times had changed.  But I wasn’t prepared for the many differences the ensuing years had wrought.

               The first difference I noted was in the water fountains.  Sure, we had water fountains in my day.  I’m not that old!  We even had indoor plumbing!  The water fountains in the entryway to the high school we were in last week had an additional spout, with a sign indicating that this was the location you could use to fill your water bottle.    Water bottle? That’s another thing that we would have been prohibited from bringing to school!

               The second thing I noticed were multiple posters around the hallways, each advertising in big letters the number for various hotlines.  These hotlines covered issues including suicidal thoughts, depression, anxiety, and other mental health disorders.

               I was saddened by this, but also encouraged, that we are aware that teenagers suffer from these types of maladies and need support.  In my day, if you had any of these issues, likely you were silent.  If you dared raise a concern, you were told to “cheer up,” “buck up,” or “it will get better.”  Certainly we weren’t offered validation and places to get real help.  It wasn’t the intent to ignore these issues or dismiss us as people – don’t get me wrong. Folks just didn’t realize the seriousness at that time. So, this is a tremendous improvement.

               The last thing I discovered was an over-the-door shoe bag in the women’s rest room. It included feminine hygiene products of varying types in each little shoe holder.  Free!  This is a great stride forward for young ladies in school! 

               Yep, I was pretty impressed with the changes overall.  Some things don’t change, of course. I enjoyed the National Honor Society bulletin board “NEWS” that had absolutely nothing on it but a pretty covering of black paper.  Perhaps it was an artistic statement?

               And the smell.  Ugh.  Sweaty children, dirty socks, chalk, and something indefinable that just screams “school.”  Maybe in the next thirty years, someone will find a way to change that odor to something…better.