I Want To Look Just Like You!.....when I'm Old

Lately, when I pick up a book or magazine, I find myself drawn to what I consider

“age appropriate” material.

And it’s not just reading material. This goes for everything….clothes, shoes, purses, even cars!

Yes, it’s true. I’m almost sixty now. But when did my brain start reflecting my body

image?..... my sagging, softening body image?

I wholeheartedly subscribe to the adage, “You’re as young as you feel”! And I don’t feel old! So why is my mind acting old? I never gave the Okay!

That’s what scares me. I didn’t see it coming!

Of course I’ve joked about it. You know, the Senior Moment and Hot Flash references.

And I have accepted the term Middle-Age without protest, but old?

Heck, I used to be a Hippie! (Well I would have been, but I was allergic).

I should have had an inkling, a hint I was turning that corner, when a young co-worker said to me, “You’re so cool”. And then without warning…..

“I want to look just like you, when I’m Old”.

What??....... I’m Old??

How did this happen? Does old age really sneak up on you? I’ve heard the expression before. Never even considered it would happen to me!

But come to think of it, I am starting to display some of the same annoying behavior my mother once did.

Cases in point…

When in a waiting room or somewhere else that requires me to sit for a long period of time, I clutch my handbag close to my body. What exactly do I think is going to happen to it? I used to chuckle when I saw “old ladies” guarding their purses like that!

And also, I’ve become more “outspoken” in public.

While shopping in department stores, I find myself handing out unsolicited advice.

The other day I noticed a young gal trying to decide between two dresses.

I immediately pipe up, “Oh take the black, it is much more versatile!”

Like she really cares what some old bag thinks!

I always hated when my mom did that…chatted with other shoppers. Who cares?

Just stick to the program. Get in, and get out. Much more efficient!!

And bargain shopping! I now waste valuable gasoline dollars hop/scotching from supermarket to supermarket to save 50 cents! When did I become Ms. Thrifty?

I didn’t even grow up in the Depression!

But one of my all time, eye rolling, and nerve grating annoyances was to listen to my mother repeat the same story over and over again! Why did she find it so hard to remember “yesterday”?

Then recently in a conversation with my daughter, I offered up a bit of gossip. Something I considered juicy and shocking. Then, as if adding salt to a wound, she immediately shoots back with, “I know Mom. You told me three times already”.

OMG! When did I turn into my mother??

My mother in law, (God rest her soul), was never a very comforting person. She used to take what I thought was way too much pleasure in repeating the phrase,

“There is nothing good about getting old, and don’t let anyone tell you there is”!

Hmmm….

Don’t know if that’s necessarily true…. In fact, if you think about it, there are some advantages!

Just off the top of my head…..

Haven’t you noticed that all seniors brazenly speak their mind (but out loud) in public places without caring who hears? Criticizing someone’s attire, or commenting on another’s “size”. Or delivering a sarcastic insult behind a veiled smile.

I know that must be a perk because all “old” people do it!

And they can say, “I told you so” at least 5 times a day and be right.

Because they most likely did say so, and were ignored. And now they get to bask in smug satisfaction.

And old people are allowed to get lost in hospitals and parking lots without having to feel foolish. And sometimes people even offer their assistance!

Old people are the recipients of surrendered seats on crowded subways. And are treated with a little more respect when returning items without a receipt. They even get assistance in the reaching, lifting , and carrying, of heavy items. And who doesn’t run ahead to open a heavy door for a little old lady?

But most importantly, are the senior discounts. Just 10% off is enough to put a “jig” in anyone’s step!

And I have never once seen any person (man or woman) with gray hair who didn’t have the correct change!

So even though the chronological aspect of aging is inevitable. On the inside, I’m most definitely still me!

The same me I was 40 years ago. The same me that rode roller coasters and snuck into drive-in movies. The same me that used fake ID’s to get into dance clubs ( and other best forgotten places).

And the same me that fell in love at first sight. That all consuming, aching love that comes with youth and innocence…..never again recaptured.

And so what if I do find myself gravitating towards three quarter length sleeves and rhinestone studded pill organizers.

I have managed to find a silver lining in every stage of my life. So I intend to sail right through this one with humor and class, (picture a cross between Maxine and Sally Fields).

There is no turning back now, literally…..

And that little co-worker of mine…..

Well, I think she will be damn lucky if she does end up looking like me, when she is old!

My Grandson Loves Me...Honest

My Grandson Loves Me… Honest.

I was 58 years old when I became a grandmother.
Before receiving this title, I attended many baby showers for the daughters of good friends, and family. And after these special little bundles of joy arrived, I can honestly say that every one of them touched my heart. Their sweet little faces, their intoxicating smells, and the “comical” way their features reflected those of their parents….just magical.

But even after admitting all of this, I still never quite got that “special love bond” these grandmothers claimed they felt for their grandchildren.
After all, giving birth to your own child is one of the most humbling and life changing experiences a woman can have, right?
So what could top that?
Then I found out.
Don’t ask me to explain it. I can’t. “Yes”, everyone says, “Of course he’s great, you can give him back whenever he’s cranky”!
But that’s not it. It’s true. But that’s not it.

When my grandson, Dominic, was only a few days old, that “special bond” started to form.
I was the one who could always calm him. I was the one who could always get him to sleep, and I was the one who always knew exactly what he needed. We had this telepathy thing going. He knew, I knew. And I knew, he knew, I knew.

Now that he is a toddler, that bond is even stronger. I am still the one who can get him to eat. I am the body he scales in the middle of chaos, and I am the one he turns to when no one else gets it.
He makes me feel whole again, (in a way I didn’t know I was broken)!
Okay, enough with the “bonding” talk.

My daughter is now expecting my second grandchild.
She asked if I could come over one morning to watch Dominic so she could have blood work done.
“Yes, of course”, I say. I had never watched him so early in the day, and was looking forward to being the first face he saw when he woke up!

When I got to her house, she recited his usual morning routine, thanked me, kissed me, and with a promise to be back as soon as possible, was out the door…

I am thinking this departure was probably a lot different from how it went down “back in the day”…..before we all contracted CPD, (Cell Phone Dependency).

I remember giving my sitter a list of numbers to call in case of an emergency, showing her where we kept the syrup of ipecac, demonstrating the alternate “fire escape” route, and giving her the name of a neighbor I could trust with my life.
But since my daughter and I have both become “cell sufficient”, this information isn’t quite as critical.

Unfortunately for me, Dominic was sleeping a little later than he normally did. I checked on him periodically, (every 5 minutes), to see if he was stirring. He wasn’t. He was snoring like a lumberjack….must be a male thing.
So I finally went back to the family room to watch TV. It took me about 10 minutes to figure out their remote. And after congratulating myself for not having to “text” my daughter with questions, I heard him cry out.
Yippee, he’s awake!

I walk into his room to find him sitting up, rubbing his eyes, and making little baby noises.
“Good Morning Sweetie, Nana is here!”
No response….he probably didn’t see me, still in a dreamy daze.
Planting a kiss on the top of his little head, I greet him again, a little more gently.
“Good Morning little man. It’s Nana!”

With a look of horror on his face, he points to the door and whimpers, “Mama”!

What??? It’s me, Nana! You know, the one who dotes on your every move? The one who is always here for you? The one with the “special bond” thing going on???

Still, he has this look of disappointment on his face. I attempt to pick him up. He pushes me away. He cries out. Again, with the “Mama” stuff!

Finally…. after several minutes of me reenacting “The Greatest Show on Earth”, (sorry Barnum and Bailey, but I was desperate), he let me pick him up.
We laughed, we played, and all was well with the world again!

True to her word, my daughter came home in what I thought was way too short of time.
She asked how things went. I inform her that all went well. He was great. He was happy. We had a good time, no problems.
No need to make her feel badly for not being here when he woke up. And no need to let her know he was a little upset to see me instead of her.

After all, everyone knows that my grandson and I have a “special bond”. And he loves me dearly…Honest.

All God's Creatures

While taking a walk with my grandson, Dominic, on Saturday, we noticed a tiny little baby bird by the curb and dangerously close to the street. The little bird had all his feathers, but still had the tiny little puffs of white on the top of his head…..he was a little young to be out on his own. I picked the bird up and cupped him in my hands. Needless to say, Dominic was in awe! He has just recently developed an interest in birds and Wednesday had spent the day at the Los Angeles Arboretum (many, many birds)
We sat on the curb together examining the poor little thing for damage….there did not appear to be any, aside from being totally stunned from either a failed attempt to fly the coup, or from being dropped by a predator….happens often, as in the case of our last bird rescue. But that is another story…

I kept referring to the bird as a “baby” and that we had to take care of it until his mother finds him. Dominic crouched down (as toddlers do) leaned forward and said “baby” and kisses the top of his head…..my heart just melted.

By that time Mom (Catherine) and Grandpa (Papa Ed) crossed the street to see what was happening. Papa immediately warns, “don’t let Dominic touch him, he might be diseased” (anyone who knows Ed will get a chuckle out of that). I said we needed to put him in the backyard and protect him until his mother can find him. Catherine said, “Oh Mom, she won’t do that!” I said, “Yes she will, she is probably watching us right now, mother birds always protect their babies”.

So we put him in one of our many antique birdcages in the backyard. Of course first we decked it out like a Four Star nest, complete with straw, water and twigs. Then we put him on the picnic table in clear view. Cat was worried because he hadn’t made much noise and was afraid Mama bird would not hear him. I told her he was still in shock, to give him time and hopefully he will start screeching.

Meanwhile, Dominic was in bird heaven. He kept on trying to touch him through the wired cage…. he kept making bird sounds. Unfortunately, the only birdcalls he used were from the peacocks he saw at the Arboretum. And if you have ever heard them, you would know they sound like women screaming in pain….or they do to me anyway. Dominic actually said “tweet, tweet” a couple of times, but mostly he made the hideous sounds of the peacock. Baby bird looked pretty terrified at that point.

So far, there were no signs of Mama bird.
The door to the cage had long since been lost, so we used a block of wood and a rock to keep the little guy in. He wasn’t doing much flying around in the cage, so we did not want him to hop around on the ground and get eaten by a cat. We figured when Mama found him, she would figure out how to protect him.

Finally, it was time to let nature take its course. Cat took Dominic home and Ed and I got ready to go to Home Depot. Just as we were getting ready to leave, Ed noticed a pretty red bird (not a robin, maybe a cardinal) flying near and around the cage. She kept flying back and forth. Baby bird had finally found his voice and was screeching bloody murder. We watched for a while and then we noticed TWO red birds guarding the cage. I like to think it was Mama and Papa bird planning an escape.


But we finally left, Ed was getting ancy. Grown men can only tolerate bird watching for so long. We were gone for maybe an hour and a half.

When we returned, I went directly to the cage to check on the “baby”……he was gone. Somehow the little door we made with the board and rock had been pushed aside and the bird escaped…and there were no more red birds circling the cage. Mission accomplished!

Now some of you might not agree, but I like to think that Mama and Papa bird rescued their little baby and guided him safely home. And then, preceded to give him a lecture on leaving the nest before he was mature enough to deal in the real world.
Sound familiar?????

We are all God’s creatures.

Growing Up Italian...for my famiglia

Growing up Italian


When my mother was 6 years old, her family left their home in Aquila, Italy and sailed to America on the Conte Biancamano. The family consisted of her father Gregorio, mother Antoniette, brother Tony, sister Maria Pugina, and my mother, Elisa.
They arrived with the hopes of starting a new life in a land of opportunity that welcomed them with open arms.
That is what Lady Liberty promised. And after passing through Ellis Island,
This is what happened…
Being a good “Italian” man, my uncle married a good “Italian” girl (who also came over on the boat).
However, my mother and my aunt both chose to marry men, “Made in America”.
And so it begins…

From the time I was very little, I knew I was Italian. My grandma was Italian, my mother was Italian, and we three kids were Italian. The same went for my aunt’s family. She and her two children were, Italian.
What happened to my father’s heritage was never really discussed. We were fed Italian food, listened to Italian music, and were yelled at in Italian.
I was always very proud of this. And so when I married a man of mostly Danish descent, my children, not surprisingly, were also Italian.
(The law of diminishing returns never applied to us).

Throughout the years, I have learned that being Italian requires a stronger than normal backbone.
On the down side, you must learn to act like all the Mafia jokes and Soprano episodes don’t phase you. You smile and laugh at the remarks. But then you ever so subtly give the Evil Eye.
Immediately, it is assumed that you are connected, (if only by a cousin once removed). That usually takes care of it.
And, because of our “gifted” ancestry, you must also be familiar with all the famous artisans born in the vicinity of Rome, their work, and the details of their tragic lives. Because for some reason, they all had tragic lives. And working for the Pope just added to the pressure!

But on the upside, we have the best food! Who doesn’t like spaghetti and meatballs? Note….must always spell “spaghetti” correctly, (otherwise you may be considered an imposter)
All women from the old country are known for being pleasingly plump and overly generous. These women had the desire to feed anyone who walked through their door, and they usually did.
Because for us, food was not just sustenance, but more of a “communication skill”.
It goes something like this….


Baked Lasagna} I love you.
Wedding Soup} This will make you feel better.
Homemade Pizza} You are like family.
Canolies} Well….Someone is sorry for something!

Growing up Italian also required special learning skills. It was a priority that we all spoke English as our first language, but equally important (if not a survival tool) was the capability to understand every command and hand gesture given to us by our maternal grandmother (or by our mother lapsing into her native tongue when it applied).
But every one of us kids found out the hard way that the typical American child did not use the words Mangia, or Mapine!
The area in Italy from which our family originated, is known for their diverse attributes. So we range from blue-eyed blondes, to green eyed redheads, to saucer-eyed brownies. So physical assimilation has never been an issue for us. It is our hearts that remain loyal, our souls pure.

Eighty years have past since our family set foot in this country. And with all the generations that have followed the original five, we are still “Italian”.
Whether we are 100 percent or 1/8 percent, we will continue to eat fish on Christmas Eve, make pizzelles for every holiday, and name at least one son, Tony. And for that, I will remain eternally proud.

Ciao

Something New

Ok, How about something new! Today I stumbled upon Twitter!!! Maybe it will lead someone to my Babybird Story!!!