My two-cents worth and then some. An online journal by LP Brown.

Browsing Category General

Retired and Aging Like a Boss

by on ·General

The older I get, the more obsessed I am with maintaining control over my time. My son tells me I’m too generous with my time, but he has no idea. I selfishly and unashamedly guard every minute like a bouncer at a Taylor Swift concert. When I am in my groove, whether exercising, meditating, reading a good book, or just chilling, interruptions annoy me worse than a loud-mouth gum snapper. Even while writing this post, I’ve had five interruptions – three phone calls, one text ping, and Amazon at the door. Aiiiiiiih!!! (Sorry, I couldn’t suppress that scream.)

Extroverts might think my life boring. Wrong! I’ve been happily retired for 15 years and am still enjoying my home life. That doesn’t mean I would pass up an offer to live in a secluded cabin in the mountains of Colorado for a quiet writing place. Nevertheless, even in the noisy, bustling city, I’m a bonafide homebody and proud of it!

I know several retirees who, if they aren’t out globe-trotting (bless ’em) or being the life of a party, feel like they are under house arrest. Not me. I don’t like to travel, and I’m not a party animal, nor do I feel the need to socialize constantly; if I do, there’s always Facebook. Since my FB friends are inside the computer and not in the room with me, I can evade drama with one click.

Face-to-face interaction is not as easily avoided. If a friend unexpectedly stops by my place to visit (when I’m in the middle of writing and fantasizing about being the author of the world’s most extraordinary novel or kicking butt in a computerized word game), I smile politely, invite them in, and we chat until they decide to leave. I can’t say (after 10 or 15 minutes), “Okay, you’ve been here long enough. Get going now.” That thought might be in my head, but being rude is not in my nature (and neither is dropping in on someone without calling first). I recently saw a unique doormat in a magazine. Instead of Welcome, it reads, “If you didn’t call first, I’m not home.” That won’t stop my close friends and relatives, but they’ll get a laugh out of it.

Another thing that annoys me is lengthy phone conversations. And let me tell you, even a boss can learn something. I have a dear friend who shares my first name. We met and immediately bonded in junior high school. The last time we saw each other was in 2002, at the funeral of another beloved alumna who died a year after we attended our 35th high school reunion. As we parted, I hugged my namesake and said, “Call me sometimes.”

She said she’d send me an occasional note to stay in touch, then explained that she doesn’t like talking on the phone. I thought that was the strangest thing. What woman doesn’t like talking on the phone? Over a decade later, I get it because I’m the same way now. (Always the late bloomer.) Some women can talk on the phone for hours, like teenagers. Not this woman. My time is limited. I treasure every second. Unless a phone call concerns something important, any conversation lasting longer than a few minutes is too long for me.

Oh, and one more peeve before I give it a rest. Working out at the fitness center used to be my jam. The gym opens at 6 a.m. Three days a week, I get up around 5:30, wash up, grab my gear, and hit the pavement. Fortunately, I have a gym within walking distance of my home, and I enjoy going there most of the time. But there are days…

Some people probably go to the gym to socialize while working out, but I don’t. Not to be misunderstood, I’ve made some good friends at the gym, especially in the years before COVID shut down everything. I waited several months before returning after it reopened. I’ve been back for six months, enjoying myself, rowing, walking on the treadmill, doing lat pull-downs. Just about any vigorous exercise puts me in the zone. For that reason, I don’t particularly appreciate talking while I’m working out.

Most days, I can exercise without interruption. But occasionally, a certain retired gentleman, whom I will not name, approaches me and starts a conversation. He isn’t flirtatious, don’t get me wrong. He just likes to talk – about politics, his wife and family, the bad news on TV, and how the city has changed since he was a kid – anything. Sometimes, I keep repeating “Uh huh” in response to whatever he says, as if I’m working out so strenuously that I don’t have enough breath to hold a conversation. You would think that would deter him. It doesn’t. He keeps talking.

When I see him taking a break from training and walking around the room, I know he’s in talk mode. I try to avoid looking in his direction. I also keep my earbuds in even if my iPod is off, although that’s not always a deterrent. He’ll ignore the buds and start talking to me anyway, so I feign politeness and remove them, but instead of tucking them in my pocket, I continue holding them in my fingers, inches from my ears, hoping he’ll get the message. Make it quick! Occasionally, I’ll keep the earbuds in my ears and repeat, “Huh? Oh, I’m sorry I didn’t hear you.” That doesn’t work either. If you think he’ll read this post and get the message, don’t bet on it.

Sometimes, when he is very long-winded, I feel so annoyed I cut my exercise short and leave. Other times, while continuing to work out, I imagine I “inadvertently” drop a five-pound dumbbell on his foot. That might shut him up – temporarily, while he’s swearing, holding the leg with the smashed toes up by the knee, and hopping around on the good foot. Bad idea. I know. But I can’t help what mischievous thoughts enter my mind, now can I? And in civil court, I’ll say, “Your honor, It was an accident. I am so sorry, but he wouldn’t shut up, and as I went to wave him off, the weight slipped from my sweaty hand and landed on his foot.” (Smirk and stifle a wicked laugh.)

Even a retired lady can think like a boss.

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To Have and To Hold—or Not

by on ·Friends and Lovers, General, Humor

I have an issue with words that seem inappropriate for a situation or a person. Take the word boyfriend. I don’t think a man older than thirty should be called a “boyfriend.”

Fellows, admit it, if you’re having a mid-life crisis in your fifties, if you’re in your sixties and your gait has gone from a swagger to a shuffle, or if you’re baby-stepping at three-quarter years from a hundred, you are too old, let me restate that – too mature, to be called a boyfriend. As I see it, the word boyfriend isn’t a good fit for a grown a** man.

My male companion and I have been together for over two decades, and I refuse to refer to him as my boyfriend. It also bothers me when I hear other women refer to a grown man as a boyfriend. As I understand it, the word has been used to describe a male suitor since the 19th century, and some folks will think I’m being silly, but something about the “boy” part of that word bothers me. Maybe it is because I am always mindful of history, and the prefix in “boyfriend” was once a derogatory insult. That’s just one of my quirks.

Nevertheless, I use more appropriate words for my main squeeze. I refer to him by any number of other affectionate terms: my SO (significant other), my Boo, or my long-time companion, except when I’m angry with him, then he is a PITA. I’ll leave it to readers to decipher the acronym. Choose any four words you like, but here are clues if decoding is too stressful for you: Clue 1 – PITA isn’t any more gender-specific than SO or Boo. It could apply to a male or female. Clue 2 – I’m not talking about bread. Final clue – think, the rear-end of a donkey. If you guessed what PITA stands for, then you must have used the term. LOL

While using the word boyfriend is awkward, I have no problem referring to my female buddies as girlfriends. We frequently refer to each other as girl or girlfriend. We’ll say, “Girl, guess what I bought today” or “Girlfriend, you’ve got to see the new Ibris Elba movie. That man is finer than gourmet wine.”

Back to discussing SOs, sometimes, when asked if I plan to remarry, I firmly reply No. No. And No. (Although hardly anyone who knows me asks anymore.). Once was enough. My Boo and I will merely ride this union until the wheels fall off or until death do us part (Um, that’s kind of an oxymoron, isn’t it?).

Just as I know more people who are dead than alive, I know more previously married people than couples still living together in wedded bliss. I’m not counting pairs who are unhappily married but remain together for convenience or to adhere to biblical laws, nor am I including those doing it the second time. For some married couples, the second time around is the charm. That’s all well and good—more power to you. But a second marriage is not on my wish list, my things to do before I kick the bucket list, or in my head.

Since I’ve long passed the age of young girls with a heart-shaped-eyes fantasy of marriage, I can now clearly see that union without rose-colored glasses and have a learned insight about marriage.

Looking back, I feel that traditional marriages were ill-fated from the start. (Let me be clear before anyone gets wind in their jaws.) I’m talking about back in the day. I’m not talking about the Millennials, Zs, and subsequent generations, who may never marry for whatever reasons, or they’ll choose to have an anything-goes, let it all hang out, boogie down the aisle half-naked, write your vows, or dispense with vows altogether, and do your own thing contemporary wedding.

As I was saying, sometimes I think marriages back in the day were predestined not to last. Why? You ask. I’ll tell you what I remember. (I know that right now, someone reading this probably wants to smear a piece of wedding cake in my face, but hear me out.)

The separation begins even before the bride walks down the aisle. The ushers greet guests at the church door as they arrive, ask if they are friends of the bride or groom, and then seats them on the appropriate side. That prepares friends and relatives to choose sides before the ink is dry on the license.

And how often is it that when the priest asks, “If anyone objects to this union, speak now or forever hold your peace,” does one of the bride’s exes (or one of the groom’s) bite their tongue to keep from shouting, “Hell yeah! I do.” That unanticipated outburst preceding the “I do” from the bride and groom renders everything null and void. (Side note: Although I invited him, my ex refused to come to my wedding because he told me he’d do just that if he did. And although he was as mild-mannered as Clark Kent, I believed him. Years later, after we reunited and discussed what might have been, he reminded me that he would have stopped the ceremony. Unfortunately, he died before I met my current Boo.)

Something occured on my wedding day that some would say was a bad omen.

It was June 8, 1968. My future husband was almost late for our wedding. He had caught an early train that morning and was traveling to D.C. from his hometown in New York on the day of our nuptials. I was at my parents’ house getting dressed. Other folks there, especially my Uncle Henry, were all hustling and bustling around, getting things ready for the small reception to follow the ceremony. It was very close to the time for us to be at the church, and no one had seen or heard from my betrothed. Everyone was wondering (some out loud) if he would make it to the church on time or if he decided to be a runaway groom.

His delayed arrival coincided with a brief episode in history. My fiancé just happened to be on the same train that was arriving from New York’s Penn Station to bring the body of Senator Bobby Kennedy to D.C.’s Union Station. Sadly, the senator had been slain at the Ambassador Hotel in Los Angeles, California, three days earlier, and his body was being brought to lie in state at the U.S. Capitol. [To read about that funeral train, click here.]

Unfortunately, (Did I say, unfortunately?) I meant to say, fortunately (LOL) for my groom and me, the train and the groom arrived on time, and the wedding went on as scheduled. We divorced two babies, and a few years later.

I’ve learned many things during my journey through life. Two are essential:  the road is easier to travel if one keeps a sense of humor, and stuff happens for better or worse, depending on how you receive it.

Epilogue:  When I married, a license cost $2.00. Today it cost $45. And a divorce still costs a small fortune.

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Trying to Connect the Pieces

by on ·Cousins, Family, General, Strange Happenings

A few days ago, I got an IM on Facebook from my cousin, Velda. But, unfortunately, there was no note, just a photo of a certificate that appears to have been yellowed by age. At first glance, I thought, “Why is she sending this to me?”

I examined the document more closely, letting my eyes slide down the page until they reached the name beneath the words:  This is to certify that . . . .

My antennae went up. Wait a minute! I thought. Rewind. Reread the page. The name on the line above the signatures of four officials affiliated with the program offered by the DC Public Schools’ Department of Industrial and Adult Education was mine.

The certificate, dated January 20, 1966, was presented for completion of a 12-hour course in Individual and Family Survival. I stared at it for the longest time. I couldn’t recall ever seeing that document before, but my maiden name in my handwriting leaped at me from the signature line. But how? When? I drew a stupefied blank.

Granted that it was nearly a hundred years ago (You all stop calculating. Of course, I’m exaggerating, give or take a few decades. LOL), my mind is still relatively keen, and I like to think I would remember taking that course. After all, I still remember that Mr. Simmons, the Business Ed teacher, was, in my opinion, the most handsome and sexiest teacher in our high school, but that’s a post for another time.

Since the resurrected certificate was dated six months before I graduated from high school, I can only surmise that it may have been a class compulsory for meeting graduation requirements. But wow! Who would have thought? And what was the relevance of a course in Individual and Family Survival? Considering the decade, a civil defense Duck and Cover course might have been more appropriate. However, since the certificate shows that the study was presented by the Office of Civil Defense Adult Education, perhaps it was developed to show us how to prepare ourselves and our future families for emergencies or nuclear disasters. I doubt if I would have voluntarily taken what appears to be a mundane course unless I was under the duress of not graduating for lack of required credits.

I instant-messaged Velda and asked how she got the certificate. She said she discovered it while cleaning out one of her mom’s closets. Of course, then I wanted to know how her mom, my Aunt Imogene, got possession of it. Velda said it was inside an old photo album that had belonged to one of our deceased uncles, Uncle Henry. Velda’s mom is married to one of Uncle Henry and my dad’s brothers.

Of course, the next question was how Uncle Henry got it. Although he had lived in the same city as my family and me for years before he moved to North Carolina, I doubt if my mom and dad would have given it to him. As I discovered when my sister and I were clearing out my parents’ home following our mother’s death in 2014, mother kept nearly every report card, honor roll certificate, and other achievement documents that my siblings and I acquired while in school.

Since my parents are deceased and Uncle Henry died over 20 years ago, I will probably never learn how my certificate traveled from my parent’s home and wound up over 250 miles away inside the photo album where Velda discovered it. But I sure would like to know. And it may seem coincidental to those who believe in coincidences (I don’t) that Velda, the Parker family genealogist, would be the one to discover a piece of my personal history. Well, Shazam, Cuz!

There is an old aphorism that holds much truth: “Life is a jigsaw puzzle with most of the pieces missing.” I would include “with some disjointed pieces that don’t seem to fit.”

Thanks, Cuz, for adding another disjointed piece to the jigsaw puzzle of my life.

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Out with the Old, In with the New Bucket List!

by on ·Bucket List, General, New Year

Decades ago, after asking myself, “Why make ’em to break ’em?” I stopped making New Year’s Resolutions and began updating my bucket list on the eve. But, of course, life’s impermanence assures no guarantees, and those cousins – time and circumstance – determine whether my bucket list items get checkmarks, lined out, or revised. And, if I had to choose between having a root canal or taking a plane anywhere, I’ll make the dental appointment. In plain English, if I have to fly to get there, then I’m not going.

So, here is my updated, simple, feet-on-the-ground bucket list.

Fly a kite over the ocean. When my children were young, I would occasionally take them to the parking lot of a nearby schoolyard to fly their kites. Now that they’re grown, whenever I think about kite flying, I remember that I enjoyed it as much as they did, and I’d like to do it one more time, only not in a parking lot. Instead, I’ll fly my kite at a beach and hope my adventure won’t be like the dream I once had where… I’m at a beautiful beach and happy that I won’t have to worry about my kite getting tangled in trees or telephone lines. Instead of flimsy paper, I have a sturdy, nylon diamond kite with vivid red, yellow, and royal blue colors and a long black and purple prism ribbon tail. As soon as I lift the kite, the wind grabs it. The string begins to unravel rapidly as a strong breeze sends my prize soaring so high above the ocean that it kisses a feathery cloud in the bright blue sky. I hold the kite spool tightly with both hands, dig my heels into the sand, and assume a rigid, anti-gravity backward lean reminiscent of Michael Jackson in his Smooth Criminal video. A stronger gust pulls my kite out further over the water, and I struggle to hold on to it even as I am being dragged toward the ocean like a bare-foot water skier. I swerve left and right, trying to avoid colliding with sunbathers while attempting to reel it in. As my feet reach the shoreline, the string snaps, and I fall to the ground. Then, I scramble to my feet and watch my beautiful psychedelic-colored kite sail up, up, and away like a beautiful, helium-filled balloon until it disappears into the horizon.  

Go rock wall climbing again. The tomboy I was during my youth lives inside me. It resurfaced each time I scaled the indoor rock wall at the ClimbZone. It didn’t bother me that the younger and more agile folks climbed rings around me and scampered to the top. I was happy to make it halfway. Nor was I daunted by the fall I took when rappelling in 2019. Thanks to the safety harness, it was a soft drop, and nothing was broken or hurt except my pride. I’m not one who readily accepts defeat. I’ve since learned the proper way to rappel. So, I’m up to the challenge, ready and eager to try it once more. This time I aim to reach the top.

Get tickets (again) for The View. Over the years, I twice requested and was offered tickets to my all-time favorite TV program, The View. Regretfully, I could not go on the assigned dates. But, if it’s true that three’s the charm, and I get the opportunity again to be an audience member, come hell or high water, I’ll be there. That would be second only to the thrill my sister-in-law, Barbara, and I felt after being in Oprah’s audience in January 1986.

Have a granddaughter. Okay, this one is tricky. I have six grandsons and not a single granddaughter. While I love my grandsons to the moon and back, I’d still like to have a granddaughter. And yes, all things considered, I’ll settle for a great-granddaughter. Baby gods, do you hear me?

Travel cross-country in a sleeping car on Amtrak. While I’ve never aspired to be a globetrotter, there are a few places I’ve been that I’d like to revisit, and my travel would be on Amtrak. Denver is one of those places. I was mesmerized by the picturesque scenery near the mountain cabin where we lodged. The other place I’d like to visit again is beautiful Anaheim, California, and while I’m in the Golden State, I’d like to see the Hollywood Walk of Fame. Finally, there are two other places I would enjoy going to see outside the country – Ghana and Switzerland. But since those would require nine or ten hours in the air, I’ve nixed them. Even a one-hour flight is too long for me.

Revel in Times Square on New Year’s Eve one more time. My initial visit to Times Square on NYE was in 1968. That night was frigid. My then-husband and I nearly froze to death. Every year since then, while watching the New Year’s Eve festivities on TV, I say to myself, “Maybe, just one more time.” When I was younger, it didn’t bother me to be in a crowd among hundreds or more people. I enjoyed the camaraderie. I’ve participated in numerous walk-a-thon fundraisers and marches for various causes, including the anti-Klan rally in DC (I believe that was in 1989), the 50th Anniversary of the March on Washington in 2013, and the Women’s March in 2017. Of late, I dislike being in crowds because people have lost their minds, and the safety and health risks are indeterminable. Just today, I learned of a machete attack in Times Square last night. Nevertheless, in a fit of temporary insanity, I might decide to do Times Square one more time.

Finish the darn book I’ve been working on for over a year. I know some authors have taken as long as a decade (some even longer) to finish writing their books. Procrastination is my nemesis, and frequent interruptions don’t help either. (A quiet cabin in the mountains would be the ideal place to write.) Whenever I feel like quitting the project, I draw inspiration from the words of Toni Morrison, “If there’s a book that you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.” I swallow Morrison’s dictate with a warm chaser, “If you are not afraid of the voices inside you, you will not fear the critics outside you.” – Natalie Goldberg (author of Writing Down the Bones).

My list is too long to continue elaborating on each topic, so I’ll list the other items without summaries for now.

  • Take another couples kickboxing or self-defense course.
  • Eat all I want and not gain a pound.
  • Meditate, do yoga, and work out every day to stay healthy.
  • Take piano lessons again.
  • Improve my bowling skills.
  • Go roller skating.
  • Volunteer at an animal shelter.
  • Always be humble, express gratitude, and adhere to the teachings of Desiderata – particularly this phrase, “As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.

Happy New Year, readers. Thanks for your support, and God bless!

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Grinched

by on ·General, Holidays, Humanity

A friend once told me that some of my online journal entries tend to get personal. I laughed as I said to her, “You’re kidding, right? If you think the public entries are personal, you should see what I write in my private journal.” Ha Ha.

I intended this entry to be solely a humorous, upbeat post about Christmas because Yuletide is one of my favorite seasons. But, a recent encounter made me reconsider.

Some days ago, I was cruising along an imaginary highway minding my own business, when out of nowhere, Ms. Grinch appeared. She veered into my lane and tried to side-swipe me. I swerved to avoid a collision, but she, appearing to be aching for a confrontation, returned. Hypothetical road rage, for sure. I usually give as good as I get, but it’s Christmastime, so instead of engaging in a battle of words, I told her to butt out and went about my merry way.

People often say that today’s youth are a generation of troublemakers. Granted, many are, but I believe that the behavior of someone young and dumb is more excusable than the foolishness of an immature adult, especially one who is two decades older than Scrooge, á la Ms. Grinch. People like her are perfect examples of misery loves company. The envy and malice they harbor in their heart lead them to create chaos whenever and wherever they can. It doesn’t take a psychologist to know that mean-spiritedness and a penchant for troublemaking are often due to a lack of self-esteem. As a result, grinches live a lonely and unhappy existence. Life is too short to be prone to indiscretion and unnecessary drama. As Rodney King said, “Can’t we all get along?”

That said, I’m switching gears.

My peace-loving friends, stretch your imagination and envision Santa carrying a remedy for universal peace and love inside his big, red gift bag. The contents are shredded like trillions of bits of confetti to make transport and distribution more manageable. During his sleigh ride across the darkened sky on Christmas Eve, Santa will dip his gloved hand into the bag, grab handsful of the confetti, and sprinkle it everywhere he goes. The shavings will fall like snowflakes in a blizzard, landing on buildings, vehicles, and people. Everybody who comes in contact with it succumbs to the effects. It’s more transmittable than COVID and as potent as nerve gas, only non-lethal. However, it is saturated with a chemical that, when touched or inhaled, causes the host to lose all negative emotions and develop a penchant for harmony. As Santa continues ho, ho, hoing around the world, he revels in his achievement because he knows there will be peace in every country, city, and home – worldwide peace – on Christmas Day and forever after.

And one last thing before my pipe dream ends.

Folks will hear him exclaim, ere he drives out of sight, “HAPPY CHRISTMAS TO ALL AND TO ALL A GOOD NIGHT!“

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