Parenting means thinking out of your own box.

If you, as a parent, can accomplish these tasks of listening and respecting the uniqueness of your child, you will be communicating the support needed to open communication lines even at the most critical times. You will also assure a lifelong connection, yielding joy at every venture.

One last caveat lest you have frustration with these suggestions, no path to success is a straight line. Tenacity is the key. Never give up. The rewards will be more than you can fathom.

Candidates for mani-pedis tend to be on the quieter side where I go. Usually, each comes in, settles into the massage chair, speaking only to tell the nail tech the type of mani-pedi and colors for their toes and fingernails.

There are, however, exceptions….

I had chosen my colors, given the polish bottles to my tech of four years, and comfortably reclined in my chair. ( I rarely use the massage feature in fear that its rather exuberant and excessive shimmy could result in having my polish splashed across all ten toes.) Enter one loud cellphone user, in the middle of planting her garden at her vacation house – long-distance on Zoom. And she talked, complained about the positioning of the Begonias relative to the hostas, the placement of the day lilies, and the incompetence of her Zoom contact versus the excellence of last year’s garden service.

“Can you tell me why you put the hydrangeas by that fence?” She questioned the poor employee.

And she talked, oblivious to her voice volume, and unaware of the rolling eyes of everyone around her. Twenty minutes! Nonstop!

All the while, I am sitting in the chair next to her attempting to enjoy my extra ten minute leg and foot massage that I have paid for.

Finally, the conversation ended. This woman, who hardly realized that she had irritated almost everyone in the salon, must have felt my concentrated stare directed at her. With minimal contrition, she apologized. “Sorry.”

I couldn’t help it. I said, “Thanks, but I should have been relaxing all this time and couldn’t.”

To which she replied, “ But it was the only time I had to speak with my garden service. I had to tell them how to get it right!”

Feeling so upset, my tech extended my massage by 15 minutes!

I threw up in New Jersey, Sorry, I mean grew up. Trenton, to be specific. We drove around in caws, drank cawfee, and supported the national sales of Aquanet with our poofy hair. We went down the shore, while the rest of America went to the beach. We firmly believed that one must burn and peel before one could have a really good tan. Hence, a high rate of melanoma state-wide, I’m pretty sure.

We ate tomato pie, as all other Italian eateries in the rest of the US referred to it as pizza. Outside of Trenton, this pizza was also served with pepperoni on top, a delicacy not known to me until I went to college in Ohio. Who knew?

A most amazing factoid: I did not know that the sky was so endlessly high and that “sky blue” was not gray until I went west, away from the polluted northeast. How awesome it was to see the sun in full bloom! I really thought the sun did not come out until about 10:30 AM, vaguely visible through a cloudy film, AKA smog.

Trenton sat in between New York City (allegedly the center of the America, North America, the world, and the universe) and Philadelphia. Our local identity was confused by the clashing cultures of allegedly high sophistication and fading fame, respectively. Sixty years after my departure from my hometown, I fear that no one of my generation stills lives in the city of Trenton. Although my source is Facebook and may be somewhat inaccurate, those I knew from time past now live in New York City, Philadelphia, Lawenceville, Princeton, Hopewell, and New Hope, Pennsylvania.

Just to give Trenton a little plus though…At times, I would go to work with my father who had a Saturday job keeping books for a small firm in Newark (pronounced Nork). North Jersey had an ominously worse affliction than the mirky skies of central Jersey. It smelled of burning tires so much that I, even before knowing about the dangers of super bad air quality, tended to try not to breathe too deeply. so, there. Trenton was better!

I feel quite guilty disparaging my birth place. However, as I write, I am experiencing a major catharsis. A sense of peace to have finally come clean about Trenton of old. I do proudly say that were it not for Trenton and the historical Old Barracks, GW would not have successfully crossed the Delaware River at Trenton and saved America from those pesky Brits. How? By the reliance on getting the Germanic Hessian mercenaries drunk on Champale, locally brewed in my fair city since 1776. Just kidding…

I am ten. I smear on some of my mother’s face cream. I dab on some beige foundation and rouge. I line my eyes with black pencil and add dark brown eyebrow stripes above. I wet the black mascara pad and color my lashes. I top my lips with ruby red lipstick. Voila! I am a ten year old aging starlet.

I am twenty. I place a small amount of cream on my face mixed with some light pink blush.

I am thirty. I apply a small amount of foundation and blush to my cheeks, adding only the slightest bit of brown mascara.

I am forty. I begin with foundation and under eye cover up, some blush, and brown mascara.

I am fifty. I pat on a light and inexpensive drug-store-bought cream to my cheeks and nose. I use foundation, under eye cover up, rosy blush, a light eye shadow to lighten my eyes, and brown-black mascara.

I am sixty. I carefully smooth department-store-bought moistening cream on my chin, cheeks, and nose. I choose among three shades of foundation, two shades of under eye cover, and continue with rosy blush, brown eyeliner, light eye shadow, and black mascara.

I am seventy. I slather internet-bought-and-proven-effective anti-aging cream from chin to forehead, from ear to ear. I have a full array of colored foundations from which I choose, depending on whether I slept well, ate too much salt, or applied Jergan’s fake tan the night before. I apply a debagging under eye cream cover up, then one of the three under eye colors, a really rosy blush, highlighting eye shadow, black eyeliner, and black mascara.

I assess the net result. A seventy-year-old aging starlet?

Hello! Are you still there?

Okay. So, my entire childhood I was told to act my age. I continuously rebelled and was usually several years behind in my behavior, much to my parents chagrin.

Midlife to now, I have been a little more sophisticated and poised. However, underlying this demeanor, I have mentally remained quite a few years younger, and at times reverted to about 16 years old or so. I can blow bubbles from two pieces of Double Bubble to the dimension of a good-sized balloon. I can dance the Pony really well, albeit, having to rest for at least two days after to get my back readjusted. I admittedly drive a little too fast a la teen drivers. (Note to my children about the this last one: not with the grandchildren in the car.)

As a septuagenarian, I want to continue the tradition of the bon vivant attitude with my teen behavior in force. The last thing I want is to act my age and admit that I occasionally creak when I arise in the morning, doze off sometimes in the late afternoon, or go to bed just a little earlier than when I was in my 50s.

What a mistake!!! Error notice!!! Now, I am in demand for all sorts of things: on call to drive hither and yon, entertain a cast of thousands with dinners on command, and do vigorous modern dances (the Floss) in front of my highly impressed grandchildren.

Damned if you do, and damned if you don’t. It’s the purgatory of aging. I love doing all of the above, but just not ALL the time. Sometimes, I want to read quietly, nap a little, and chose what I do and how I do it without one of my children or grandchildren saying,

• “You are getting older.”
• “Let me open that for you.”
• “I don’t want to bother you.”

MESSAGE TO MY FAMILY:

Please ask me to help ALWAYS!. Please do not assume that I am tired. Please let me be energetic when I feel like it.

BUT:

If you see me sitting quietly in a soft chair, dull-eyed, gently drooling from one side of my mouth, refrain from asking me to do something. It’s one of those days. I need a little refreshing time until I, once again, can dance “watch me whip/watch me nae nae” full throttle.

What happens when you have thought about writing a blog for years. One that incapsulates life experiences in a clever, entertaining, and creative manner, and, after three posts, you run dry?

This is definitely not working as I would have it. My barriers seem to be many, though really only one pretty big one.

My day to day ideas for blogging range from simple observations of life to rather off color funny and/or ironic. Unfortunately, in the past week, the “simple observations” are not being generated at all, only the more extreme and less generally acceptable ones. AND I cannot knowingly write controversial items if I’m at all aware that my children and grandchildren might read them. Consequently, nada blogs produced.

So, reader, whoever you are, please stick with me. Do not give up. One of these days I will assume that wonderfully charming narrative that stimulates. The one that tips you out of bed in the morning bent on opening my blog to start your day titilated, amused and enriched.

BTW: I, so far, have one follower. To her, I say thanks… it’s not quite time to go universal with this blog.

-You’re stressed.

I’m thinking: Tell me something I didn’t know.

-There are a number of meditation classes available that I can recommend.

I’m thinking: Yeah, you’re telling me that I don’t have ADHD, but act like it. How the hell can I sit for a meditation class.

-Here are the addresses of three in the area to try.

*

For God’s sake, look at these people. They all look like derelicts. This pillow is hard as a damned rock. How many rear ends have been on it. The mats stink.

– Relax. Breathe. Concentrate on your breath.

Yada, yada, yada.

Done. Over. Out.

Maybe I’ll be back next week, maybe not.

*

Jesus, I’m back again. One more try at this voodoo crap.

-Relax. Breathe. Concentrate on your breath.

In, out. In, out. What the heck am I gonna do with that old sofa when I get home? What am I having for dinner? Yikes, I totally forgot to call the doctor.

Black.

-Oh, my God, he is truly evil. How could he have hit me and just walked out, leaving me covered with blood? I really hate him. He’s going to be sorry when he no longer has his precious little mutt. Who knew that chocolate would kill a dog? I mean, I’m a cat person, for crying out loud. Done. Revenge is mine. Relax. Breathe.

*

What the hell? What am I thinking? Where the hell did that come from?

What if the thoughts of others in a meditation class seeped into your brain?

So, last night I am seemingly impressing my teenage grandchildren with my newfound sport of blogging.

I told them that I was still pretty sharp and just had too many ideas in my head that I really needed to communicate with everyone.

So, my grandson expressed an interest in reading my first-ever blog. I have to admit that it was a rather weak feigning of interest, but, nevertheless, one for me to jump on.

What’s the name of your site, he asked, as he started to type in the name.

Boldly I said, THE SMARTER SENIOR, all smushed together for the blog.

No can find.

Are you sure?

Tell me again. What’s the website?

WORDPRESS – THE SMARTER SENIOR

I guess that my impressiveness faded fast when his sister who had already been on the site chimed in…

Perhaps, I should have named it something else. Hmmmmm

Yikes! This is entirely intimidating.  I feel really vulnerable and a little too open to the crowds.  Nevertheless, hello…

Why write a blog? I do not know what is wrong with the way my brain works but I am constantly contrasting a current event to one in my past, considering the silliness or irony. I think: Good grief, I can write the funniest, most clever piece about whatever the situation.

Self to me: So do it.

Me to self: I will soooooooooooon.

It’s sooooooooooooner. So, here I am.

What is my experience writhing, er…writing…(sorry autocorrect) experience? Well, in college, which was a mere 52 years ago or more, I wrote the most engaging newsletter for my dorm. It contained poetry, narrative, and the best gossip to be had. Everyone loved it. Unfortunately, the distribution of said literary masterpiece, named “John Talks,” was placed in every John in the dorm, taped to the wall of each stall. The life expectancy of the 8 1/2 by 11 single spaced item was rather short-lived, as the tape that was used to hold it up was really cheap. The maximum time for it to be vertical was about two days, when it was meant to stay up for a month. I spent much of my time between classes (that I occasionally attended) re-taping the fallen sheets. BUT everyone said it was really good.

So. That’s a great start to a career, no?

In the following years, while raising children, going to graduate school, working, etc., I dabbled with writing. Nothing creative, mind you. Just memos, letters, reports, and grant applications.

Twelve years ago, retired and healthy with an active brain full of great knowledge and experience, I began thinking of writing a novel. The theme would be about evil people I have known, thinly veiling real events in a fictional expose. ANOTHER GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL WOULD BE BORN!

Two days ago I sat down with my variety of nascent novel notes from over the years. I had collected some terrifically interesting anecdotes, designed some incredibly repugnant characters, and basically thought out a plot.

ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME! THIS IS HARD WORK! THIS IS TEDIOUSLY BORING! DONE! OVER! BLOG!

So there.