Dating in the Age of the Gray Panther

First off, I’m still happily married. I’m not on the market. However, after having discussions with a number of long term married females, we all had remarkably similar thoughts on what we would want in a companion if we were forced back into the dating scene.

So, for any of you older gentlemen entering the fray here is what we would look for:

1.      None of us would ever get married again, so if you are commitment phobic, have no fear. We’ve been there done that, we came, saw, and as much as we enjoyed it, once was enough.

2.      Would rather you have had a 30+ year marriage under your belt. This way we know you have been house broken by your earlier mate. i.e., put the seat down, take the trash out, and most importantly, take the side of the bed closest to the door, in case an intruder breaks in.

3.      Be aware that our children and grandchildren will always come first. Its Non-negotiable. We are allowed to complain about them; you however are not.

4.      We are NOT gold diggers. We have our own money, and we will be holding on to it. We have no problem paying our own way and our kids will be ferociously guarding their future inheritance. Refer to bullet point above. That is unless of course, we receive all the money, that Nigerian Prince is sending.

5.      Own your own car. Preferably a comfortable sedan. Sure, a corvette, triumph or other sports vehicles were chick magnets back in the day. Now we want a car that we can easily enter and exit, without needing to fold oneself in, and the jaws of life to escape. You must also have a valid driver’s license and be fully insured. Bonus points if you know how to drive stick and know how to use jumper cables. Remember, we have moved from passenger princess to Passenger Queen.

6.      Personal hygiene is extremely high on our list. Daily showers, deodorant, mouth wash, and CLEAN clothes. You might not realize, without your spouse, that you’ve been wearing that shirt for three days in a row, and we can still see the ketchup stain.

7.      Appearance. A gentleman’s height is not a consideration, as we will probably be sitting 98% of the time. Weight, well many of us have gotten a little thick around the middle so a solidly built gent is ok. However, if you need to purchase two tickets to fly on Spirit, you might want to re-up that gym membership first. Facial Handsomeness? Have no fear, all of us have failing eyesight.

8.      Age range. Remember where you were when JFK was shot and watched the Beatles Sunday nights on Ed Sullivan. Before your time? Too young. Was out of school by then? too old.

9.      Enjoy a lovely home cooked meal. Only not at my house.

10. Which brings us here, must have your own residence. We are not in the market for a roommate. No worries about type of residence, or if you rent, or own It can be a house, apartment, condominium, or tent. Just not our place. Nor, and especially not, your parent’s basement.

11. Hair, or lack thereof, no worries. Most of our long-term male friends have male pattern baldness, receding hairline, or bald as a cueball. Its’s what we gals are used to and comfortable with. Facial hair, if its neatly trimmed, is fine. We keep our beards and staches under control, so we expect the same of you. Nose and ear hair, not so much. Seeing your missing locks growing out of your nose and/or ears does not a pretty picture make.

12. Enjoy a cocktail or two. Not adverse to hitting the Senior blue plate special for dinner. It starts at 5pm after 3pm happy hour and comes with a complimentary glass of Chablis. Home in time for Jeopardy! (We still miss Alex Trebek)

13. We all have various health issues. Many of us have removed or replaced bits and pieces. These things are not deal breakers. However, if you are in the market for a nursemaid, you’re shopping in the wrong aisle. You can find those ladies in the younger section. But be warned a much higher net worth will be expected. Be careful if you’re packing a portable oxygen tank as we do love our Yankee Candles. Would hate to see us blown to smithereens.

14. C-Paps machines for sleep apnea are fine. In fact, more than fine. The sound is like our white noise. We need it to fall asleep. It is the same nostalgic feeling we experience when we get a whiff of Ben Gay.

15. Retired

16. Our taste in Music runs to 60’s, 70’s and 80’s. The good stuff. Everyone has their own taste, but you would be hard pressed to find a Hip-Hop or Rap aficionados, in this particular age pool.

17. Should be conversant in many physical tricks, such as the Heimlich Maneuver and CPR. Trust us, we already know how to perform these acts, and we do them well.

18. Geographically desirable. Over 75 miles away, see you later bud. We are not spending our golden years commuting.

19. We like to have plans mapped out in advance. Once our Bras come off, we are in for the night. It is best to let us know early in the day the plans for that evening.

20. Lastly, every red-blooded female wants a tough red-blooded man in her in bedroom, to kill that damn spider that has been stalking her.

LBI Resue

I walk 5 days a week. Today for some reason, I decided to make a 6-walk week. Shortly after I started, I saw a little baby squirrel, apparently his mom decided to cross the road. She didn’t make it. Her poor little baby was hanging by her and was in danger of becoming roadkill himself. I picked him up and placed him at the base of a tree where you could see a squirrel’s nest. Now if you’re thinking “is she crazy?” “Picking up wild animals!” I want you to know I raised 3 boys, nothing scares me. This poor baby crawled up my arm, headed for my head. I’ve been told my hair resembles a Rat nest. It looks more like a squirrel’s nest. He curled up under my chin, shielded from the elements by my double chin, safe and warm. I really had no idea what to do, as the only animals we had were pet rocks. I took him to the police station, who gave me a box, and called animal control. However, they told me he would be euthanized. Not acceptable. I found a rescue center about 40 minutes away, and we were off. I am at the time of my life, where I’m running a little short on the kindness acts needed to get into heaven, so this rescue was self-serving. He whimpered when I put him in the box, but the thought of him free roaming my car was not appealing. As we started on our journey, I stopped for a light. Something was moving inside my shirt. Baby gave me a parting gift. I had fleas in my sports bra. I begin franticly pulling things out, up and under. The poor driver stopped next to my car and got an eyeful he will never forget! My rescue squirrel is now at a wildlife preserve, where he'll spend his life. I on the other hand am going to Pet Co, to see if they carry flea and tick collars for a woman (or should I say a Saint, like Francis of Assi) of my size. My clothes and body are currently being scalded to be safe. Just for fun I looked up rabies symptoms, irritability is a major sign. I think I’ve been suffering from rabies for decades now.

Failure to Launch

Failure to Launch Years ago, when dinosaurs roamed the earth, all we required was a beach towel, Bain De Soleil, and maybe a boom box for a day at the beach. As time went on, we started using sand chairs, they sat 4 inches above the sand, and fully reclined. We would upgrade as years went on, instead of the standard model, we opted for additional features, chair with cup holders, side pockets, and the anti-sunroof or sun shade. We had our Walkman’s and a large bottle of No-Ad lotion. This year, my 50th year of using this type of chair, I have been forced to abandon it. We started to suffer from “failure to launch” syndrome. Sitting down on our chair was easy,although gravity aided in a quick desent.After a lovely afternoon at the beach, it was time to go. The first step is getting up. Easier said than done. My husband’s method calls for one to grasp the arms and pop right up. After a number of aborted launches he achieved lift off. My way, was to scootch to the edge of the chair, and fling myself forward into child pose, from there I executed a slow motion downward dog. Success we were standing. We needed a minute or two, to reorient ourselves as to time and space, as we had just finished a very taxing workout. When our heartbeats returned to normal, we realized our days of using sand chairs had come to an end. We brought our new Hi-Rise chairs, that are the same height of those old lawn chairs or waffle thighs seats that we used to scoff at. They also come with cup holders for our Stanley cups and side bags to store our ear pods and SPF 100. Don’t even get me started on Adirondack Chairs.

My Manny Got A Pedi

About one year ago, my husband suffered a massive stroke. Our lives were turned inside out, and upside down. We are adjusting to our new normal, and luckily for us, everyday gets a little better. As you may imagine, responsibilities for chores were reassigned. For example, I was still responsible for cooking the meals, but my husband became responsible for cleanup. I thank the good Lord, he was always able to take care of his own personal needs………..except for one. Trimming of the toe nails.

He had tried to do this chore himself, with varying degrees of failure. He asked for my help. I do not consider myself the squeamish sort, the sight of blood does not make me weak, but this was a whole other level of I Love you but……. Most of you have fathers, husbands, brothers, or male buddies. You know what I am talking about! There is something about the male toenails that, for the lack of another word are disgusting.

His nails were growing in at a phenomenal rate, and were as sharp as Ginsu knives. Getting into bed with him at night, was like sleeping with Edward Sissorhands. Something had to be done, just not by me. I suggested a trip to the nail salon.

As expected, this was not met with much enthusiasm. My husband always considered himself, a manly man. Men who had manicures or metrosexuals were always looked at with a shrug, a sigh, and a look of wonderment. He would tell me that some of his adversaries were not as aggressive as he, and would then point out, “but you know, he gets manicures”. This was supposed to explain everything.

I told him, that if wanted to continue in a happy marriage he had two choices. One, go to a Bird Veterinarian that specialized in the trimming of overgrown talons, or two visit the lovely ladies at the local nail salon. He begrudgingly chose option two.

We went there this morning. I was hoping that the place would be empty, or that maybe there would be one more guy getting some work done, but no such luck. As you ladies know, the first question asked is, “what polish do you want?” My husband looked at me in horror, “I don’t want polish!” “Not even a clear coat?” I asked. “Absolutely not!” he replied.

Unfortunately, it was a busy morning at Nails –Be-Gone, and the entire salon was filled with ladies getting their summer touch up. There were only two stations available, side by side in the center. Here is where we landed. The technician instructed my husband to put his feet in the foot bath, and turned on the massaging chair. He seemed a tad tense at first, but soon a smile stole over his face, and he whispered, “I think I could fall asleep right now, this is very relaxing.” His toes were trimmed, massaged, and buffed. They looked marvelous, in fact they looked better, he admitted, than they ever had before. He survived.

As we made our way out, he asked me if we should make an appointment now, for our next pedicure. Additionally he was wondering what the “SPA” pedicure was, opposed to the “REGULAR” pedicure he had received, and did I think the hot rock massage was as good as it’s hype. I think I have a convert.

THE MATURE CAR BUYER, OR HOW DO I WORK THIS THING?

We bought a new car yesterday. My old van was eight years old, or 85 in car years. Little things were beginning to go awry, and it was only a matter of time before it needed a new transmission, or major organ transplant in auto speak. My dearly beloved asked if I was ready to leave my van days in the rearview mirror, and downsize to something smaller. Unless I was willing to strap a boy or two to the roof like a deer, that wouldn’t work with the current car pool situation. Another van was in my immediate future. I figure this will be the last van I own, as when the next eight years pass, we will be empty nesters. Although on second thought, the van is perfect for transporting coolers to Giant tailgate parties, moving kids to and from college, and fitting three couples comfortably for a night out on the town. Our options will be up for review when that time rolls around.

So I have a new car, and I don’t know how to work it. There are more bells and whistles then a bird call competition at a doorbell factory. No, we didn’t want all the fancy shamancy features, they came standard! They had to give my husband and me an hour tutorial on how to operate the vehicle. That is longer than I studied for my driving test way back when.

My first car was a used 1968 VW Bug. Standard 4 on the floor. No power brakes. No power steering. You went to a mechanic and had the heat turned on in the winter, and turned off in the summer. Your “air conditioning” consisted of cranking open the window. The defroster was the manual kind; you wiped the condensation off the windshield with your hand. The entertainment system was a staticky am radio, a wire hangar antennae and an FM converter that your boyfriend hooked up. If you were really living high on the hog, you also had an eight track installed! The price tag for this beautiful machine cost the same as one month’s worth of gas for my current van. My bug was dependable and sported ease of operation. Repairs were dirt cheap, and it would probably still be tooling along, if it wasn’t wiped out by another car ramming into its back end, as it sat there legally parked!

My “new” car cost more than my parents paid for their home. The home by the way, where they raised 6 children, various goldfish and hamsters.

I went driving in the new van today, and I felt like Captain Kirk, on the bridge. Everything is voice activated. Although I must admit to a snafu or 3 when setting voice commands for hands free dialing. When you are asked to say the person’s name, it should not be preceded by, “Is this on?” “Call Dad.” Now to call my husband I must say, after depressing button 3 on the steering wheel “Is this on, call Dad” in order to be connected. Eventually I will figure out how to delete and reenter, but that task is for another day. (Probably the day before I turn the car in, eight years from now)

The van is also equipped with cameras that activate when you make a right hand turn, or back up. The picture quality is super clear, so fine in fact, I would like to have my kids stand beside the car when I am making a right hand turn, and make it into my Christmas card. I can never seem to achieve that quality and clarity with the camera I spent a fortune on. There is probably a way to do that, but I think it requires a master’s degree in automotive proficiency, and I can barely get through remedial auto.

There is also “keyless” entry. If I have the remote fob in my pocket, the car senses it, and automatically unlocks. Once inside, I push a button, and the car starts. I am sure my insides are being fried as “remote” rays are shooting back and forth between my pocket, and the starship enterprise. Sadly I didn’t know how to open the doors (which lock automatically, once you hit 10 miles an hour) and was therefore forced to refer to the manual (weighing in at five pounds) in order to exit my luxury prison. Forget opening the side doors, or the back hatch! Those kids can just clamber over the front seat and get out my door, till I have the time to review volume 5 of the manual, subtitled escape from van-catraz.

Now let’s be totally honest, if you switch lanes, on a road, and there is not another car for miles, do you use your turn indicator lights? My new ride thinks that is a no brainer. Of course you do! If you don’t, a strident dinging begins, as lights on the dash begin to flicker rapidly. “Captain, you must institute a course correction at once!” It is like driving with the instructor from Driver’s Ed. Plus it scares me when things light up on my dash. In my experience it never boded well, and was always expensive.

As if this wasn’t enough, this van sports an electric outlet! That’s right; you can bring your toaster, plug her in and make some toast on your commute. What about the butter, you may ask? There is also a cooler built in! Something tells me that this was the feature that reeled my husband in, as he needs drinks (oh stop! Soda or water!) if the trip is more than twenty minutes in duration. Call me crazy, but a little igloo cooler, and some blue packs, always did the trick for me!

The feature I am digging the most; the sirus fm radio! For the last eight years I had the world’s worst radio. For the last eight years I would always forget to bring CDs for the ride, and was forced to change stations every ten miles, as signals faded in and out. Why not use this time to have scintillating conversation with your offspring, you may ask. I have teenagers…question asked and answered, thank you very much. Now I have music! I did learn that programming fairly rapidly, as I preset 60’s, 70’s, 80’s, and a multitude of serious vinyl music! My husband sounded like Horshack from Welcome back, when he saw a station devoted to “The Grateful Dead.” Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, look, the Dead.” We are happy campers! Our children, not so much. You see, we know all the words to these songs, and we sing along at the top of our lungs! (We have been advised by the local music critics to hold on to our day jobs) Life is good!

Tonight I plan to review the instructions for temperature control. Not a top priority, in light of my humble VW beginnings, where temperature control was just something we read about. I figure if I get stuck, and can’t figure out, how to escape, I can always kick back, have a little toast, some cool beverages, great tunes, and “is this on, call dad” to come to my rescue!

Signs you are getting old on LBI

I have compiled a list of signs that you might be getting old on LBI

1.       You and your spouse feel croc footwear is comfortable, and stylish.

2.       For the gentlemen in the group. You need to apply sunscreen to your head.

3.       You no longer hang out at the Hudson House.

4.       An unwillingness to wait an additional 45 minutes to sit with the pig for breakfast at Uncle Will’s Pancake House.

5.       Thundering Surf is not on this summer’s agenda.

6.       Ditto Fantasy Island, regardless of Pay One Price Fridays.

7.       A beach umbrella is as important as a beach chair. Maybe even more so.

8.       You know what tomato aspic is, and order it at the Holiday Snack Bar.

9.       The only house you crash in at night is your own.

10.   You don’t consider temperatures northward of 95, and the winds blowing out of the west, a good beach day.

11.   Your days of walking barefoot over the rocks in front of your home are over. (See crocs in reason #1.)

12.   On Wednesday nights, you never go to the Chegg. In your estimation the discount does not offset the wait.

13.   You know which restaurants offer the 10% early bird discount, and you make sure to be there on time. (Additionally the owners know you by name.)

14.   All sunscreens have a SPF of 50 and above. (Or any SPF that matches your age.)

15.   When you come in at night, you meet your children on their way out.

16.   You use solo cups for soft drinks.

17.   Whenever Kuebel’s has “Golden Oldie” trivia, on Sunday nights, you rock.

18.   Your medicine cabinet contains Tums, Maalox, Pepcid, and Benefiber.

19.   As a woman, you would never walk to the beach in just your bathing suit.  A cover-up is a required item of beach apparel.

20.   And the number ONE sign you are getting old……the Nardi Party Bus is dropping off your kids at night.

The Passing of A Lady

It is with great regret we inform you of the passing of our Lady Kenmore, five cycle washing machine to the great agitator in the sky. Ms. Kenmore lived a long and sandy life (fifteen to be exact), and worked diligently her entire warranty.  She arrived on Long Beach Island in the summer of 1998, and resided there her entire cycle. She is survived by her set mate, Mr. Kenmore, better known by his nickname, “The Shrinker,” as every garment that visits him, comes out a size or two smaller. Ms. Kenmore was a tireless worker, even spinning out the water of the final load, before she conked out. This last kind gesture saved the mom of the house from having to bail out a full tub of rinse water. She was just that thoughtful of a gal.

Private arrangements were carried out (and we do mean carried out) by Sears.com. 

It is interesting to note, that as the delivery men were hauling her away a number of things came to light.  Hiding behind her now silent metal hulk, stood a three foot pile of compressed clothes. We are planning on contacting the “Innocence Project,” as now we realize that the cleaning ladies have been seriously maligned.  They did NOT have anything to do with the mysterious clothes disappearances of favorite summer togs. After a more in depth investigation, it has been discovered that shooting your dirty clothes into the washer like they were basketballs is fine, as long as you don’t miss the shot. Obviously some of our team members were overshooting the basket with some frequency.

Looking at the stack of clothes, reminds one of that scene from “Close Encounters of the Third Kind.” You know the one where all the people that have gone missing the past fifty years, slowly make their way off the space craft?  The clothes told a history like layers of stone reveal ancient artifacts. The bottom layer had size 2T bathing suits adorned with Telly Tubbies, along with a smattering of orphan socks. The mid layers held Lifeguard shorts, rash guards, Volcom skateboard t-shirts, and another helping of single socks. The top of the heap or most recent layer chronicles the move from underoos to boxer briefs. Oh, and some more socks. Our family history on LBI, as told through dirty clothes.

The Dad of the home was wondering if anyone (the Mom) ever cleans behind the home’s major appliances.  He was informed that whenever he wanted to pull out said major appliances, disconnect and then reconnect them, a cleaning would take place.  He carefully disengaged from any further tete a tete on this particular subject

We brought home a brand new Lady Kenmore this past weekend. She snuggled right next to Mr. Kenmore, (who, between me and you, is on borrowed time) and picked up, right where her predecessor left off. We are wishing her a long and productive life.

Lady Kenmore is dead! Long live Lady Kenmore!