Age Discrimination II

Further on aging, I hasten to say that it's like any other time in life: just as challenging and varied. To make statements that generalize about a race or gender or age is quite simply prejudicial. Because one sees  elders with certain behaviours, doesn't mean all aged persons possess them. It seems that cartoons are drawn, photographs taken and attitudes formed about the aging state that not only lack generosity but are blatantly, flawed. We dare not paint all teenagers with the same brush about their "angst" and that same democratic approach also applies when we refer to aging. We've been brainwashed into thinking that elders fear change, can't adapt to the electronic age and have nothing more to contribute to society. Yes, they use cell phones and computers, continue to work and volunteer. The kind of negative attitude about aging, that is rampant in many societies must stop. It's called age discrimination and is of the last and worst kind. There is no authority to prove that all elders are on a dysfunctional path. Naturally, some of our elder population does not want to engage in the computer age and may even bitterly oppose it. The operative word is "some". One ought not to generalize about any age group. Truly, there are those elders who are ill but illnesses affects both the young and the old. Some, but not all elders are inactive due to physical factors but they, just as any other individual with a handicap, rely on the latest mobility aids. There is no shame at any age in using mobility carts, wheelchairs or any other devices. The sad part is that far too many older people feel pressured, whether by their peers or those close to them, to bend to stereotypical means. They are told to give up their independence and either go to live with their children or to enter a second rate facility that caters to the elderly. The reasons are not always diseases and afflictions that some elderly  suffer. Many of these lovely people comply with the pressures put on by their advisors because it's an easy solution or they are told by "experts" that it is the right thing to do. "Everyone else does it" is the argument. That argument is just not reliable nor is it true. Entering a senior's residence is not what it used to be, however, if a good one. Many facilities do not force deadly routines on people or subject them to childish crafts classes and exercise routines that are embarrassing to thinking people. Residents may  keep their cars, have their own wifi and come and go as they please. It is not true that all old people cannot function on their own. It seems there are factions of our society that continue to harbour elder prejudices. Elders are not children to be pushed around because they fear the embarrassment of fighting back. They need to maintain the same dignity we all expect, alongside a natural need to make independent decisions without the antiquated stereotypical pressures put on by those ignorant of our rights.

Mother You Should

This is an aging population and most of us getting on in that way, keep silent but we shouldn't. No one really understands any situation unless they are in it and sometimes "being in it" is impossible to get across to others. It's that way when you are elderly and beyond what anyone gets other than those in the same place. Even those who make geriatrics their life study can't actually know how it feels. They learn all about neural, emotional, physical and other aspects of it, but their advice and recommendations often "stink". I am being frank here because it is time we elders stopped being nice about it all the time. The truth is that old age hurts. It hurts in lots of ways and older folks try to hide it behind their apple pie smiles and sweetness. Some get old and cranky but others of us see little value in that position, and go the other way. We love our offspring and call on patience. We tolerate the aches of rainy days, getting up and down stairs and chairs and having cramps in the night. We look at ourselves in the mirrors and ignore the signs of aging. We seek peace and quiet and reveries. We want nothing but to see our children grow up and find happiness. We need very little to be happy. We try to be tolerant of the doctor who is much younger and tells : "Mrs Blank, we need to quit on the sugar, the sitting around watching TV and all that sleeping a lot". He or she recommends strongly, eating whole wheat everything, quitting the coffee and wine, giving up sweets and butter on the toast, meat and pain pills. They say going to regular exercise classes where some cute little thing in spandex shows us how to bend and bounce will make our lives better. All the advice is wonderful especially for those giving it. They feel they're saving us from an early grave. We will live longer and better and even grow younger. They don't know the fuss of getting ready to go these things, nor of the aches and pains while doing it. Sometimes even injury. Advice of that nature is just another mother-you-should in my book. It's my life and having lived it decades upon decades, I think I know best how to do it. Let me make my decisions based on my wants and needs, not what the author of a how-to says I should be doing it. For him or her it might work but for me and a few million others, it doesn't. I am perfectly happy with that and if not, I will ask for input. I lived with my grandmother before I was married and she was a fine woman near eighty who lived to 102, who didn't cook well, ate whatever she pleased, never exercised, watched television most of the day and went to church and funerals as often as she could if someone gave her  ride since she never did get her license. She did have a bit of money and that always helps no matter what anyone says. When her children, my aunts and uncles came over to tea and her dreadful dinners, they entered the somewhat cluttered house and went about saying such as: "Mother you should get rid of this junk". It was junk but each piece of it was a memory and she did not hesitate to tell you about them repeatedly. If she was told "Mother you should not tell those stories, I've heard them a million times" her answer would be "I don't care I am going to tell them as often as I want to". When they harped about her doo dads, she'd merely point to a small plaque on the wall near the coat stand. It read "This is my house and in it, I'll do as I damn please".

Age Discrimination

Starting in what I experienced as an example to make a point, I pluck from the past. When in my forties and in the teaching business, I felt age discrimination. In September, new teachers, in their first appointments, arrived on the scene and the school's teens on meeting them, anticipated that with their new "cool" teachers, they would become friends with benefits. The new young teachers were, indeed, cool. They were attractive, light-hearted and minglers with the kids who weren't that much younger than they were. They rewarded their students with such as class pizza dates and out-of-class events. I adored watching these new enthusiastic teachers but at the same time secretly felt dated and  envious of their freshness and popularity among the students. I wished I could be as "cool" as they, but I had my job to do just as they did, and my age was my age. As it turned out, when the teens got a little too friendly and the young teachers had to back off, reality naturally levelled the process and while it wasn't a them-and-us situation, classroom relationships developed into understanding it on a more professional footing. The age discrimination wasn't theirs; it belonged to me and I let it bother me. In hindsight, it was foolish but it was present, and I suspect, in some form, it always will be in schools and other work situations.  But age discrimination of elders over youth, goes the other way, too. This morning on a radio broadcast I listened to a young man who spoke of the world belonging to the young and that elders in his field didn't understand them. He felt that they failed younger folk. He said that he was developing a program for youth because older people were not doing a good enough job of relating to the young in his subject of interest. My first  reaction was did this young person know how he became knowledgeable in his field? Who exposed him to the facts? Did he not realize that experience provides the ground work for continuing research. It's how the human race progresses. There are mistakes and misconceptions but science goes from what is to what's next and more. Youth discriminates when it decries older experience as detrimental and outdated. Of course it is and it's the job of new information to become newer just as the elders learned by those who went before them. Youth, too, will become the elders eventually and what they do, will be improved upon.  It's the way the human race moves forward and onward. And it is natural and has nothing about it to criticise or be ungrateful for or to blame. Furthermore, why does age have anything to do with it when some of the oldest people in time, have been the most progressive artists, inventors and innovators? We all, young and old,  must work together to make our home, this precious world, a better place.

Men In Skirts

"When you put it that way," I said, "I guess it's okay."  That was after reading the caption under the fashion mag's show photos of  men in skirts and dresses along with the comment "So? Women wear pants." True. Men wore skirts not all that many centuries ago. They also tippied about in high heels, not that some men don't wear them today disguised as up-your-height loafers. Men also layered elaborate lacy coats with flaring hems and ruffles at their necks in those days over brocaded vests and flaunting silken hankies. The men were, in fact, with their curled locks, often wigged ones, prettier than women. But those were men who didn't do much but fuss with their wardrobes and make-up so as to make a good impression at court. That was court; it wasn't down in the streets where men and women had better things to do and dressed themselves in attire that allowed for movement and actual labour. Furthermore their budgets couldn't stand the cost. While I can't argue that men should be given the choice of wearing whatever they please as long as it's clean and decent (whatever that means in whatever society) I continue to think that the only reason women reverted to pants or slacks or jeans is that they give freedom to get about without restrictions. Rosie the Riveter at the side of a warship during the WWs, wasn't about to do her job in an apron and a mini-skirt. When I had the pleasure of working in classrooms with little ones, a big skirt and boots were the dress of the day. You could crawl about on the rug with the kids doing crafts or sit on a tiny chair for a chat with them in perfect comfort. The big skirt or trousers, gave lots of freedom and the boots didn't require those horrid things called panty hose. THE fashion magazine showed a recent fashion show with men plying the ramps in their brightly coloured, uniquely designed tunics, togas, skirts and dresses. Surprisingly, these formerly exclusive to female garments,  looked very male at the show, but with a looser, more decorative take. Some costumes were beyond what you might see on the sidewalk but what high fashion show doesn't stretch the imagination? Scottish males have been wearing the kilt for a very long time, too, and what lady's heart doesn't skip a beat when she sees a Scot marching along in full regalia, kilt a-whirl and bagpipes a-skirl? Take it a bit further, and there is romantic Lawrence of Arabia in flying white cottons atop his steed, plying the desert sands full tilt. Day by day we are getting closer and closer to eliminating the no in life when it comes to what men, women or any gender can have the freedom to do - and wear.  One day perhaps all that matters will be who one is and not what.

Dead Politicians

The only good politician is a dead politician. That's not as bad as it sounds. When a person runs for political office with every good intention and dreams of making the world a better place in their view of what that might be, they make promises. We, the people, believe that when we cast our one little vote, those promises will come true. Most politicians are sincere about their goals and do their best to carry them out as promised. After the hype of the election hoopla has died down and the practicals arise, the promises made are either struck down by budget concerns or the opposition's strength or political play engaged when the vote count is too close for comfort. Nothing new there. The new incumbents are bent on doing their best and when the election honeymoon is over and the times when everyone loved them enough to elect them ends, harsh reality begins. When the smiling face of the new politician in his or her designer attire along with the darling family surrounding them, fades into actualities, the real business of management begins. Having to deal with not only the opposition that promised to cooperate while in the glow of their good loser speeches, but also the ever questioning media and the public nit picking begins, the winning politico halo drops off. It's time to don the mail and gloves, get on the armor, and go to work. It's not a job for sissies. The glow being off, the new electee man or woman or gender whatever, is in for it and in a big way. Every iota of their lives, former and present, is examined thoroughly for any hint of modern sin. To remain in the limelight today, is close to being a minor god. You have to be sterling in every sense or else you'll hit the news like rotten eggs. And as we all know, the media hounds love it because it sells. By the end of the incumbents' terms or careers, their actual worth is determined alone by history. And not before. As they say about hindsight, it's the harshest judge. Often times assessing the politician who no one liked for long, in view of what occurred then, perhaps marginally during or wholly after their terms elapsed, is one able to know exactly what the contribution was worth. There being zero politicos who pleased all the people all the time during their "reign", the total picture can't be added up until years later. It seems we are all blinded somehow at the good being done while they are in office. Much later, often when they are long dead, is when countless books are written and photos shown of them, depicting their true value.  All part of the game.  My hat is off to anyone going into politics. Brave souls are they.

Hospital Horrors

Hospitals used to be quiet places with angels of mercy in white coming into rooms to soothe patients. There was an aura of peace and order. The corridors were uncluttered and shiningly clean. The ward desks were housed with medical staff quietly doing their work and assisting visitors to find the rooms of their loved ones. That was then. This is now and it isn't pretty. What happened to peace? When you go into a ward these days, it's a mess of noise and disorder and a chaos of hallway litter including dirty linens and badly kept gurneys and wheelchairs strewn about in hallways with some patients wandering about with their IV stands or physio items. You, the visitor,  have to work your way through a mass of clutter. And cleanliness is not always present especially in the washrooms. In the wards, there is a great deal of noise with beeping equipment defying any hope of rest, clanking intravenous bottles, patients with music on and televisions, visitors who are loud  and a lack of chairs that are juggled from one room to another. Our taxes support this?  Groaning persons are heartbreaking with their sounds and some patients who are in dementia situations call out incessantly. The nurses are hurried and few to be seen and the charge desk areas are also loud and sometimes staff speaking in tones that everyone can hear or their laughing over personal matters. I would like to say this is rare but I am sorry, it isn't. Most patients who must be in hospital hate their stays mainly due to the noise. I know this happens because at times both as a short term patient and a visitor, it's absolutely true. And most of it, to me, is plain careless management. When I was in for a few days, recently, my bedside monitor beeped constantly for no apparent reason and the man, yes, man, in the room with whom I shared a bathroom, was on his cell  phone constantly when he wasn't listening to music on it or beeping in numbers to call. All day and night. Budget cuts aside, surely the noise factor can be solved and some semblance of order and neatness attained.  And, forget privacy. When the doctor comes around, all the others in a ward hear every question and answer. It seems that not the patient's needs but the systems workings are being served. Can't someone come up with a nice clear plastic bubble for each bed, one that supplies the electronics and monitoring and communication and peace for some degree of quietness? The bubble would allow a semblance of privacy and peace while offering some of the necessary services. Sounds like space age but why not? Medical inventors, get out your pencils.

The Art Of Self-dating

At my age and stage, I just cannot find the man of my dreams, therefore, I often, until I miraculously do, have self dates. It is not as insane as it sounds. It takes all the stress and fuss away.  For one thing, you will find your date very compatible and an excellent listener, In fact, you needn't talk at all and your date will understand perfectly. There is never a down time with self-dating because your date is always available at your convenience and suitably located, not requiring driving or taking a taxi or public transportation. It's very "green".  There is no need to spend time making up or dressing up because your date, you, doesn't care. In fact, less is more in terms of garb. I happen to like, however, going on a self-date and dressing somewhat. Tonight, I will wear my favorite gorgeous black and white floral caftan with the fringe along with white flip flops. Or maybe black ones. We, me, myself and I, will rent a movie on line from, not the dollar array, but splurge to find a six dollar film, one that is rather new. I intend to have dinner beforehand, which I will make myself. My newly renovated kitchen is beautiful and only a step away from the viewing room. My viewing area would be called, in most houses the dining room but mine has been converted. It's a bar cum cosy viewing space with settee and ottoman where I can stretch out and enjoy the big screen TV. This evening's menu will be chicken pie from yesterday's roasted one, but now with a biscuit topping and strawberries for dessert. Yes, there will be wine but such that is tall and very lightly iced, dumbed down with a generous dash of Perrier. While at dinner, there will be Stingray music of the Spa kind. After dinner, taken at the bar that separates my kitchen from my viewing room, I will turn on my bar stool, step off and be seated on the settee facing the viewing room screen. The small square of floor used to be the dining area but what single person needs a dining room? All we singles, in truth, eat at the kitchen bar or in front of our computers now don't we?  My once dining room has book shelves, a cosy love seat, a nice foot rest ottoman and a huge TV sitting on a fireplace stand. I can put my feet up, gaze at the flickering fire, loll into the cushions and pick up the controller. When there's nothing great on TV, the book shelf offers itself along with DVDs of my favorite films such as The Great Gatsby (the old one), Mr Ripley, Avatar, Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, Jurassic Park, The Alien collection, King movies and all the other ones I simply never tire of seeing again. Nor does my date, me, complain. Friday Night Date Night is on!

Ha Ha Privacy

Currently there is a madness about privacy. Every site one visits has disclaimers or reasons or claims about its privacy features. All around us there are moves to protect our privacy. When I go into my favorite, once trusted sites these days, I have to re-enter my passwords or are forced to change them, not of my personal tastes but by those the site imposes upon me. Often I do not want to change a password but the site insists upon it. If I get a letter or numeral wrong when a finger slips, I have to prove that I am not a robot or switch to my email to prove that I am who I am. It goes and on and on often making me annoyed over all of this nonsense. Privacy is the word of the day and there are lots of these kinds of somethings-of-the-day lately. We seem gripped in movements that are popularized but in a couple of months, they peter into nothingness. But, privacy is joke when every store, street corner, institution has cameras peering at us. The cell phone banished privacy long ago. Anyone, without permission can photograph you, doctor the photo and do what they want with your image. The most ludicrous example of the contradiction  of privacy is in the fame world. When I go to my favorite online magazines, I see singers, actors and other glorified humans, berating the media over invading their privacy. They, themselves, don't seem to mind exposing their romantic escapades, mean or loving messages and photos of their bodies that slam privacy right in the face. Who are they kidding? Or thinking they are? Today some young singing idol who is one of the latest faddys that most adults have never heard of nor care to, was shown clearly smooching with another young media fave. His denials that there was no romance were ridiculous when it is quite plain for the world to see. The K family for example thrives financially on their dolled up derriere displays emblazoned everywhere. They speak of the nuisance of the paparazzi but they, in fact, are, therefore, their worst enemies. Privacy at the checkout counters is another joke. If someone wants your PIN, it isn't hard because the little gizmos you tap or zip are right out there in full view and your small hand isn't always going to be able to hide what you punch in. Not to mention that if it's used, the credit card must be in hand also. Where I live, my phone number is not available to others unless I give specific permission. On the other hand, anyone can enter my name on line and find out my address, including my unit number along with my phone number. No matter how Facebook tries to hide it, I can find someone and surmise from their photos, their friends and their friends' friends, a lot about them if I wanted to put the time and energy into it. Underneath it all, why do we need so much privacy? What is anyone going to do with our plethora of numbers? Sure a few people are suffering from identity theft but what about the billions who aren't. Do we all have to be tarred with the same privacy nonsense? It's a bit like the school teacher we had who kept us all in if a few in the room were noisy. Or was that me?

S-Cone On?

Scones are the easiest baking save there is. You get a call and people are coming over. Yikes. There's no time to bake a cake or make a meal. Yes, you do have time. Thanks to that box of you-know-what biscuit mix and whatever else to add to it that's in the fridge. I make no excuses for using the boxed mix but I add to it for a better quality output. When someone else such as the mix maker, does the work of putting flour and other ingredients together, why should I fret? Into the bowl goes a cup or three of the mix, an egg, corn syrup, a glop of yogurt, some melted butter, milk and chopped up whatever items you have on hand that will make your scones, yours. Today I used frozen whole strawberries and leftover raspberry jam that had hardened on top with age. I chopped up the strawberries and chunked out the jam. I use a collection of whatever fresh fruit is lurking in the fridge and add mint or lavender; for savory, I use green onion, bacon bits and chopped pepperoni and cheese bits. Just let your imagination fly. I set my oven at 355 and time it for 25 minutes. When I mix the thick dough, I don't overdo it. A bit lumpy is good. I use baking paper to avoid a mess on my baking pans and add big tablespoon dollops of the mixture to the pan, spacing them for spreading. The aroma is lovely as you bake. Enjoy it while you set up your pretty table. When I take the scones out of the oven, I plate them and put a small spoon of  tinned cream cheese frosting on top while they are still warm. In emergency situations like sudden company, all is fair. You did mix and bake the scones, after all. The icing drizzles down on the warm scones and when it hardens, makes a kind of light glaze without being too sweet. While the baking is going on, you can fluff up your hair, glow your face and don your flowered maxi. You've found your mother's china tea plates and cups, you've set the table with old lacey linens you love and added some flowers and leaves. Don't forget the fancy pie forks. You have a party and it all came from a box. Scones make miracles. Using your herbs, the savory ones are a romantic breakfast with orange slices  and perhaps a ketcup/sour cream dip on the side. With the fruity lunch scones, you can put out tiny glasses of sangria or juices with a touch of wine. There's always champagne and orange juice for your breakfast scones such as the pineapple ham ones or the tomato and bacon delights. There are as many scone variations as you can think of but the key is the speed and simplicity of the product that should be served warm. Now, you will have to excuse me, my tea and scones await.

Spaciousness

The visual tour I had of the space capsule where our Canadian astronaut spent many months, made me sure that space travel would not be one of my dreams. Claustrophobia is the first reason, even though I don't own that particular one. When I saw how cramped the quarters are for space station dwellers, no thanks. The cheerful space woman from the US, took "us" on tour from one section of the station to others, but all of them reminded me of being in a large culvert with doo dads dangling or floating tentacle-like from the sides. Various sections of the tunnel-like venue were the lab, the communications area, the space walk suit-up, the recreation, gymn areas and so on. The window views weren't like the ones in space films either. Captain Nemo may strut about in front of his window wall to the blue planet, Earth, but it's different on a non-fictional space station. To enjoy your earthscape view on this vehicle, there area few tiny windows here and there which are apparently the favorite window view of the stars, the real ones. On went the tour through the tunnel. The bathroom routines left me cringing as did the beds in which you latched yourself under a little belt to keep  from being the bump in the night to the others strapped-in next to you. There was no walking around but plenty of space swimming which is the art of holding onto something and propelling your body air flying toward your target. If you want to stop,"stand and stare" a bit, you tuck your toes under  belts installed here and there to hold yourself from wandering everywhere at once. Your hair likely will be fastened down somehow. Those with long bewaved tresses stay home, because our tour guide who had medium length hair had it haloing all around her face standing on end - but nicely. Being without gravity, it didn't fall around her face, it soared all over in a kind of out-of-control-Afro. You wouldn't need to curl your eyelashes, I presume, they'd just curl up on their own. To eat, you choose from a bunch of plastic bags labelled enticingly: fruit, vegetables, meat etc to heat them, if you wish, you locate the little tubular microwavy sized thing. When eating, you squeeze your dinner out of its plastic carefully or else you'll be seeing it from then on, flying past your eyes and those of every other person on board. Same with tears or drops of any other kind of fluid. Everything is in orbit out in space. Imagine your earth room up here. You wouldn't have to put anything away because none of it would go there. If you needed something you'd just wait and pick it up when it passed by. On the other hand, things you don't want aloft, have to be fastened down. It would be a bit like swimming through your room with all of its flotsam and jetsam roiling about. The crew of the space station sat at a small table to chat and enjoy a drink through straws while ensuring continuance of their conversation by holding onto straps with their feet or fastening seat belts. How these admirable space personnel live this way for months even with Skype, makes me nervous and certainly the thought of it, claustrophobic.