News from the North - October 14th

Today I am cooking for my brother. He and my Sister -in-law plus the Bean, the Computer Geek and the Humvee are coming to the Broom Closet for dinner tomorrow. I am trying to pay a small homage to my Ma by cooking some of our favourites. Already I can hear her voice. First off was the chocolate cake, one that she described as doable with her hands tied behind her back, which was likely very true. The problem with my Ma's written recipes is that she always tweaked them herself, and somehow would always forget to tell me about them, and of course, never wrote anything down. How proud I was of myself for remembering the "tweak" in the cake - if something didn't call for salt, especially in baking, she would always add a dash. And so I did, merrily put the cake in the oven, then remembered the other tweak for the recipe, the capful of vanilla extract - never the phony stuff, has to be real. The buttercream icing I will make from scratch, there is no recipe, just a bunch of butter (never margarine!), a lot of icing sugar and cocoa, and the capful of real vanilla, and a few grains of salt. A spoonful of strong coffee if I have it. All done with the dip and taste methodology to perfection.

Next is the pirohy, perogies to the non Ukes in the bunch. I remember last making them about twenty years ago, and do you know what her complaint was then? I used Yukon Gold potatoes instead of plain white. Nothing about the taste, just that the potatoes were wrong. This time I bought white because they were on sale, they are happily boiling on the stove right now, very important to salt the cooking water correctly as they just don't taste the same if you have to salt them after cooking, although a little correction is fine. But I am still going to make them yellower than usual because I use Omega eggs that sport a rich yellow colour. And how difficult was it to find the  full fat dry curd cottage cheese for this? Four major stores later, that's how. For a once in a 20 year feat, you cannot use 0.5% fat dry pressed cottage cheese. My Ma would be turning over in her grave if I even considered making this a low fat option. And the idea is that she rest in peace. Now the dough recipe comes from a little sort of contest in small town Saskatchewan, where my Father was born. At every church function, dozens of different pirohy would show up, some were good, some were like eating bullets. So one night they all cooked and presented their pirohy, and when the best dough was determined, everyone had to use that recipe to make consistently good pirohy. I have that recipe. I can't make pie crust to save me arse, but one compliment my Ma gave me is that I made the best pirohy dough, even though she used the same recipe. We'll just see if I can repeat that today. I have her bread board, I don't have her rolling pin. I bought one last night, intending to buy a simple (read: cheap) marble one for $9.99 at Walmart. Came home with the Oxo cadillac at $39.99 plus HST from Home Outfitters. I'm still shaking my head. But, it's non-stick, ergonomic, and you don't scrape your knuckles on the counter as the handles always stay right side up. Uh huh. Technology these days. Oh, and a hole in one of the handles so you can "conveniently" hang it up. I think under the bed is better, more of an element of surprise to any inturders.

The last is the borscht, and even my Ma succumbed to convenience on this one. After bunches of beets that wouldn't boil up regardless of how little or how big, or how old or how young, my Ma turned to canned beets, and they certainly make for a quicker soup. Again I last made this many years ago, following her recipe, which is basically a list of ingredients, and all I got was "it's okay." When I asked what was wrong with it, she just simply said "Well, you know, you did your best." And to this day, I don't know of any tweaks except may be the love she put into it, and how can I replicate that? I had thought it was pretty good. And of course, it still to this day requires the addition of full fat sour cream, low fat doesn't cut it in a vegetable soup. What might have her turning to her side in her grave is the fact that I will use vegetable stock for the vegetarian in the Bean, and not a good homemade chicken stock. Bought to boot, organic and low sodium. That I will tweak as well. And you know what happens when you tweak things, you never make it the same way twice.

And that is my little world today. On Wednesday I am off to my beloved Guatemala for a medical mission, El Salvador for a beer break, and Mexico for another mission.

Slice of Life: News From the North, and a Little From the South - September 5th

It has been awhile again. Why? I have had computer access that actually works in the poorest of nations that I have visited, including Sierra Leone which was billed as the second poorest country in the world at that time. And here in northern Canada? Not much for almost a month. To qualify that a bit, and to give the powers that be their due, the first two weeks or so of this rotation were spent in the high school gym because of encroaching forest fires. I think the station actually had some minor damage. We were still allowed to sleep at the clinic residence when not on call. So no computer in either place. Until our phones at the gym pooped out. Then we got a couple of  Roger's cell phones. I love pressing buttons,  so I pressed enough oddball icons (I'm a somewhat disgruntled Telus customer) until I figured out I could access my e-mail from the phone. I at least was able to check my e-mail, but my thumbs are primed for iPhones, not whatever brand of the day we had. So I didn't send much off.

So there's my excuse.

I was on a medical mission, in Mexico, prior to this stint. The Chiapas region has some of the most beautiful land in the world I have ever seen. When you drive into the mountains, you become one with the clouds. It is breathtaking. When you drive on the switch back roads, it is breathtaking as well, as in "Holy s***! Look at the size of that boulder in the middle of the road! That wasn't there yesterday!!!" Gut wrenching at times too, as in "STOP THE CAR!!! I'M GONNA HURL!" Not me, but a few of my amigos. Gravol was king of the road.

Our accommodations were top notch for the little town we were in. We had a room air conditioner, thankfully, because it was so very hot in the evening, and the only window out was about 180 feet off the floor and just big enough for a canary to see out from, if we had one. An interior window opened to the equally hot hallway. I have roughed it in a few places, and this place wasn't  horrible, except, this is Mexico. So quite a few folks fell prey to Montezuma's Revenge. And the bathrooms in the rooms sported only shower curtains for doors, so you couldn't even pretend that no one knew what you were doing in there 4 or 5 times a night.
The last evening in Copainala found a few of us missing the post mission cervezas, so we went on a mission of our own to find a spot near the town square to toast our accomplishments. So we could walk home. The little spot with the cute patio overlooking the happenings? Dry. The only nice place was a cab ride away. We were then directed to a little cantina about a hundred yards down a dark road. The patio proprietors assured us it wasn't very nice, but we went anyway. We just wanted a beer.. How bad could it be???

Omar, my partner in crime.

 The bar was an open air little place, with a palapa-style roof. We were greeted by a drunk holding a jug, if I am not mistaken, and speaking a Spanish slurry. There were less than ten people, all locals, and only one kind of cerveza, one litre bottles of Sol. There was entertainment, a guy with one of those one man band keyboards, and he wasn't all that bad. The chairs were your cheap plastic patio chairs, and we found a table with three of them. Before we could sit down, a very obviously drunk woman came over and tried to take my chair, which I grabbed back, and parked my behind in. That should have been clue number one. That she grabbed a chair elsewhere and parked herself beside me should have been clue number two. In fact I had many clues, and as the senior missionary on this little jaunt with a couple of medical students as my escorts, I should have recognized them. But there I was, oblivious for quite the while. Like when she told me I was "guapa", pretty, in Spanish. Even though I was with two young male medical students, one who is from Mexico. Then she poked me on the arm a couple of times. One of the students, Mark, asked my other student, Omar, who is from Mexico, to ask her if she liked girls. Now folks, that should have really clued me in to what was going on, but all I thought was, why would he want to ask him to ask her that? We had ordered 1 cerveza for our little toast, with three glasses of course, then the senorita grabbed Omar's glass, well, plastic cup, and was going to swig out of that. I grabbed it back and set it back to Omar. In Spanish, she said that there were no more good looking girls in Chiapas, and I received a few more shoulder strokes and an invitation back to her ranch for drinks. If I had moved any closer to Omar, I would have been on the other side of him. My brain finally hooked up its wires properly. In my pitiful Spanish, I old her the guys were my boyfriends, that I liked MEN, including the younger ones. That didn't stop her. In the meantime, some other happy patron tried to pick a fight with Mark, who was innocuously drinking his beer. Another patron intervened. Omar, ever the gentleman, informed the senorita that we were Catholic medical missionaries, you know how the truth will always set you free. Right. It didn't. Mark's amigo tried again to pick a fight, the other patron intervened again, physically (no punches, I swear!), the senorita was getting upset because we had been laughing, then grabbed our lonely bottle of cerveza and starting drinking from it. She calmed down, we quickly finished what was in our glasses, and left, but not before the senorita tried to buy another round. She reached into her ample cleavage to retrieve her money, giving me a show that is unfortunately burned into my memory. And the inebriated soul was still outside with a cup this time. And that is why they don't let us loose.
The absolute impossible happened on my way out to work this time. I missed my flight. In 50 something years of travel, I have never missed a flight. I had the 0640 flight to Winterpeg, the alarm was set for 0300. In a flash of organizational productivity, I had totally packed my suitcase the night before. All I had to do was pack my cooler in the morning. The alarm went off. Actually, two of them, the one from the Ridiculously Expensive Alarm Clock Known as the iPhone, and the most annoying buzz in the world from my home alarm. Both got turned off for the extra five minutes of sleep. I woke up at 0540. No food packing, no shower, nada. I made it to the airport by six, and just missed the cut off for catching my flight. A few f-sharps and $150 later, I had secured a seat on the next flight, which would still get me to Winnipeg on time for the puddle jumper out here. And as I sat down to a breakfast of grease at Coyote Jack's, I watched as the last folks boarded my original flight. That the puddle jumper folks almost didn't let me on the flight to St. Theresa's had me fit to be tied. They said I was late, even though they had two flights scheduled to go at the same time. Graciously, they gave me a seat on the second flight. My fellow nurses were on the first one, and left promptly, non stop, at the scheduled time. My flight boarded 20 minutes later. And I arrived here before they did. I don't get it. It's the north.
I was pleased to find some of the office staff had taken up golf while working at the gym. That was for but a brief moment, until I realized they were trying to get the mouse. It ran behind the photocopier.
The gym was interesting to work in. The walls around the two stretchers were velcro-ed gym mats. One stretcher had no brakes. One night we ran out of oxygen in the big portable tank, while bagging a little girl who wasn't breathing. The spare was at the other end, and somehow the dolly to help transport it was MIA. A rather looming kind of man, a relative, just bear-hugged the new one, and with Superman-like strength and speed, picked the thing up like it was a toothpick and brought it to us. The child was shipped out, and is back home now, laughing and skipping and jumping around. Wonders never cease in this job.

We are now in the new residence, spiffy-do, it is. I'm still looking for the fan in the bathroom, in a place where mould is the most common form of wildlife. I went to use the microwave, and it wouldn't work. It is in a little box type open shelf at face height. I knew if I got the thing out and down that I would never get it back up. And so with moves that could grace a Cirque du Soleil performance, I managed to teeter the thing on my shoulder, and inadvertently, my head, while using two fingers to unwind the damned twist tie that held the tightly coiled cord on the back of the stupid microwave, and then clawed my way to the outlet behind it, without electrocuting myself.
Can anyone explain the "Dream Machine" alarm clock? It's got time zones! Some bright person, likely a man, threw out the instructions, and there are six of us nurses in the building, and no one can figure the dang thing out. Dream? Dream on, it's a bloody nightmare, that's what it is. Thank goodness for the Ridiculously Overpriced Alarm Clock Known as the iPhone. Provided you get up when it goes off.
And that is my world for now.

July 31st

It's been awhile, so I am behind on my musings. For now, two blonde moments from the Great White North (GWN) prior to my mission.

I had an ankle to xray, a strapping young lad at that. I did the films, which have to be manually developed. Away I went. The door to the darkroom was difficult to close, requiring a fair amount of force. But I did it. Fed the exposed films into the machine, refilled the cassettes, then realized that I had locked myself in the darkroom. The door would not open. Let me tell you, how the F-sharps were flying as I hurled myself against the door with my uninjured shoulder, each one a little louder than the last. On my last attempt, the door opened in just as I was throwing my last bit of energy towards it. I had been trying to open the door... out. And it was my poor patient, with a huge grin, who rescued me.

My departure day. No check in required, I was flying the bush plane, the airport was just a formality. As my driver and I were waiting for the plane to land (where's Tattoo?), I sipped my tea from my non-drip cup, and dripped tea all over my white shirt. After a quick glance around, I zipped to my duffel in the back of the pick up. Picked out a relatively clean shirt. Then opened the doors of the front and the back of the cab so that the other waiting locals wouldn't see much as I changed shirts. The driver, if he wished, would see quite a bit. And that's when he said, "Um, there's a washroom inside, you can change there." The airport was open. I don't think I will be forgotten there soon.

My friends on Facebook, pardon for the repeat. For the rest of you, to laugh at yourself is to enjoy life to the fullest.

Salud!

Slice of Life: Happy Birthday Helen - March 26th

My Mom turned 87 on the 19th of March, still in the hospital, creeping ever so slowly towards death. We decided to have a small celebration, considering that we thought she wasn't going be here by this point. My Mom was a great cook before she decided to hang up those apron strings, "I'm too old", but her cakes were second to none. In light of many bedside conversations about the "old" days when she baked cakes for church functions and her lady prayer partners, she spoke of her Springtime Chiffon Cake as being one of her favourite cakes, and it certainly is one of mine. So I dragged out my handy dandy Kitchen Aid stand mixer, and made her the cake, a light, 3-tiered lemony concoction, filled with lemon curd and frosted with an ethereal mixture of whipped cream and some more lemon curd, and a blanket of shredded coconut. It is a divine cake. My first mistake was in the choice of baking pans. It needs to be baked in an ungreased angel pan, which I didn't have. I have a non-stick pan, which if you grease, then flour, gives the eggy batter something to cling to. However, try to invert that after baking so that you keep the height, and you will have a disaster. So I cooled the thing in the pan, which resulted in a flattened cake with a waist line where it collapsed. Undaunted, I made the lemon curd, and of course for whatever reason, I could not find the instructions. I remembered the "decrease" by 1/2" pertaining to water, so that's what I did, decreased the water from 2 cups to 1 cup, and after it was cool and congealed, found the recipe, which said to decrease the water by 1/2 cup. Out with the boiling water, and the hand blender, but then I had a runnier curd that wouldn't firm up the same way as if I had added the correct amount of water in the first place. When I folded the required amount into the whipped cream, it was a bit soft, but no matter. I filled, frosted, and coconut-ed the cake, and other than being a a bit vertically challenged, it looked beautiful. The cream icing sagged a wee bit, but it nicely settled into the waist, where the cake would settle on me. I took it and a bottle of the wine my Mom has been drinking for years, unopened, from her fridge, to the hospital. I figured we really needed to celebrate. We even had an extra guest, the lady in the bed next door, on the other side of the curtain. She was no bother, really. She was dead.
After a swig of the Banrock Station non-oaked Chardonnay, my Mom decided it wasn't her wine. I showed her the bottle, of course partook of it myself, but, "I don't care what it says on the bottle, it's not my wine." Okay. Then for the cake. "This isn't like my cake." Well, anything of hers that I have ever tried to make is never 100% like hers. For one thing, she frequently tweaked recipes, and would neglect, not on purpose, to tell me about the tweaks. However, being a veteran cake baker, I knew her changes to this one. So, wanting to hear what I hadn't done, I asked.
"It's not chocolate."
And so the Hurricane blows on, sometimes a Category 5, other times just a tropical storm. Bless her little 87 year old heart.

January 18th

Dying sucks. Try dying with dementia of any type, deafness and cancer. Try being one of those looking after said person. For all involved, it isn't pretty.
God has reversed my Mom's train, and trust me, I don't wish her dead. I think He and I might just be involved in a bit of a shoving match, and hey, it's God, you have to let Him win.
In the meantime, I have been forbidden to:
a) Bring in a pillow from home. Her pillow. After she complained of neck pain - she has osteoporosis. I gave her one of those u-shaped neck pillows, but that combined with plastic pillows makes her feel too hot. Hence the suggestion of bringing her one of her pillows, met with a "They won't like it!" - who's they? and "DON'T YOU DARE!!!!"  Apparently I have been forcing her to be, oh, comfortable, and that doesn't seem to sit well, as if being uncomfortable will make her die faster as is her wish. So of course I ignored her wish after a week, brought in her feather pillow from when she got married in 1955, and she exclaimed "It is sooo soft!"
And now she cradles it around her neck. All the time.
b) Order TV for her. "DON'T YOU DARE!!!"Well, this one I've heeded, but when her few friends and neighbours come in and admonish her for not having it, it makes you feel badly. But she would notice a TV if I brought it in, unlike the pillow, even if I gave her headphones to go with it. So at the moment, the seemingly neglectful family is heeding that wish. But there is only so much of the Young and the Restless you can discuss without her actually watching it. As she proclaimed to the Bean, the storylines are "S-H-*-T".
c)Ask for a walker for her. I haven't totally lost on that one as I have resources, like her doctor, although I have been forbidden to "PUT THE BUG IN THEIR EAR." Make no mistake, the cancer is going to get her, or the heart or something else. She is not dying fast enough to be on the palliative floor, and she is losing condition. Because she is palliative, no one makes her do anything, but such has been our dance and relationship through the beginnings of dementia. I am now the bad cop, making her do what she can even though she doesn't want to do it. Anyhow, an e-mail to her doctor will start the ball rolling.
d) Take concerns to the nurses. "DON'T YOU DARE!" Yeah, well she loses big time on this, because you can't out nurse me. I will never stand for sloppy nursing. And it doesn't matter her wishes here. I'm paving the way for when we are old and decrepit. I have reminded them that we will be her age sometime, with the fallen bladders, the funky bowels, brains that seem to be on the Enterprise, far, far away, and the ears that seem to ignore all. That's why you treat the elders well, because that is how you you want to be respected. Someday.
On the other hand, she knows I am going insane being here for so long. I love my Credit Valley friends, I don't love my Credit Valley work, so now I have her blessing to go back to work that I love.
In the meantime, I will take her to the bathroom, flush the toilet, get her ice, put the garbage can up, put the rails up, put the oxygen back on, take the ears out, put the pillow on the feet, and turn the lights out. One day, forever....

The Slice of Life: New Year's Edition - January 3rd

My musings for the end of this year, not to be repeated in subsequent years, the bad stuff, por favor.
1. Prayers, answered. Mom much better. Patience, tested. I don't mean this in a bad way. It just means my Mom is as close to back to normal as she is going to get, which means she is driving me crazy. She looks much better than in the preceding months before her hospitalization, and except for the oxygen tubes in her nose, and her telling you, you would never know she is sick.
My first major clue occurred during a bathroom run. Ever the helpful daughter, I assisted her to the pot. While waiting outside the door, I heard her crackly voice: "I NEED A DRINK OF WATER!" To which I replied, "WHEN I GET YOU BACK TO BED, I'LL GET YOU SOME WATER."
"I NEED IT NOW!" Now, I looked up in the mirror there, and noticed that the waitress hat was not on, in fact, I was sporting a jaunty set of reindeer antlers. So I repeated : "WHEN I GET YOU BACK TO BED!" "BUT I'M DYING!" "NOT RIGHT NOW YOU AREN'T! WHEN YOU ARE FINISHED.""I'M FINISHED THEN." And so we toddled back to bed, she had her water and a gentle lecture from me as can only be done when someone wasn't wearing her hearing aids: "I WILL DO ANYTHING FOR YOU, BUT BREAKFAST AND DRINKS IN THE LOO IS NOT ONE OF THEM." Conversations need to be kept short and to the point during a scream fest.
Fast forward to the day after Boxing Day. I hadn't been over since Christmas Eve, due to the dreaded Christmas cold, so imagine my surprise over the past two days to find a new steadiness to her gait. She's taking purposeful steps now to the bathroom, nary a shuffle in site, no bouncing off the walls and door jambs, no swaying at a whisper. In fact, I think if she could guarantee she would use a walker, she might even be able to go alone. Shaking my head, I remember her ward room days when she was assisted by me and a walker, she would zoom the walker into the middle of the room on the way back, and stagger to her bed. And of course, I remember her deluxe rollator that sits on the opposite side of her 12 foot living room, where she can't reach it.
So I rearranged her back in bed, and she told me "The volunteer fed me." Her ears were in, she wasn't yelling quite so loudly.
"And what do you mean the volunteer fed you?" I had visions of them opening up her tray, setting her up.
"She fed me with a spoon."
"She did what?"
"She fed me with a spoon."
Holy jaw breaking because it hit the floor! I was speechless, and apparently trolling for flies. For most old folks that I've dealt with, eating independently is one of the last things they want to give up. They shake, rattle and roll, miss their mouths sometimes, but feeding oneself is a basic need for most of them. You can assist with the occasional mouthful to make sure some of it actually gets in. My Mom? No shaking, no weakness, nada.
And I said nothing.
The next conversation had to do with comfort. Because of her osteoporosis, she has a hard time getting comfortable in bed. I bought her one of those u-shaped airline neck pillows, which she finds is comfortable, but it gets hot. No surprise with the plastic pillows propping her up. So I asked her if I could bring in one of her pillows from home. I figured a breathing cloth pillow behind her might cool things off a bit. She said she didn't think the hospital would like it if I brought in things like that from home. No amount of explanations would convince her otherwise, so I said I would ask the doctor, because apparently I am just a nurse, and then I was forbidden to ask the doctor. The end. She is definitely much better. God has reversed the train.
2. Babies make everything better. I was told by the Queen Mum that the Humvee was not to visit her in the hospital, in case she had something contagious. Like cancer is. So ignoring her as usual, just because it was Christmas, or slightly after due to our illnesses and not hers, the Bean and the Humvee and I went to visit. And my Mom positively lit up. The Humvee cooed and smiled and laughed, the Bean declared whoever owned this baby must surely want him back. It was a bonus day, proving again there is a Santa.
3. In keeping with my Mom's tour, I help her to the bathroom every visit I make. She declares that the nurses don't come fast enough, and then are too fast in dealing with her once they do come. So I take my time getting her off the pot, helping her pull her bloomers up, wash her hands and pad on back to bed. The one thing she always does is pull the call bell in the bathroom when she is done even if I am there. I don't discourage it because it is easier just to have her yank it all the time than for her to hit and miss when I am not there. So she pulls the bell, and I am there helping her when her day nurse comes in, saying she would help my Mom. Normally the Old Girl prefers me, but this time, she actually pushed me forcefully out of the bathroom, announcing that she'd rather this nurse help her as she was more efficient than me. Apparently I must have been wearing the Nurse Ratched hat.
In other news:
1. Granola bars with Nyquil chasers make a fine Christmas dinner indeed. And like the 24 pound turkey, there is enough to go on for days.
2. In keeping with the festivities of the season, Nyquil comes in red and green, pretty much the only Christmas decorating I did around here.
3. The warm, weather has turned the out house into a do it yourself bidet, stated one of my best friend's nephews. Thank you very much for that visual.
4. Euchre, gin, the card game! - wine and friends make a great New Year's night. If only I could remember it. Or how I got soot under the arm of my Tilley shirt. Or the bruise on my arm. Or where I put my toothbrush. Or...
5. New Year's revolutions, or, next on my Bucket List: My travel plans are a bit on hold for now, other than for work. In the desire to screw up my knee worse than it is, and only because it is feeling a bit better, I think I am going to try skiing. Once. This all Canadian polar girl has never downhill skied in her life. I will only ever go up in that chair lift once, and down the bunny hill, upright, I hope, once. Right up there with the zip line - never ever to be done, ever again. Yup. We'll see.
And that's all for now. I wish everyone a Happy New Year, filled with wild and wonderful things, and above all, filled with joy in the midst of anything bad. I refuse anything less for myself.

Aging

So this is how my day went. I was about to put my watch back on after my shower, but decided not to because I hadn't filled the air with all of my hair product. That usually leaves a sticky film on everyone and everything within 50 feet. These days, I seem to forget little things, like where the heck did I put my watch 5 minutes ago, in the broom closet I live in. On top of my bed is the usual repository and after tearing it and the half dozen pillows apart, I still couldn't find it. I was trying to get out to see my Mom, and this time I would remember to take my handy dandy iPhone with me, so I would know the time. Having forgotten my wallet at home the day before, I would also take that with me, you know, just in case. If only I could find that too.
No problem in finding the f-sharps as I tore the rest of the apartment apart. My heart was in my boots when I remembered (!) that I had needed some info from it for my computer yesterday, and I had left it on the La Z Girl. And it wasn't on, in or under that. I also remembered gathering up newspapers the day before and taking them and a bunch of other recycling, down to the recycling room. And good Lord, could that be where my wallet met its end? Then I remembered St. Anthony and whipped off a quick prayer to him, for my wallet and my watch. On a whim, I checked out the newly started recycling bag, and there was the wallet, in with that day's newspaper. I was still kind of bummed out about the watch, but I thought to leave well enough alone, then rolled up my sleeves as I usually do and found the damned watch on my wrist.
Finding my car in the hospital parking lot should be so easy. I used to be the navigator in the family. The Ex Boy needed a map, I just needed intuition, and it never failed me. Which is why I am divorced. Nowadays, I think I would need a map to get out of a paper bag, never mind a GPS to find my car in any parking lot other than my own underground. Every day I visit my Mom, every day I take a mental note of where I parked my car, and every day I walk out of the hospital with absolutely no clue as to where it is. I haven't had to resort to firing off the panic button, yet.
The girls went out for dinner last night, in the big mall close to where I live, that I know like the back of my hand. I even checked the map at the entrance, the kind that says "You are here" and that the resto was over there. With great confidence I slogged my way through the army of Christmas shoppers for 10 minutes, until without a doubt I knew I was going the wrong way.
But really, the thing that made feel really old was this: reading glasses with lights on the temples, like headlights so you can read menus etc. in dimly lit places. I actually, seriously, considered buying them. Then I shook my head. Makes me wonder why restaurants are always so dimly lit, do we all have ugly dates? When I was young, I was near sighted, as I got older, the presbyopia set in.  Now I can't see who I am eating with. Already can't hear them. By the time I have myself geared up for all these deficits, I will look like R2D2 with all the bells and whistles. Woohoo, look out world, here I come!
And now I am heading out to play "Where's Waldo?' with my car.