Birthday Cake

I admit it. I’m addicted to old movies. Really old movies.

I love silent films. I’m fascinated by those stars who never made the transition to sound. John Gilbert. Theda Bara. The list goes on. And though I regularly support the San Francisco Silent Film Festival, I don’t always go. But I always want to.

I also love the early talkies. There’s something magical about the films of the 1930s and 1940s. The artistry is amazing. The camera work, the story lines, and the actors. But like everything in life, even movies made during the Golden Age of Hollywood can be stinkers. Bad directors, bad scripts, and bad casting. Just bad movies.

And then there’s the unusual enunciation of one key word.

Affected?

Some of the dialogue can be a bit much. Dated perhaps—or just overly dramatic. For instance, the word darling pops up an awful lot in love scenes. It’s kind of standard. My grandmother used to call me darling. But, there was never any romantic intent. At least, I don’t think so.

I have one friend who uses darling.  It’s a cue that a nasty zinger is about to be hurled your way. If you wear a bathing suit in his presence you might hear, “But darling, I thought you worked out.” Ouch. He’s truly a laugh riot, but you need to have a sense of humor. Fortunately, I do.

I’ve been deaf in my left ear since I was two-years old. Pneumonia. Dead nerve. Nothing they could do. At least until cochlear implants came along. But honestly, I’m not interested in the procedure.

Change Adverse

While everyone wants the latest and greatest — I’m bemoaning the loss of the familiar. Now there are some things I don’t miss. Black and white television. The flip phone. TV dinners (okay — I might actually miss those — but have you checked the salt content?). And, I don’t miss the hearing I never really had.

Growing Up

The New York City school system required me to have my hearing tested each year. I’d sit in a sound proof booth as the audiologist turned up the volume to a roar. I couldn’t hear a thing but I did feel the pressure on my ear drum. That’s when I’d raise my hand and they’d stop.

And because I had years of lip reading classes and no discernible speech challenges, people didn’t remember that I had a handicap. Teachers walked about the room during spelling tests. It was impossible for me to hear them. So, I learned the week’s words … memorized the list … and filled in at the end of the test … those words I missed hearing.

You Overcompensate

Throughout my business career, I suffered through round conference tables. I learned early on that it was always best to be upfront. I’d turn to the person to my left and quickly explain that I couldn’t hear on that side. Invariably, that person would engage me in a long discussion. Very awkward. Or they would ask for the salt. A lot of people on my left always seemed to want the salt.

And then there were the people who thought I was unfriendly. That happened a lot. Hey, we all have our moments, but in a large room with lots of background noise, I was never going to hear you. Close friends know that. Now, so do you.

Seriously. Complaining is an awful behavior. Especially when it’s done without regard to the listener.

Complaining to someone who is financially strapped about the problems you’re having scheduling that European trip — is at best — rude. Crabbing about the service at a restaurant when the poor waiter is rushing about like a madman — insensitive. Grousing about Washington, D.C. — well — that’s just the norm. But complaining for the sake of hearing your own voice — now that’s a problem.

Not You Again

No one wants to listen to a lot of whining about nothing. Certainly not in my house. Or so I’ve been told on more than one occasion. Okay, maybe twenty times. After that, I stopped counting. And that was back in 1991.

My updates — as I like to call them — tend to focus on how I’m feeling. I’m acutely aware of every little ache or pain. Not that they’re major. They’re not. But I like to keep Jeff updated. Just in case something does happen — he should have the necessary information for the EMTs.

Family Hold Back

I’ve learned through the years to shield my friends. Right now some are rolling their eyes and laughing — but don’t believe them. The real updating has been heaped squarely on Jeff’s shoulders. Mostly in the morning. Usually when he’s checking his iPhone. Or does he start checking his phone when I start updating? Hmm. It’s kind of hard to know.

I’ve begun to notice that my 13-year old senior dog is eating earlier and earlier.

He used to eat dinner at 5:00 p.m. — but over the last few weeks, through insistent whining and vocalizing, we’ve moved dinner time to 4:00 o’clock.

Who Could Stand the Crying? 

So what’s the big deal? Who cares when the dog eats?

Certainly not me. Frankly, I wouldn’t mind eating dinner at 4:00 p.m. but I’ve been told that I’m too young. Only the elderly eat so early. And since I certainly don’t want to be judged as elderly, I shrug and go along.

But I’m Hungry

So what I’d really like to know is — what does age have to do with the time of day when you get hungry? Someone please answer me that.

Besides, it turns out that 4:00 p.m. is now designated as Happy Hour. A chic, sophisticated concept, created by the Hospitality industry. Discounted bites and liquor. I’m sure you’ve heard of it. It’s the time when adults gather in the late afternoon to drink. A prelude, if you will, to the real show. That little thing I call dinner.

Teetotaler

I don’t really drink. Maybe a martini now and then. A glass of wine to be polite. Champagne on special occasions. It just isn’t my thing. Remember — I’m the one who is hungry.

But Phoenix is ripe with all sorts of restaurants catering to this Happy Hour concept. I suspect more than one cheapskate has figured it out — loading up on discounted food — making that social security check stretch. But when we go — I don’t see those folks. No walkers or canes. No wheelchairs. Only young hipsters — upscale adults — gathering about, smartly dressed,  engaged in witty repartee. The food seems to be of secondary importance. The focus is on the drinks.

I can’t figure out why I’ve been feeling so well lately. It’s not like me to be without an ache or pain. Not that I’m so very old, but I’ve come to expect sore muscles in the morning. It’s kind of routine.

Eating right?

We just came off of a cruise ship. Four course meals were the rule.  The bread basket at the table was sometimes refilled twice. I became very close with the sourdough. And afterward, there were chocolate chip cookies everywhere. Many were in my hand — before magically disappearing.

Weight Lifting

I usually go to the gym a couple of times a week, but with travel to Asia and the jet lag, I kind of let that go. Besides, it’s dangerous to work out when a ship is rocking. Experts (don’t ask me who) agree that dizziness might cause a fall. No sense risking a broken bone. I’m sure you’d agree.

Surprisingly, I didn’t miss those sessions on the elliptical machine. Or peddling, peddling, peddling on the stationary bicycle, going nowhere, sweat soaking through my clothes. It was nice not to immediately shower in the morning, lounging about instead. People seemed friendlier than when I typically walk around after a workout. No one cleared a path, stepping back, giving me the sense that something was terribly wrong.

Backache?

My back feels great. No muscle aches at all. My feet are terrific.

That must be because of the dog. We usually go on long walks, but he recently tore his ACL. With congestive heart disease, he can’t have surgery. So walks are much shorter. Barely to the end of the block. I’ve been spending a lot of time looking up as Charlie slowly hobbles along. Arizona has amazing sunrises and sunsets. You should check it out.

Vic and Jack 

Which leads me to wonder about the virtues of diet and exercise. Could Vic Tanny, Jack LaLanne, Weight Watchers and Pritikin, all have it wrong? Could excessive eating and a lack of exercise actually be good for you?

Well, it’s only been a week since we returned from our overseas trip. Three weeks since I’ve last stepped into a gym. Have I given it all up? Of course not. But I’ve loved the break.

So as I lace up my sneakers, I find myself thinking of all the professional athletes soaking somewhere in an ice bath. Those weekend warriors straining into the next stretch. I wish them all, wherever they are, a big basket of hot sourdough bread — some real butter — and maybe a chocolate chip cookie thrown in for good measure.