When we are old let's join a committee

I had the pleasure today of attending a residents association meeting at Carolina Meadows, a retirement community. It's a very nice place, with high ceilings, a variety of puzzles and books, and all sorts of elderly types riding around in golf carts, sometimes smiling, sometimes yelling at you, whatever. I joined the throngs in the auditorium and was actually very impressed with their setup. The officers sat onstage and passed each motion using a "yea" or "nay" system and a few committees gave reports, including an arts guild and recycling and environment committee. There was an update on square-dancing. There will be a hoedown next week if anyone is interested. I've got the details.

I was sitting there smiling, just soaking it all in, because as some of you may know, I love older people and I'm not just saying that. I love their stories and the way they say what they mean, like the time I was volunteering with this couple in Boston, and Jessika, a feisty woman in her late eighties, absolutely screeched with delight when she met her friend in the hallway and then when we'd traveled, oh, about half a foot away said, "She's such a bitch," to me. Loudly.

Well, when the presentation I needed to cover came up on the agenda, I scribbled some notes then moved forward to snap a picture of the individuals on stage. I got a nice one and went to take another when I felt a mighty strong arm on my shoulder, pulling me back towards the wall. I looked over my shoulder and saw an elderly man, frowning and gesturing towards the video camera he had set up. I was standing in front of it and there would be NONE of that. I retreated. Old people. They're awesome. But sometimes, also, really really mean.

A safe harbor for you, oh vicious bacteria

Last night my friends and I partook in one of our favorite pastimes, which is talking about inappropriate things really loudly at a public place, like a bar or restaurant. We were once doing this exact thing while out one night, sitting next to a father and his three young sons. The subject was boys, and things one might do with boys, and perhaps this is how we should have been discussing the matter. "Oh, and then that thing? He did that thing and I did that." But we were using full-on specific vocabulary and creative descriptive images using our hands as stick figures. Before the father left, he bought our table a round of shots and said, "Thanks for educating my sons. That's better than I could ever do." That was pretty gross, looking back. But we drank the shots. Last night's discussion was brought on by the onset, earlier that morning, of what must be the five millionth urinary tract infection I've incurred in my life. Once I mentioned it we four girls were off and running with comments regarding "prickly hot needles when you pee," and so forth. The conversation quickly moved to yeast infections, of course, and it's a good think we were in a crowded restaurant because, damnit, these people needed to hear about the horror!

Luckily I've curbed the pain in my urinary tract, the most hospitable environment in America for E.coli, with my latest prescription of Cipro. But the most important thing is that my girls understand. I mean, it's one thing to tell J, coworkers, and others who haven't experienced one of these fantastic infections, that you don't feel well, while all the while you look and sound normal. You may be curled up on the floor in a ball, cursing your body, the world, but anyone can do that. It's another thing to hear sympathetic friends say, "Oh, you poor thing." Friends who mean it, who've been there, the prickly hot needles, the things we shout about in bars and restaurants to those who wish to listen and to many who don't.