Month: September 2024

It has been 10 years since we bought a new car, which puts us roughly 2,000 light years behind the curve on automobile technology.

Our new car has smart car features, not to be confused with one of those little Smart cars that looks like it fell out of a Cracker Jack box and can be washed in a dishwasher.

We are still learning about all the features on our new car and hope to master them before it is time to trade it in. Our new vehicle offers adaptive cruise control, which means the car will automatically speed up or slow down to match the car it’s following.

If you’ve ever followed a vehicle that seems like the driver is punching the gas, then letting off, punching, letting off, you’re following someone using adaptive cruise control.

Change lanes.

Smart car technology also prompts yellow lights to flash on the side view mirrors if a vehicle is in your blind spot. If we rely on that feature, we will eventually (or quickly) lose our own reflexes for checking blind spots. And doesn’t that make us less smart?

Don’t answer.

Our new vehicle also comes with a warning for braking—the driver’s seat shakes and a red light flashes if the car senses you need to brake. This is fabulous as those riding with you no longer need to yell, “Brake! Brake! Brake!” Although, so far, that hasn’t stopped anybody.

We did not pay extra for the back massage feature for the driver’s seat. No doubt the intention is to soothe aching backs on long-distance drives, but for us it would signal naptime. Not smart.

The vehicle is also willing to wrestle the driver for control of the steering wheel. According to the driver’s manual, the steering wheel will “gently correct” when it senses you are veering out of your lane.

For all the shake, rattle and roll, there are a few obvious extras that were overlooked.

I’d like a voice-recognition feature that knows when I am seated as the co-pilot and after my every comment says, “Listen to her. She’s right 99.9 percent of the time.”

I’d also like a navigation function that automatically pinpoints the location of all craft and hobby stores within a 3-mile range.

It would be wonderful if new technology equipped vehicles with a laser that shot out from the steering wheel and disabled the cell phones of other drivers texting while driving.

How about a little red flashing light on the dashboard to signify radar up ahead?

And may I suggest AI evaluate establishments along the route and offer the driver notifications like: “Don’t exit. Keep driving. Clean restrooms in another 16 miles.”

They may call these new vehicles smart cars, but they should really call them “Smarter Than You Are” cars.

 

New research suggests that our thinking about aging is, well, old and outdated. A recent study claims people do not age gradually in a slow, linear fashion, but age in waves.

From what I gather, these are not gentle waves we are talking about, but waves more like tsunamis.

The first tsunami hits around age 44. Check and done.

My experience has been that as you slide into your 40s and near 50, it feels as though someone keeps putting your clothes in the dryer and leaving them there too long.

Research says the second wave makes landfall in your 60s. This often occurs the same day you receive your Medicare card.

Nothing ages you as quickly as carrying a Medicare card. Well, nothing except a slowing metabolism. Your 60s are when you need to start eating half as much as you used to and being 10 times as active.

The new research is probably correct. Aging is not slow and steady change—it comes in waves more like crescendos at the end of the “Hallelujah” chorus.

A biologist in Germany who studies colons in mice discovered similar aging wave patterns. My question is not about waves, but about how one studies the colons of mice. “Hop on the table little fellow and roll on your side. Do you have a driver in the waiting room?”

Another researcher commenting on the wave theory said, “Most changes are not linear.” Of course, most changes are not linear—they’re curvaceous.

The study also refers to “meaningful changes” happening as people age. As a wordsmith, I love good word choices. It’s not what you say, but how you say it that matters.

“Honey, I notice meaningful changes around your midsection.”

Another group of researchers noted yet a third wave of change sweeping over people around age 78. I have ridden wave one and wave two and am not pleased knowing yet a third wave lurks on a distant horizon waiting for a throwdown.

To care or not to care, that is the question.

I choose not to care. I am putting the next wave out of my mind and savoring each sunrise and sunset. By forgetting about the next wave, I am essentially planning a surprise party for myself.

And now I’m off to call the appliance repair people to come check the dryer.

 

Heat waves still emanate from the grill. Paper plates, smeared with ketchup, mustard and remains of burgers and hot dogs, litter the tables.

One of the grands is sitting on her aunt’s lap. The grand just turned 14 and is a good three inches taller than her aunt. She is in an uncomfortable looking plank position with her long, lanky legs outstretched far beyond her aunt’s.

Her aunt announces that her right arm has been rendered inaccessible and she cannot eat dessert. Her niece tells her to eat with her left.

This is the same aunt who often held the girl as an infant, one of the preemie twins who cried ferociously off and on for the better part of a year. Perhaps part of the girl instinctively remembers and has melded into the one who held her so many times long ago.

Maybe it’s simply some of the lasts. The last cookout. The last days of summer. The last time she can crush her aunt.

A kickball game is stirring. They’re on the verge of being too big for kickball in the backyard. But that’s part of the thrill—seeing who can kick the ball over the 80-foot pines and into the neighbor’s yard.

Six female grands ages 6 to 14, two young buck sons-in-law and the man I married, moving slower than usual because he has been digging a new garden bed for me the past two days, take their places.

The pitcher, our son-in-law who is a business guy by profession but a coach at heart, rolls the ball over home plate. The kicker kicks, the ball sails into the air. The pitcher jumps, catches it and takes aim.

No mercy. Direct hit on the left arm. The runner sees it coming, flinches and screams accordingly.

The hit makes a hollow smacking sound, but it’s not a hard hit. It’s not a real kickball; it’s one of the hundreds of assorted plastic balls that roll into the driveway every time we open the garage door.

There is more kicking, more running, more screaming and yelling. The neighbors often throw a party when cold weather sets in and we move these gatherings inside.

The youngest one in the group is kicking next. She, wearing a white eyelet dress and sporting a new back-to-school chin bob haircut that bounces with her every move, is in kindergarten this year.

She readies for the pitch. The ball rolls toward her. Run, run, swoosh. Her leg flies out and misses.

“Again!” the crowd yells. “Again!”

Another pitch. Run, run, swoosh. Another miss.

“New pitcher!” someone screams. It was me. Kickball can turn ugly so fast.

Another pitch. Run, run . . . her foot makes contact with the ball. To call it an actual kick would be an overstatement; nonetheless, the ball wobbles sideways and she’s off. Hair bouncing, dress flying.

An outfielder nabs the ball and takes aim—but knows better.

The crowd cheers wildly as she rounds second, third and crosses home. She stands as tall as her short frame will allow and carries her head high. It is obviously official – she’s one of the big kids now.

The sunlight wanes and the game ends. They all load up and head for home.

It’s a fine finish to a fine season.

 

 

I am married to Mr. Security. We have an entire plastic tub full of timers. The lights in our house never burn brighter than when we are not home.

I typically spend the day before we go out of town packing. He spends the day setting up timers and reminding me what lights I can and can’t turn on.

The lamp in the family room is off limits. It will go off at 3 a.m. when the light by the piano will come on.

When all the lights in the house have been set on timers, I often resort to a flashlight. If I need to work in the kitchen, I open the refrigerator door to see what I am doing.

It’s not hard to dress in the dark—it’s putting on makeup that’s tough. The challenge is getting an equal amount of concealer under both eyes. When home security is in place, I often look like a one-eyed raccoon.

The light on a cell phone is not as helpful as you might think. You can’t really trust it to distinguish black from navy. Home security puts me at a fashion risk.

We have a motion-activated light on the driveway that works year-round. It floods the driveway with penitentiary-grade lighting every morning at 4 a.m. Cue the guard dogs—the carrier just delivered the newspapers. The poor guy. We tip big at Christmas.

It’s not like Mr. Security works alone. I place a stop on the papers. That’s right, plural. We get the local paper and the Wall Street Journal. Two different companies, two different stops.

I also place a stop on the mail. There’s nothing like returning home after a few days away and having the mail carrier back up to the house and dump a half-ton of junk mail in the driveway.

I have suggested if we really want to make it look like we are home, we should leave some of the grands’ ride toys in the front yard and scatter empty juice boxes on the sidewalk.

Mr. Security said that could attract undue attention. As if the entire house flashing like a Super Bowl halftime show won’t attract attention.

My final job is to activate the neighborhood watch—our neighbor Linda. I text Linda that we will be gone for a few days. She texts back that she thought so because she saw all the lights flashing on and off last night.

We are 150 miles out of town when a text arrives saying a package will be delivered tomorrow.

It is from Shutterfly, the company that packages everything in bright orange boxes. So much for going unnoticed.

Thank goodness for Linda.

Whoever first coined the phrase, “It’s nothing big, it’s everything small,” was ahead of the times.

I think about that every time I pause over AI, A1 and Al.

Depending on whether you read that sentence in serif type (letters with slabs on the end of strokes) or sans serif type (no slabs), you may or may not have read it correctly.

The first one is the abbreviation for artificial intelligence, the second one is a steak sauce and the last one is the first name of men with last names of Sharpton, Pacino and Unser Jr.

If you missed all of those, you’re batting 0.

Or are you batting O?

Wait. Are we talking scores or blood type?

Which reminds me: “What did 0 say to 8?”

“That’s a nice belt you have.”

Every time I ask Google a question, the answer that appears is routinely authored by AI. Apparently, some guy named Al now has all the answers.

If I forget a password and have to check my secret hiding place where I wrote them in my sloppy, illegible longhand, I make multiple attempts guessing if the straight lines are letter ls, number 1s or capital Is, and if the circles are letters or numbers. After multiple failed attempts I am blocked from my account.

I accept this as punishment for poor penmanship.

We recently had to get a new license plate for our car. I was hoping we might get a plate with a 0 and an O in it, to keep things interesting.

We did not.

Now I regret not springing for a vanity plate: 00OO0O.

It’s probably already taken. By someone named Al.

Arizona does not use the letters I, O, Q and U due to potential confusion.  Michigan does not use the letter O for the same reason. Florida does not make license plates with the letter O but uses the number 0.

Massachusetts is still in the game swinging, using both letters and numbers. They make the letter O oval and the number zero as a rectangle with rounded corners.

Or is it the other way around?

Living in a state where I and Al and everybody else have vehicles with license plates with capital Os and zeroes, I sometimes wonder about emergencies.

“Hello, 9-1-1? I’d like to report road rage. The license number was —- . Oh, never mind. It was a black car.”