Senior Moment

The woman who is working the front desk looks up to see us and probably assumes we are there to visit a great grandparent. So she opens the door without hesitation, and I'm thankful because I can't figure out how to open it myself without bumrushing it with the stroller. I know she's probably a resident and doesn't have the scoop on all the activities, but I ask her anyway.

"Do you know where the mom's group meets here?"

She looks puzzled, her glassy eyes squint behind thick lenses, as if to say, Honey, the only mom's group here are for moms that are post-menopausal.

I'm not sure if I should waste my time elaborating, but I do so anyway, "See, I read this thing about a mom's group here? Where you can bring your baby and meet all the residents?"

A baby boomer and his father are sitting on a bench watching this go down and they say, "Wow, that's a nice idea!"

I agree it's a great idea. Which is why I've dragged my infant here in the stroller on a rainy day to look for the moms group. That meets at the assisted living facility.

The assistant director of the facility comes out and I ask her if there is a moms group that meets here. She gives me a look like Man I've heard some crazy things today, but this is the loonbaggiest thing I've heard all week. A mom's group that meets at the blue hair corral.

I tell her I've written down the information and she says she's going to show the boomer and his dad an apartment here and when she gets back, she can help me investigate this further.

So Baby Girl and I sit out in the lobby and perform ad hoc duties as the Wal-Mart Greeters of the assisted living facility. We meet Ethel who's just come back from Kohl's with a bright orange sweater. And Doris who just heard about Flo's accident, having mistakenly pushed the gas and not the brake. We meet Robert who asks Baby Girl if she, too, has come to rent out a room.

And with every exchange, Baby Girl studies the ruddy but wrinkled faces. She looks intently. They ask her if she's going to give them a smile and I think, No, I'm sorry, but you have to spread wide your dentures grin if you want a smile. She's an equal exchange opportunist. But it warms my heart, this series of impromptu tete-a-tetes.  Maybe there is no formally scheduled Bridge at the facility that day, but herein we are participants in an intergenerational bridge built spontaneously at an assisted living facility - where 3 years ago there may have been a mom's group that met but whose internet site is no longer updated - on a rainy Wednesday afternoon.

Thanks for the add?

Sometimes I am guilty of getting lost in the virtual catacombs of Facebook and minutes turn into half hours as I ogle profiles and try to ascertain whether the faces I am seeing in the albums are indeed the present incarnations of my junior high schoolies (who always impress me with their ability to transcend the 1993 fashion of Umbro shorts and Samba Classics). I am sure I am not the only one guilty of this, in fact, I am fairly certain this is one of the chief motivating factors for creating facebook, along with the other chief purposes: 1.) To allow former classmates, co-workers, and people who lived in Bunk 3 at Camp Holeefolee in 1987 to reconnect with relative ease. 2.) To create something useful to millions of people that will net you bonjillions of dollars all before you graduate from undergrad you brilliant piece of Ivy smartypants. 3.) To cause SAHMs to feel even more guilt than they already do for spending time on the internet. Joining groups like "Stroller Discrimination Hurts All of Us."

Lately, I've been thrilled to reconnect with several of my junior high schoolies and it's fun to wax nostalgic about the daze of polyester skirts and peanut butter sammies, but part of me still sees these exchanges through the narrow scope of pain that junior high entailed. And while it's fabulous to have that lad whose yearbook message, penned so thoughtfully, "Student Council was fun, have a great summer!" which I read four times a day during that great summer as if one day the words were going to change and suddenly say "And I'm sorry we weren't better friends, because I always thought you were the coolest girl in class, will you marry me?" -- I just can't help but think:

a. My knockers weren't big enough for you to talk to me then, why are you e-friending me now? b. Are you looking at the pictures of me pregnant and wondering where I got those big knockers? c. Is the fact that I have big nursing knockers part of the reason you are e-friending me now?

I just can't help but wonder. I guess that is why it is called facebook and not philosophacebook.

Rest Stop: Somewhere up in NY State

Lovey Loverpants and I had nearly mastered the road trip when Baby Girl hopped on the bus. We pack like champs (tip: why bring a bag when you can put everything in a laundry basket and keep it folded!), prepare our playlists/audio books, plan to eat many sugary treats and have many, many laughs. We have made the trip from Boston to Detroit/Cleveland oh so very many times, more times than Michael Jordan drove the ball to the hole, practically. We have every rest stop along the way pretty well memorized, like, No, Lovey, the TCBY is at the next stop, duh. Ah, rest stops. They're such a nice little slice of Americana, no? Fillin' the tank while you're looking to buy all manner of greasy food which so won't sit well in your stomach, forcing you to stop at the next rest stop to, heh, take care of bidness, know what I mean?

We cruised into one rest stop in upstate NY and immediately Lovey said, "Oh HO! Look at that mullet! We gotta get a picture of that." We beheld mullet man and promptly rifled through our laundry basket for the camera.

We introduced ourselves to Mullet Man and the Statey. Explained we were on a road trip for the first time with our daughter and couldn't we take a picture with these gents?

Mullet Man said, "Oh, wanna get her up in the truck? Get on up there. Be a truck driver."

So we did.