No More Flipping!

Our mattress had been feeling a little uneven, so we decided it was time to turn it. At one time, mattresses were two-sided, so it was possible and recommended to flip them several times a year to prolong the life of the mattress and to avoid those dents which are created from our bodies lying in the same spot night after night. With most mattresses having those nice padded areas on top, flipping them over is a thing of the past, so Dad and I decided to rotate ours 180 degrees. This was much easier said than done.

We stripped the bed of everything—the new comfy topper, the sheets, blankets, and spread—and positioned ourselves for the task of rotating our very heavy king-sized mattress. The four posters on our bed added to the difficulty.

The procedure involved a lot of pushing and pulling and grunting and groaning and complaining, but in the end, with the mission accomplished, our bed felt almost as good as new. It was quite the workout, so I did not feel the need to ride on my bike that day, and Dad threw out his knee in the process. He avoided “work” (aka golf) for a few days, but this morning, with a brace on his leg and a few Advils in his body he was off to the links.

I read that rotating a mattress is still recommended to be done twice a year. That won’t be happening. Dad said we will buy another mattress before he will put himself through another rotation or pay a professional mattress flipper to do it for us.


Biker Grandma

During my recent reunion-trip weekend, I surprised Jamie by informing her that riding on a motorcycle was not ever on my bucket list, so she made it her mission to encourage me to do so. I had no interest in hopping aboard, but I must say Jamie was quite persistent and also conscious of my concerns of going splat on the pavement outside her condo.

As she saw me waver away from a definite “no” toward a “just maybe,” she focused on assuring me that safety first was the top consideration. We would not venture onto any public roads. In fact, the plan was a single loop around the parking lot.

I postponed the decision as long as possible, thinking that just perhaps it would be fun. After all, riding a motorcycle is apparently so much fun that people in my state defy death every day by riding in shorts, flip flops, and without helmets (No, no, no for me!)

She finally broke my resistance and helped outfit me in a long sleeved super professional looking black biker jacket with a cute pink helmet. I climbed aboard the teeny weeny seat (not easy with my two-year-old hip) and grabbed ahold of my driver (Geoff) with a death grip.

I did not feel the least bit secure as I sat straight up but once I was told to lean into Geoff, I felt more protected from certain death. He started the engine, I squeezed tighter, and closed my eyes. We were off!

I felt a combination of fear and enjoyment. I worried about the turns, but I increased my hold on my son-in-law (I hope he understood) and was surprised that NOTHING BAD HAPPENED!  “Whee!!! Not so bad,” I thought as I rounded the bend.

As we approached the finish line, I thought that I was glad I had done it, but I have no desire to do it again. Incidentally, my poor old butt did not find the ride to be comfortable. I would rather have my big comfy seat, air conditioning, and the security of lots of steel to protect me!

I am one very cool grandma!



I Just Can’t Do It

I returned to New Jersey this past weekend—the state where I was born; the former center of the universe. I know that my middle daughter will be disappointed to hear that I just cannot live there again. I can visit, but I cannot stay there long enough to file my taxes.

There are many reasons. Let me count the ways. At the top of list is the weather. I like the fact that I have snow only every few years. The last highly significant snowfall occurred around Christmas 2010. On that day, we built a life-size snowman, made snow angels, and went sledding on the golf course. No such snow this year or last or the year before that.

I don’t want to shovel snow, worry about driving in the snow, or fall while walking in the snow. I do not want to go for extended periods of time without seeing blue skies, and I do not like to be cold.

I hate the cost of living up there. The price to own a home is outrageous as are the property taxes. I recently spoke to a woman from New Jersey, who looked into buying a condo in Myrtle Beach. When she inquired about the property taxes, she was told, “$500.” When she responded, “A month?” she was shocked to hear, “per year.”

Finally, I cannot stand the traffic. Living in New Jersey and dealing with the traffic is akin to living in Atlanta—without the good weather.

New Jersey is the most densely populated state, with over 1200 people per square mile. That is a bit too crowded for my taste. My current state averages 133 people per square mile. Ahhh! Doesn’t that sound more appealing?

There is a constant flow of traffic, which is why I decided two months after moving to Atlanta that I could not grow old living in such a congested city.

No matter what time I fly into Newark airport, I am always faced with a wall of traffic. At 2:30 in the afternoon, one would conclude that an accident was the cause, but no, it was the 1200 people per square mile factor.

While returning from dinner at 9:00 on Sunday night, we were again confronted with heavy traffic. It absolutely must be nothing short of a fifty-car pile-up, I decided, but that was not the case. It was the 1200/pp factor again. THERE WAS NO OTHER REASON! We stupidly doubted the WAZE App, which instructed us to exit the highway, so we got stuck sitting in the Jersey sea of traffic. Never doubt WAZE!

So I will remain a Southern Belle. Just blame it on weather, cost of living, and the damn traffic.

It’s Not Tin!

Dad and I got into a heated discussion recently about foil. He refers to it as “tin foil,” while it has always been aluminum foil to me. I recall hearing his mother call it by that name, so I know who to blame.

Over the years, I have noticed that many, many other people must have grown up calling it “tin foil,” so I decided to do a bit of research on the subject. I learned that there was foil made of tin, but in 1926, aluminum foil was introduced. It became wildly popular because it was cheaper, lighter in weight, and did not rust. Eskimo pies were the first commercially-sold product which were wrapped in aluminum foil.

The overall consensus regarding why people may have referred to it as tin foil was that was how it was known by their grandparents. However, Dad’s grandparents immigrated here just three and four years before tin foil was replaced by aluminum, so that excuse makes no sense to me.

I will need to discuss this further with Dad. When I asked Grandma to name the silvery paper she would use when baking a turkey, she said, “foil or aluminum foil.” Aha!

So my question to each of you is what do you call it—tin or aluminum foil? Your answer will tell me who the biggest influence in your lives is: Dad or me.

Will I Ever Stop Meandering?

When I sat down at my computer today and considered what to write, another topic came to mind, but for some reason, my eyes wandered down to the right side of my blog page where the dates of my many other postings reside. A little investigation resulted in a surprise, which was that I missed the anniversary of the inception of Mommysmeanderings, which was July 19, 2015.

During that time, I published 460 stories here, and 230 stories on Do Svidanya Dad, which began six years ago next week. I took a one year break writing “Do Svidanya Dad” and then a little time later as I worked on the revision, “Trapped in Russia.”

When I looked at both blogs, I realized that I was publishing every day during the first year of each, and then I realized I could just not keep up the pace, and did anyone really care?  What was I thinking, and how did I do it? I was still involved in my book club, and during that time period, I became a grandmother twice. Where did I find the time? I truly do not have an answer.

I appreciate the loyalists who kept up with me, particularly Dad, because I know that he has read every single one. Thank you!

Will there come a time when I run out of stories? I did with my blog about Grandpa, which I now publish sporadically. We’ll see.

FYI, here is the first story: Ask a Busy Person.


Yes I Can?

Today, one of the youngest members of the family knocked off the number one item on my bucket list (not his) by climbing a rock wall at the zoo. Although he did not make it all the way to the top; nevertheless, I would call it a success, and he is only six.

I was excited for him, but at the same time, I have been rethinking my recent belief that I waited too long to do it. The thought that the time to be able to scale that wall has passed made me feel sad, so now I am seriously reconsidering attempting it on a day where the audience is small—probably after school begins and zoo camp is over.

Now that I have finally had physical therapy on my new hip two years post-op and am finally feeling little or no pain, I think I should try. I have no restrictions from my doctor beyond extended running. He even told me I could skydive if it was something I really needed to do. (I don’t.)

So I will let you know if I do it, and I will even let Dad take a picture or two.

I think I can, I think I can!



Today I’d like to share with you a recent experience I had that is, to say the least, very delicate to discuss. While you all will probably experience this fifteen to 20 years from now, my hope is that medical technology will advance enough to improve upon the unpleasantness factor of what I am about to discuss with you. I have already seen forward-moving changes since my first run-in with this “adventure.” (Puns are intentional) Let me expand upon this.

After the age of fifty, every ten years or less depending upon your genetics or previous experience,  the medical world has advised that we all have a colonoscopy. Since I have already lost two very dear friends to colon cancer, I have reluctantly acquiesced to this recommendation.

One must schedule at least a day and a half on your calendar, so I would suggest a Monday appointment. Day 1 is a time for cleansing, and I don’t mean sitting in a room with soothing music on your playlist so you can purify your soul and mind.

Rather, we are purging our colon—if you get my drift—via consuming nothing but Jell-o, chicken broth, certain beverages from a prescribed list (coffee, tea, juice, water, Gatorade, or lemonade), and a special potion.

Ten years ago the potion was a magic powder of unknown origin mixed into a gallon of water, which had to be consumed in prescribed amounts over a very small time period. It tasted awful and was quite difficult to endure over such a short span of time.

Well, times have changed, and now the prep is merely two 10-ounce bottles of an only semi-awful liquid preceded by some pills. Then you watch television, read a book, or do anything else that does not expend many calories because you will be famished. In approximately six hours you will be doing a great cardio-workout, which involves much running at warped speed toward the ladies lounge.

I am grateful that my hip was in tip-top shape for the cardio component of Day 1 because time was of the essence.

Day 2 was a breeze. I was administered a wonderful sleepy-time dosage of propranolol by an anesthesiologist named Bo. Before I could snap my fingers, Dad was by my side informing me that I will not need to return for another ten years. It is my deep hope that technology has improved enough to enable the results by something less invasive, such as an ultrasound, and that Day 1 will be filled with much less running and a tastier magic potion. That is my wish to you and to me.

I concluded my morning with a lovely breakfast of eggs Benedict, coffee, and fruit.