Nancy Wurtzel

My Droid Is Dead, Long Live the iPhone

2013-04-04T17:41:19-04:00

Sometimes I procrastinate. Always I regret it. Take my cell phone, for example. I knew it was time to upgrade my nearly three-year-old Droid, yet I kept putting it off.

I certainly desired the latest iPhone, but the thought of transferring all my data and then mastering a new device seemed overwhelming. Did I really need that iPhone? After all, my Droid was a workhorse. So what if it didn't have the latest cool capabilities. I could always make and receive phone calls just fine, which is the most important part of a phone, right?

The months went by and I clung to my trusty old Droid.

Then, one day something happened and there was no going back.

I arrived late to a conference I was attending and found the ballroom packed with more than 1,300 attendees for the opening session. It was difficult to see in the darkened room, so I stood to the side and leaned against the wall.

After a few minutes, a conference worker indicated she had found an open seat. The rows were narrow and the available chair was toward the middle, which meant I had to shimmy by 10 or 12 people in very close quarters. I attempted to sit down, but there was already something on the chair -- a very large purse that belonged to a very large woman seated next to me.

I jumped back up and whispered, 'Would you move your purse, please.' Purse Lady glared and yanked her purse off the chair. She was not happy.

I settled in as quietly as possible. But every little movement I made seemed to garner angry looks from Purse Lady.

Then I realized, I hadn't silenced my cell. Damn!

Without making a sound, I slipped my hand into little pocket alongside my computer to pull out my Droid. As I did, something activated on the phone. Suddenly, I could hear a voice. Oh no! A voice mail message from months ago!

"Hi Nancy, this is Brenda returning your call about the..."

The screen on my phone was blank. Only the voice indicated the phone was even on. I attempted to turn down the volume. I tried to turn off the phone. I shook it and then I hit it against my leg. No dice. The voice continued. Heads turned. People stared. Purse Lady hissed in my ear, "For gods sake, turn it OFF."

I panicked.

I did the only thing that came to mind.

I sat on it.

Yes, the voice could still be heard. But thanks to my ample derriere it was now a muffled, faraway, disembodied sound barely emanating from my nether regions.

That's when I began to laugh. Silently, my shoulders shook and tears streamed down my face. I couldn't stop. Purse Lady was beyond enraged, and that made me laugh even more.

When the session was over and the lights came on, I leaned in (yes, there are indeed many ways to lean in) and offered an apology. Purse Lady was having none of it. With a look of total distain, she gathered said purse and huffed her way to the exit.

The next morning I got up early and was the first customer in the cell phone store. I bought my new iPhone and I couldn't be happier. It's so much fun. Honestly, I have no idea why I hung on to that dated Droid for so long. I guess I just needed prodding. A kick in the pants, if you will.

Actually, this was more like a phone in the pants with a Purse Lady on the side.

In any event, I'm upgraded and got a great story as a result. So, give me a ring on my new phone. I promise not to sit on it.

My Divorce No Longer Defines Me

2013-02-21T07:39:13-05:00

I'm currently settling into life as a single person with a new home in a new city. I am also looking to make some new friends. Thanks to the Internet, it's now fairly easy to connect with people who have similar interests and also live nearby.

After doing a bit of research, I joined a few walking, writing and social groups that, hopefully, will encourage me to get out of the house and away from my computer screen.

Recently, I went to a social mixer of about 40 men and women.

There was wine, good food and 1990s piped-in music. People were friendly and everyone had one thing in common: We were ending or had ended a marriage. Since I've been divorced about three years, I was sure I'd fit right in.

The first few people I met posed the question, "Are you separated or divorced?"

Quickly, I grasped that divorce was not just a topic for conversation at the mixer. It was the main topic. Everyone seemed to have a divorce story, and they felt the burning need to share it. They talked about their former partners -- sometimes with laughter, but more often with anger, bitterness and tears. Always, their stories were tinged with sadness.

Less than halfway into the event, I realized the "Divorced and Separated Social Group" wasn't a good match for me after all.

While I am divorced woman, I am not in the midst of a divorce. That terrible chapter of my life is thankfully behind me.

It's not that I never think about being divorced: It comes up frequently in conversation or when I check off that little square box on medical forms. I'm reminded of my marital status when I look at certain family pictures or make plans for holidays. However, divorce no longer consumes my life. My 21-year marriage will always be a part of me, but it no longer defines me.

I have moved on.

Moving on is a funny thing. You can't will it or move it faster. It has a path and a pace of its own, and everyone's journey on that path is different.

For me, moving on took several years. It evolved slowly but with the passage of time came the healing of wounds. I learned it was a process of forgiveness, acceptance and finally a willingness to let go and push forward. Sadly, some people never get to that point. Indeed, I met one woman at the mixer who had been divorced for six years, but she had never gotten past the pain and hurt. Listening to her, it sounded as though her divorce had taken place just months -- rather than years -- before.

I didn't realize how much I had moved on until I was surrounded by others who had not.

On that dark, snowy evening, it was apparent that divorce is no longer center stage in my life. Yes, my divorce changed me, and I've got some battle scars. Yet, overall, I'm in a good place.

I will always be a divorced woman. But now it is a part of my history, not my present.

I've truly moved on.

Earlier on Huff/Post50:

What I Felt When I Watched Oprah Interview Lance Armstrong

2013-01-19T00:32:17-05:00

I felt nothing. That was my reaction to watching the much ballyhooed two-part Oprah Winfrey interview with Lance Armstrong. The big frenzy turned out to be a little fizzle.

Yes, Armstrong admitted to doing wrong, very wrong, and to doing it often.

He told how he systematically, over the course of many years, duped his family, fans, sponsors, most of the media, and even his critics. All the bad stuff came tumbling out. Confessions of the lies upon lies he had told over and over. Confessions of protecting himself at any cost, no matter it meant destroying others in the process. Confessions of thinking most people are suckers. Confessions of doing anything to win.

He conveyed it all with little emotion.

Oprah seemed to be trying hard to make Armstrong relatable in some way. She wanted him to show his feelings, rather than just say the right words. Feelings make for excellent television.

As the clock kept ticking on the lengthy interview, Oprah seemed to sense that her viewers were probably not feeling much compassion for the fallen hero. She gave Armstrong the spotlight and asked the right questions, but she never got any signature "aha" moments. Oprah could only do so much, and Armstrong couldn't save himself.

With a matter-of-fact demeanor, Armstrong relayed his wrongdoings. He said he felt bad about his actions.

Yet, even as he said he "lost his way," I couldn't help thinking Armstrong still appeared calculated and in control. Once again, he is doing what he has to do to save himself. Even using his kids to that end.

I cannot help believing he came clean because he was cornered and the only way out was to do the big interview. Next, will come many more television appearances, print interviews, tweets and blog posts, and, of course, a book. It will be confession overkill.

Watching the interview, I wondered: Can Armstrong ever be forgiven when his confession feels as though he is simply duping us once again?

That's when I realized, I simply didn't care. I felt nothing.

My Quest for a Cool Nickname?

2013-01-10T15:14:14-05:00

I've always wanted a cool nickname. My parents chose "Nancy" because it was a fairly fashionable girls name in the 1950s. It was a safe choice. However, Nancy wasn't popular for very long. Today, hardly anyone picks Nancy for their newborn; it's a name forever stuck in the middle of the baby boom years.

I consider Nancy to be a fairly bland and boring name. Nancy fails to capture my personality, and it certainly doesn't lend itself to any fun abbreviations.

It's not like I haven't tried to replace Nancy with a neat nickname. The obvious "Nan" just never seemed to fit and I really dislike the nickname "Nance." The only exception to this rule is my dear friend who resides in Florida and has called me "Nance" for more than 30 years. She can continue as long as she likes; Everyone else, please stop.

When I was little kid, my older sister often called me "Piggus." Since we were not allowed to swear, my sister had created the most distasteful word she could concoct, which she'd hurl at me when I annoyed her -- and that was often.

Even after all these years, I can still hear her shouting: "You are such a Piggus, everyone hates you!"

Ah, good times.

Thankfully, Piggus quickly evolved into our family's ultimate insult or put-down, rather than my childhood nickname. Piggus became one of our slightly twisted family jokes, of which we had many. In our little house on the Minnesota prairie, if you were a Piggus, you were without a doubt the lowest of the low.

My grammar school years went by without any notable monikers. Then, around the time I entered junior high school, my family started calling me "Squid" or even worse, "The Squid," as in: "When is The Squid coming home?"

Squid is indeed a most unfortunate nickname for a woman of my age and short stature. No one can even remember how the name started or why it persisted. However, I do know it is far too late to persuade my family to call me anything else. To them, I am The Squid.

That's the way it is with nicknames. They are most often bestowed, and those who are the nicknamed often don't have a say. It just happens and then it sticks.

In high school, for example, two of my closest friends took a shine to calling me "Nanny," which was so-so, but at least I knew it was a term of endearment. However, soon it had morphed into "Nanny Goat," most often accompanied by a light, animal-like bray. No amount of pleading would get them to stop.

If you think that nickname got my goat, you would be right.

On to college.

Moving 100 miles away to attend school opened up a whole new chapter in my quest for the perfect nickname. My middle name is Ellen, and for the first few weeks of college, I asked everyone to please call me "Ellie," a cute nickname, to be sure.

Unfortunately, I never remembered Ellie was the fun nickname I so desperately wanted. I'd often fail to respond to Ellie, thereby causing other students and teachers to think I was either hard-of-hearing or simply terribly rude.

In one study group, another student even asked me sarcastically, "Don't you know your own name?"

Evidently not.

As you can imagine, Ellie was a feeble, short-lived phase.

When I started my business career, my coworkers gave me a few nicknames. At one of my first jobs, I was called "Minnesota Nancy," since there was another Nancy in the office, and I had recently relocated from the "Land of 10,000 Lakes" to sunny Los Angeles.

At another company, my boss called me only by my last name, and that caught on for a time.

Yet, when I left a job, the nicknames stayed behind.

The decades have flown by and I'm still Nancy. I've now moved back to my native Minnesota after living in California for three decades. I'm firmly in middle age, and I guess my name doesn't seem so bad anymore.

The march of time has put things in perspective.

In fact, I'm letting the nickname thing pretty much fade away. If it happens, it happens. Trying too hard usually doesn't work out well and my quest to acquire the ideal nickname is a classic example.

So, go ahead, you can call me Nancy. I'll be sure to answer.

Seinfeld Remembered: Festivus, for the Rest of Us

2012-12-23T06:27:36-05:00

Happy Festivus!! Today is the most wonderful of holidays -- "Festivus, for the rest of us." If you are a Seinfeld devotee, then you probably mark this special December 23 celebration.

But do you know the story of how Festivus actually began?

Festivus was started innocently enough in the 1960s in upstate New York. Daniel O'Keefe, created the fun holiday and it became a family tradition. Decades later, one of the O'Keefe offspring, Dan, worked on the Seinfeld show. Dan shared tales of his Festivus family celebrations and voila, a classic Seinfeld episode was born on Dec. 18, 1997.

In the Festivus episode, Frank Costanza, George's father, was a rabid Festivus observer.

This unique holiday, as featured on Seinfeld, involves an aluminum pole (unadorned and always tinsel-free), the Airing of Grievances (AOG) over dinner and the sharing of Festivus miracles. The episode also included donations made to "The Human Fund," remembering Costanza family celebrations of the past (complete with pathetic audio tapes), and finally the Feats of Strength -- wrestling between the males at the Festivus gathering.

"The Strike," episode was an immediate hit.

For Seinfeld enthusiasts, you will recall it also featured Kramer walking a one-man picket line against a bagel store, Jerry's girlfriend of the week (of course) and George's boss, Kruger, who drank from a flask all through the Festivus meal.

None of it was a pretty picture.

Yet, for the Seinfeld faithful, the Festivus episode is a true classic. At this time of year, the episode is fondly remembered and quoted often.

Not that there is anything wrong with that.

Falling Off the Alzheimer's Cliff: Moving My Mother Into Assisted Living

2012-12-07T11:12:50-05:00

Deep down, we knew it would happen, but we didn't really have any other choice. It was just not safe for my mother to continue to live in her senior-living apartment. She needed more care, more activities, more everything.

My sister and I were exhausted and we'd reached that tipping point where if you don't take action, life could spiral out of control very quickly.

Even though we understood moving Mummy -- as we affectionately call her -- would take its toll, we knew it was the only decision that made sense. So, two months ago, we began packing and moved Mummy across town into an assisted living facility.

Now, for the first time in a very long time, my sister and I do not shoulder all the responsibility of doing laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning, making meals and handling countless personal care issues. One of us still sees Mummy almost daily, and we take her for outings frequently.

My sister, who lives only two miles away, continues to manage Mummy's finances. She also takes Mummy to the beauty parlor and plays cards with her frequently.

I commute over 200 miles to spend time with Mummy and give my sister a rest.

However, if necessary, my sister and I can both be gone for a handful of days, something we couldn't have done before. We don't have that constant gnawing worry. Mummy is safe and well taken care of by a kind and competent staff.

Mummy has also benefited because her new home offers many activities -- from musical performances to crafts and card games to bingo. The downside -- the very deep downside -- is how our mom was affected by relocating.

Within days, we started to see the toll of uprooting an almost 92-year-old woman with moderate dementia from familiar routine into uncharted waters. She could barely stay afloat.

At first, we thought Mummy might have had a stroke as her behavior changed significantly and her confusion seemed so much worse. Her doctor doesn't believe she had a stroke, but rather the trauma of moving had simply made her dementia much more pronounced.

And, her condition continues to slide downhill.

It is difficult to watch this decline, and impossible not to feel guilty about the decision we made. A decision that was right but not without its consequences.

Dementia always seems to exact an extreme toll -- no matter what you decide.

A Blogger's Nightmare

2012-11-27T17:11:36-05:00

Rarely do I remember my dreams, but when I do they usually make a big impression.

A few nights ago, I had one of those exhausting dreams that went on and on with no good resolution. You know the type: The school bus is waiting and you can't find your books or shoes. Not really a nightmare, but a frustrating dream that seems to have no end.

This nighttime wandering was one of those.

I was being honored at a very important blogger conference in Italy (no eye rolling, please). I spoke perfect Italian (of course), and had on four inch high heals (obviously this was a dream).

After a long flight, I got to my hotel and opened my bag, only to discover that I had forgotten to pack any clothes or shoes.

In my suitcase were the following items: A variety of towels, a muffler and a mammoth stuffed panda. Standing taller than me, the huge bear sported a red ribbon and a name tag, which read: Herbie, I'm guessing by the name, Herbie was not an Italian bear.

Not sure what to do with Herbie, I called my friend, Krista, who is not a blogger, but had inexplicably made the trip to Italy with me. Krista was staying in the room across the hall and she felt strongly that Herbie should stay in her room. Her reasoning was that it might come across as very odd to other conference attendees if they learned I had a huge stuffed creature in my room.

Good point, Krista.

Yet, when we scanned the hallway to make sure the coast was clear to move Herbie, there were too people milling about. We decided to move Herbie later and settled him comfortably on my king-size bed, where he looked innocent and quite content.

Suddenly, I remembered I had a mandatory conference meeting to attend. Krista came along as my wing gal. The conference was taking place out in the Italian countryside where there were vast vineyards. Naturally, I forgot my map in my room and we ended up walking and walking -- all uphill in four-inch pumps.

Ouch!

There were other conferences taking place and hundreds of people milling about. After what seemed like hours, we found a nice young man who could direct us to the blogging event. Finally, we knew were we were headed, but just then I realized I did not have my purse.

While I headed back to my room to retrieve the purse, Krista was sidelined by a cheese and wine tasting we had stumbled upon. She decided to stay with the wine and cheese people.

Smart move, wing gal.

Left to go it alone, I headed back to the hotel (all up hill again... of course). When I finally reached my room, Herbie was gone and so was all my credit cards and lira (no euros in this dream). I was frantic, of course, but I don't remember any more of this truly weird dream.

What would be the meaning? I'm not sure, but one takeaway might be to never turn your back on a mammoth panda -- especially when you are attending a blogging conference in Italy.

Caregiving: Not Just for Women Anymore

2012-10-17T19:09:56-04:00

When I conjure an image of a caregiver, I picture a woman. I know I'm being sexist but I always think of a female. Why?

First, I don't personally know many male caregivers. In fact, I can only think of one or two. Also, in my family, the women did all the traditional "female roles" of running the home, raising the children and taking care of those who were sick or elderly.

Even if the women worked outside the home, the lines were clearly delineated and men in my family didn't do "women's work."

Thankfully, that stereotype is changing -- evidently faster than many of us realized.

The Wall Street Journal recently highlighted this shift in an interesting article written by Kelly Greene, "Men at Work -- As Caregivers," citing a Pew Research Center report which reveals as many as 45% of our nation's caregivers are now men.

Citing changing social norms, the study points out that the societal lines of men's and women's roles has become blurred. It's no longer unusual for a dad to stay home to care for the kids while his female partner is the main breadwinner. Also, smaller families means there are fewer adult children to care for elderly parents and siblings are often scattered geographically. Much like a game of tag, the kids who stuck close to home will be "it" when it comes to taking care of aging parents.

From my own experience, you can't phone in caregiving duties.

So, gentlemen, welcome to the caregiving club. You may not want to be a member, but you no longer have a choice.

Tag. You're it.

Taking Care of Someone With Alzheimer's Can Take its Toll

2012-09-12T17:38:54-04:00

Evelyn, one of my dad's older sisters, was truly a world-class complainer. Long before I was born, someone in the family bestowed on her the unlikely nickname, "Auntie Honey," and somehow the name stuck.

Growing up, I remember Auntie Honey harping constantly about almost everything. Her most bitter comments were about her mother -- my grandmother -- a slight, sweet, extremely religious woman who had lost her mind and didn't know where she had left it.

"She can't remember a damn thing and it's driving me crazy," Auntie Honey would rave.

Grandma has some form of dementia and she needed a lot of care. Since Auntie Honey had no children and lived just down the hill from grandma, the caregiving fell squarely on her stout shoulders. However, Auntie Honey was not a silent soldier, and made certain everyone knew all she did for her aging mother.

"She's going to out-live me!" was a common Auntie Honey refrain.

Her brothers and sisters, busy with marriage, children and work, had absolutely no idea how difficult it was to care for someone with dementia. It was easier to let their childless sister handle the burden. It couldn't be that bad, could it? Everyone rolled their eyes and chalked it up to the fact that Auntie Honey was indeed a world-class complainer.

A decade after dementia took my grandmother's mind, she died quietly in her sleep at age 89.

Nine months later, Auntie Honey was dead of a heart attack at age 65.

Now that I'm a caregiver, I have an understanding of what Auntie Honey faced all those years ago. She had little help or support for her efforts. Not much was even understood about "senility," as it was called back then, and caregivers were often overwhelmed and had no where to turn.

Today, we know the chronic stress of caregiving can take years off of someone's life. I've no doubt that this is exactly what happened to Auntie Honey. She coped the best she could and vented by complaining loudly to anyone within earshot. It was Auntie Honey's dysfunctional way of letting people know the toll it was taking on her.

When I think of my grandma and Auntie Honey, I feel sad. Sad that both of their lives were so affected by dementia. Yet I also feel determined. Determined to shine a spotlight on this horrible disease. Determined not to become a world-class complainer who is isolated and bitter. Determined not to allow dementia to shave years from my own life.

So, in Auntie Honey's memory, remember that September is World Alzheimer's Month, and do something for a caregiver to help brighten his or her day.

Helen Gurley Brown, I'll Miss You

2012-08-14T13:56:00-04:00

As a kid growing up in rural Minnesota, I remember watching Helen Gurley Brown on "The Tonight Show." An insomniac, I'd probably tossed and turned for a long time before finally slipping out of bed and padding down the hall to find my mother sitting in our darkened living room. A poor sleeper herself, mom would be drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette.

The program was still in black and white and Johnny might be in the middle of his monologue, a skit or even "stump the band." Commercials would follow and next there would be the parade of guests -- first in the chair and then moving to the couch. I'd curl up on our own couch and get ready to enjoy the show.

Witty, trendy and impossibly thin, Helen Gurley Brown was one of Johnny's favorites. She appeared many times over the years and always said something that made Johnny laugh and often something that shocked him a little. Totally at ease, she spoke casually about New York nightlife, single women, fashion, gossip and sex.

I was mesmerized.

She had written that famous book that I'd heard about and wanted to read, "Sex and the Single Girl." I remember telling some of my grade school friends about it and feeling very brazen saying that word. Sex.

Almost a decade would go by before I got my hands on a copy and learned (to my dismay) it wasn't a how-to manual with pictures, but a more highly sophisticated book about the sexual revolution, feminism and women having it all. I was also surprised the author's name wasn't spelled the way I thought it was.

It was not, Helen Girly Brown.

When I found out Girly was actually Gurley, I was taken aback and perplexed. How could I have gone years and years and never known this? I'd felt an affinity for this woman who could appear so relaxed and so at comfortable in her own skin. Her nickname, "girly," made her relatable. Even a kid from the sticks could identify with a grown woman who wanted it all and yet be girly at the same time.

As I grew older, I subscribed to "Cosmopolitan" magazine, and I got to know Helen Gurley Brown as a writer, editor and groundbreaker. She was someone who saw what might be, and then strived to convey those ideas and possibilities to her readers. I wouldn't say I was ever a real "Cosmo Girl," but I liked a lot of her message.

I indeed wanted it all, and she made it alright to be female and yet strive for everything on my list -- the career, family, travel, relationships, books, music, clothes, and so much more.

Helen Girly Brown. Thank you. You made your mark and I will miss you.

Hey Roger Ebert, I Saw Ted and I Want My Money Back

2012-07-09T11:53:28-04:00

Roger Ebert, I may sue you. Last night my sister, brother-in-law and I went to a movie based upon your recommendation and it was the worst. No, it was the worst of the worst. It was horrid.

Not only did I lose 45 minutes of my life (and, since I am in my mid-50s, every minute counts), now I have some deeply disturbing images and dialogue in my head. I may never be able to forget it.

It all started innocently enough.

The Fourth of July holiday week has been hot and humid here in the upper Midwest. A movie seemed to be our best option for staying cool and enjoying some entertainment. Which movie? Searching online, I found what looked like a fun summer romp: Ted, starring Mark Wahlberg and Mila Kunis. Currently tops at the box office, Ted is about a grown man whose best friend since childhood is a talking teddy bear.

I'll admit, the reviews were mixed with some critics giving it only two stars. Yet, other reviewers, like Besty Sharkey of the Los Angeles Times, thought Ted was great, and the Minneapolis Star Tribune gave it a glowing review.

So did Roger Ebert.

Roger wrote, "The funniest movie character so far this year is a stuffed teddy bear. And the best comedy screenplay so far is Ted, the saga of the bear's friendship with a 35-year-old man child."

I should note that I greatly admire Roger Ebert, and have found his movie critiques to be spot-on over the years. With Roger's endorsement, our little trio trundled off to see Ted. Everything was great at the beginning. While the theater seats are circa 1950, the air conditioning was cranked up high and the popcorn was tasty. As the movie opened, we chuckled as the teddy bear that came alive -- this movie was clever! Could this flick be in the same league as The Hangover?

After 20 minutes, we knew it wasn't. As an adult bear, Ted, was downright nasty. The jokes were vile and disgusting. It had to get better, right? After all, Roger sang its praises.

It didn't get better.

Ted is rude, crude and lewd. Actually, that can be a great combination and make for a really funny movie, however it must also be well-edited and humorous. Ted is neither. We were groaning, not laughing. My sister and I whispered back-and-forth: "What do you think?" "This is horrible!" "Should we leave?" None of us wanted to be the one to make the decision, so we stuck it out much longer than any of us wanted to.

Finally, we left. It's the first time I walked out of a movie in years.

We all agreed that Roger Ebert owes us a refund.

So, Roger. Send me a message, a tweet or a comment. I'll tell you where to forward the check and we'll call the matter closed. Believe me, you don't want to get my attorney involved. You see, he also saw the movie, and thought it was gross. And, guess what: His name happens to be Ted. Attorney Ted is none too pleased with you right now.

Contact me now, Roger, and we don't have to involve lawyer Ted. Really, it would be better that way.

Dementia: When the Book and Its Cover Don't Match

2012-07-02T17:08:00-04:00

Looks can be deceiving. Mary, a slight, sweet woman, moved into my mother's independent living home about six months ago. My mom can't remember her name and instead calls her "the little young gal."

Mary's actually 83, which makes her no spring chicken. However, she might indeed be considered young by many of the residents, including someone like my mother who will turn 92 later this year.

Mary is extremely active, making a twice-daily trek around the golf course, be it rain or shine. I'd say Mary is also one of the more cheerful residents, never complaining about her lot in life and always happy to make upbeat small talk. She dresses fashionably and keeps busy quilting. From what I could see, Mary seemed like the picture of physical and mental health.

However, outward appearances are not always what they seem at first blush.

I recently had the chance to speak to Mary's daughter, Karen, and I casually mentioned how much I enjoyed getting to know her mother. I told Karen she is lucky to have a parent who still has all of her cognitive abilities.

Arching an eyebrow, Karen shook her head slowly and told me: "Sadly, my mom is in the first stages of what is probably Alzheimer's and the disease seems to be advancing very quickly."

I was speechless -- and those who know me will tell you that this does not happen often.

All I could say was something to the effect that I was very, very sorry to hear this and that it must be so difficult for their entire family. Then, I reminded her that my mother also had dementia -- probably Alzheimer's disease as well -- and that I certainly would be happy to listen should she want to talk.

The floodgates opened.

Karen said that her mother had lived on the family farm for 50 years, the last 26 years as a widow, living alone and being very self-sufficient. About a year ago, family members began noticing some rather odd behavior. Mary would call her sister to talk, and have a long conversations. Later that day, she would call the sister again, saying, "I'm calling to catch up as we haven't talked in ages." She had no memory of having spoken at length to her sister just hours before.

Mary also began hoarding many items, including newspapers, aluminum foil and plastic containers. When they finally convinced Mary to move from the family farmhouse, they found thousands of plastic containers hidden away in cupboards and closets as well as under every bed and even in the trunk of her car.

Yes, Mary was still driving, but the family knew she should not be -- Karen said her mother's car keys were going to be taken away shortly. I encouraged Karen to take the keys and tell Mary the car was broken. However, I know from my own experience this is always easy advice to give, but never easy to enforce when it is your own parent.

After listening to Karen talk for about 15 minutes, it struck me how I had missed all of the signs. While I'd talked to Mary dozens and dozens of times, I'd not picked up on the fact that she had significant memory loss.

It was probably because Mary looks so robust and she can still talk a good game -- carrying on a lively, coherent conversation. She is "in the moment" and enjoying herself.

My mother has been affected differently by dementia. Once a great conversationalist, she is really not able to make small talk and hasn't been able to do so for a long time. My father had Alzheimer's disease and his personality and memory were affected in very different ways as well. He often focused on one subject, asking the same questions over and over and over.

My mistake in thinking Mary was fine is actually a very good reminder that not every book can be judged by its cover. Sometimes the book jacket can look amazing, but when you open it to look deeper, you see the content and the cover don't fully match. In dementia, each person is unique and their path through dementia will be unique as well.

Please Tell Me, Is Blogging Really Dead?

2012-06-14T13:09:00-04:00

It seems as though I'm always late to the party. In September 2010 I launched a personal blog called Dating Dementia. At that time there were already over 200 million blogs in existence. Now, just as I begin to hit my stride writing about my life, baby boomer issues, relationships, politics, and caring for an aging parent, I learn blogs have probably had their day in the sun and may soon fade away.

Damn.

Evidently, fewer companies and individuals are starting blogs, and more existing blogs are being abandoned. I do come across a lot of blogs that haven't been updated in a year or more. These "blog orphans" always make me a little sad.

From the corporate standpoint, only 37 percent of companies even have a blog today, down from 50 percent in 2010. Recently, in USA Today, a headline proclaimed "Blogs are slogs, so companies just quit."

Ouch.

In this same article USA Today reporter Roger Yu writes, "With the emergence of social media, more companies are replacing blogs with nimbler tools requiring less time and resources, such as Facebook, Tumblr and Twitter."

Not to mention, Google+, Pinterest, Quora, as well as whatever will be the next big social media thing. Yu writes in his article that the obvious downward trend, "...is consistent with the broader loss of interest in blogging among all consumers."

Sigh.

Yu reports that some really big companies, like Bank of America, have dropped their blogs entirely. OKCupid, a dating website, published a popular blog ranked one of the 25 best by Time magazine in 2011, but this year it stopped posting.

Yikes.

Personally, I've noticed bloggers I follow are narrowing their focus in order to better market their writing. Others, who were maintaining several blogs, have parred down to just one.

It's certainly true that blogging takes time, energy, commitment, and a bit of money. At first I was looking at my personal blog as a potential source of income. Could I make a modest living from my blog? As I near completing my second year of blogging, I know the answer.

Nada.

Adjusting my viewpoint, I now view my blog more as a labor of love. It's a terrific outlet for me to express my creativity and my viewpoint. I can write whatever I want, when I want, which means I am the boss of my own blog. Plus, I get to connect with other writers online and in person at conferences. I also have to admit that blogging is really, really cheap therapy. Other bloggers will know what I mean.

For now, I'm going to hang in there with my blogging. Perhaps the natural weeding-out process is good and those who keep slogging away will even attract larger followings. Wouldn't that be nice?

Absolutely.

So, yes, I was once again late to the party. However, "better late than never" has always been my mantra. I'm enjoying every single minute of my own blogging party, and I'll probably be the last to leave.

Watergate at 40: What Will It Mean in 2072?

2012-06-11T11:20:00-04:00

Watergate. Has it really been 40 years? I was just a small-town teenager in the summer of 1972, but I remember being fascinated as the break-in and protracted cover-up unfolded. It was a drama like no other. When it was over, lives and careers had been ruined, 40 men went to jail, a U.S. president resigned and a nation was collectively sick of the whole mess. Then, there was the pardon and Nixon's years in exile when he tried to rewrite his place in history.

As a nation, we were forever changed.

On Sunday, June 10th, the two reporters at the epicenter, Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein, were on "Face the Nation" to mark this momentous anniversary. In a lengthy interview with Bob Schieffer, the seasoned pair look back and recall how as young, competitive reporters they were thrown together to cover this "third-rate burglary," as Ron Ziegler, Nixon's press secretary, called it at the time.

In the CBS interview, Woodward and Bernstein spoke thoughtfully about the us-against-them culture of the Nixon White House and the political climate of the early 1970s. They recounted the delicate balance of reporting the crimes of a powerful, vindictive administration when few other media outlets were giving Watergate much attention and how the tide began to turn when Walther Cronkite devoted 15 minutes of an evening broadcast to the burgeoning story. As if it were yesterday, they recalled the moment they realized Watergate was going to bring down the 37th President of the United States.

They talked about the Nixon's taping system and how his own words on the crude recordings are damning time and again. President Nixon reached the pinnacle of power yet was shockingly petty and obsessed with doing everything he could to bring down others -- both the powerful and the weak.

They also spoke about the effect Watergate has had on American politics, the news media and our society in general.

I highly recommend watching the CBS interview. Equally interesting is a comprehensive op-ed piece by Woodward and Bernstein that was published in The Washington Post a few days ago. In the article, they look back on Nixon's Watergate as well as the other "wars" he fought against his perceived enemies.

Woodward and Bernstein have come to this conclusion after 40 years: "Nixon was far worse than we thought."

So, the story is over, right? Not so fast.

Historians, reporters and others are still sifting through mountains of papers and tapes and will be for the foreseeable future. The long-term lessons of Watergate will only be revealed with the passage of time, and 40 years really doesn't give the necessary perspective. History requires a century or more for the dots to connect and the consequences to be fully apparent. Even then, not everyone will agree, but there probably will be a big-picture consensus.

I won't make it another 60 years. I might get another 35, if I'm lucky. It makes me a bit sad to think that I'll never know how history will ultimately judge Richard Milhous Nixon and how his downfall truly affected our nation. Yet, I got to live through it. Honestly, I really wouldn't trade that for anything.

Check out the video below for a clip of Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein on "Face The Nation," in which they discuss recent charges that the White House leaked classified national security information to the New York Times.

Best Mother's Day Gift Ever

2012-05-09T10:51:44-04:00

Over the years my daughter has given me an array of wonderful Mother's Day gifts. When she was little, they were all handmade items like sweet cards and pictures, decorated wooden boxes and hand-strung jewelry. I've kept them all. They are treasures beyond value, and each one brings a smile and a cherished memory.

My former husband -- referred to henceforth as FH -- also gave me many Mother's Day gifts over the years. Usually it was a gift certificate to a local spa or department store along with a card and flowers. The gifts were always nice, but I certainly wouldn't describe them as inspired.

However, one Mother's Day stood out among all the others. I'm thinking it was probably about a decade ago. There was the usual card, bouquet and a small bag that I thought contained the prerequisite gift certificate. Yet, when I opened the bag I found a fancy note that told me my gift was waiting in the garage. My heart skipped a beat. A new car?

No, it wasn't a new car. It was car mats.

Don't laugh.

These were not just your run-of-the-mill, off-the-shelf car mats. These were luxury mats with embossed logos that perfectly matched the interior of my beloved Infiniti. FH has gone to several stores and auto dealerships, but finding all of their mats inadequate, he had special ordered a set of expensive, custom mats just for me. I was floored (sorry, couldn't resist).

Since I was speechless, FH initially thought I was angry.

I wasn't angry. I was touched. Touched that he had thought of something that I would really enjoy. Touched that he planned weeks ahead and followed through, which was not his strength.

To this day, I can still recall the feeling of taking out the old mats and putting in the new set. They looked great. I felt great. No, what I really felt was appreciated. That's what felt great.