G is for Goofs — Life’s Built‑in Comic Relief

I struggled to find a topic for the letter G in the A to Z Blog Challenge. My original prompt word—gullible—just wasn’t coming together. I picked it because if my nickname growing up wasn’t “gullible,” it should have been. To this day, someone can tell me something totally off the wall and I’ll believe them, which usually ends with me becoming the butt of their joke.

After staring at a blank computer screen long enough to drink two cups of lemon tea with French vanilla creamer, I finally resorted to asking my MS AI copilot for suggestions. I have a love/hate relationship with how AI can spit ideas out so fast that it makes me feels like my brain could break, trying to keep up. Jasper (because I insist on personifying my copilot) gave me twelve possible G‑words.

Grace, Grit, and Glimmers, he said, have “hidden depth.” 

Grandmother, Games, and Gatherings “lend themselves to storytelling.” I didn’t tell him I’m not a grandmother nor did I have any in my life, and I’m saving Games for the letter M. As for Gatherings, long‑time readers are probably sick of hearing about the events we have here in my Independent Living building.

Goofs, Gumption, and Gaps, Jasper claimed, are “words with winks.” I didn’t ask what that meant because he can get long‑winded with explanations—like every professor I ever had who thought we should care about the boring stuff he was going to put on a test. 

Growth, Goodbyes, and Guidance rounded out his list, and he claimed they echo my overall A to Z theme the best.

In the end, I chose Goofs because I’ve had plenty of them, and many of my best ones came right out of my mouth.

Like the time I spent two hours manning a refreshment table at the senior hall. After many times repeating, “What can I get you? We have coffee, tea, and water,” I was absolutely shocked when, out of nowhere, the words “We have coffee, tea, or me” rolled off my tongue. It was embarrassing, of course, but I laughed it off. That didn’t stop the phrase from popping out two more times. By then I was mortified, though thankfully half the people in earshot were hard of hearing and probably thought they misheard me. Needless to say, I didn’t volunteer for that job again.

I did have a revelation that day: the old guys who wanted to be friendly or flirty all used the same opening line—“Did you girls make all these cookies?” I’m guessing they didn’t notice the gray hair and the orthopedic shoes that no “girl” would be caught dead wearing. Girl, gal, lady, woman—pin a pronoun on my back and see if I answer.

“Coffee, Tea or Me” was the title of a book in the ’60s, and it became a pick‑up line back in its day. It was a flirtatious code for “If you ask me out, I’ll go.” Those were the good old days when girls were still halfway coy and boys didn’t shout about our body parts as they drove by. “Nice rack!” “Bodelicious butt!” And they wonder why older people get flaky as we age. We have decades of memories merging with our present‑day adventures to form a perfect storm of confusion.

There’s no confusion about another goof that came out of my mouth in my late twenties. It was at a family Christmas party. We were all opening gifts when, for reasons I no longer remember, I said the F‑word. Loud and clear. If you knew my mom and dad, you’d know they kept swearing out of their vocabularies. You’d also know why the proverbial pin dropping could be heard in the silence that followed.

My nieces and their boyfriends stared at their hands, shoulders shaking in silent laughter. My shocked mom’s mouth formed a perfect O. My dad stuck a finger in his ear as if trying to clean it, probably hoping he’d misheard. My brother’s wide grin made it clear he was delighted to witness me screwing up in front of our parents. The silence dragged on for what felt like an hour before someone finally picked up a gift and thanked the giver. In all the years that followed, not one person—NOT ONE—ever brought up the F‑Word Christmas, but it lives in infamy in my memory bank.

Swear words are as rare as ten dollar bills growing on trees in my continuum care community. But one day another resident let the F word slip and immediately slapped her hand over her mouth, eyes darting around to gauge the reaction. I laughed—at her, and at the memory of the day I made the same goof in public.

Sometimes I think my word goofs are just life’s way of tapping me on the shoulder, reminding me not to take myself too seriously. They turn into stories, and the stories turn into the glue that holds all the years together. ©

 Note: If you normally get email notices of when I publish, you won't be get during this April, daily Challenge. I have the free service which limits how many times a month they send them and I've reached my limit for April.

F is for Friendships— The Company we Keep Along the Way

 Writing about friendships for the A to Z Blog Challenge shouldn’t be much of a challenge, says the woman who has only typed eleven words on the topic so far. Still, I can think of many sitcoms built entirely around friendships—Cheers, Seinfeld, Friends, Sex and the City, How I Met Your Mother, and The Big Bang Theory to name a few of my favorites. (That should tell you something about what I look for in a friend.) The characters in those shows are flawed and quirky, but sitcom writers don’t create them in a vacuum. They pull from real life and enlarge the flaws so we can’t miss the stereotypes we might meet in our own lives. Somewhere in my archives I even compared fellow residents in my continuum care community to Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha (Sex and the City.) I could easily do the same with the other shows.

Jess C. Scott wrote, “Friends are the family you choose,” and it would be hard to disagree. But since moving into my CCC, I’ve noticed how loosely some people use the word friend. I’ve been introduced that way by people who don’t know the first thing about me beyond the fact that I started the First Thursdays Desserts Only Club. If I were introducing someone here, I’d probably say, “This is so‑and‑so. She started the line dancing group,” or whatever fact I can tag the person with. Hearing “This is my friend, Jean,” never fails to make me wonder what makes us friends. If you don’t know a person’s last name, that’s an acquaintance in my book. But I suppose it would sound cold to introduce me to someone’s son or daughter with, “This is my acquaintance, Jean.” Not that I would care.

Experts say there are four types of friends: acquaintances, casual friends, close friends, and lifelong friends. I’d add situational friends—work friends, school friends, neighborhood friends. People we don’t see outside the bubble where we’re thrown together.

Verywellmind.com defines a good friend as “someone who respects your boundaries, supports you, and brings out the best in you.” I agree, and I’d add that a good friend is someone you can laugh with, cry with and trust with your secrets, knowing they’ll keep them in a vault. I’ve been lucky enough to have a lifelong friend since kindergarten, and I’m guessing that’s rare. Had she not moved 656 miles away after college and getting married, we probably would have driven our husbands nuts with our giggle‑fests. Distance changed the way we interacted, but not the fact that our roots are tangled from growing up within view of each other’s houses. After she married, we became avid pen pals. Then when cell phones came along, ending long‑distance charges, we kept in touch that Way. Recently, after her sons moved her into assisted living, Nancy asked them to bring her some stationery and stamps so she could write to me again. Everything old is new again.

A few years after Nancy was no longer part of my daily life, I met my husband, and Don took her place as my best, best friend. We were together for 42 years, so I’m calling him my half‑a‑life‑long friend. (Take it up with the management if you think that’s absurd.) We knew each other’s faults and strengths and supported each other through thick and thin—an overused phrase, but I can’t think of a more poetic way to describe our relationship. And with him came a group of neighborhood friends. We could laugh together over Saturday‑night pizzas, but sharing secrets or sensitive information? Not on your life. But on the surface, I suppose, we looked like I sitcom.

One reason I’ve always loved sitcoms built around a group of friends is because I could live vicariously through them. Only once in my life did I have a friendship circle like that. After my husband died and I was spending time at the senior hall, they held an event called “Looking for Friends,” or something similar—an event that, under different circumstances, would have falsely marked anyone attending as an apathetic loser. (Think teenagers with fragile egos.) But we were widows, and we started meeting for lunch, then movies—yada, yada, yada. We shared a sense of humor, laughed at the same throw‑away lines and could toss our own right back. Then Covid came along and nearly dealt a death blow to the group. As they say, friendships change over time, and even the good ones have expiration dates.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t include another kind of friendship: the ones that grow across generations within a family. I’ve watched my two nieces become wonderful mothers and grandmothers. I’ve watched them grow into remarkable human beings. And I’ve been privileged to watch our relationships shift from niece‑and‑aunt to equal adults who are also friends. I’ve seen a few mother‑daughter duels that eventually make that same transition. It’s a wonderful kind of bond to have in one’s life.

Whatever form they take, friendships have a way of evolving right along with us. They change shape over the years, but they never stop shaping us. ©

Photo: The Gathering Girls trying to teach each other new tricks on our cell phones. 

E is for Education—and the Lessons That Stick

Using the letter E for the A to Z Blog Challenge was another hard choice for me, but I settled on writing about education. It fits with my overall theme of things that have shaped me. But then, can’t we all say that about our education, or lack thereof, to one degree or another?

My mom and dad never made it to high school, but they were both well educated in the ways the world works. Their generation were avid newspaper readers; my mom also read a lot of fiction. My dad was self‑taught, mechanical and could fix anything. That doesn’t sound all that impressive to the Google‑it generation, who can get how‑to directions or step‑by‑step videos for things Dad’s generation had to figure out by instinct, logic and trial and error.

In my generation, finishing high school was more the norm, and I did, but I’d be the first to admit I didn’t do all that well in school. In grade school I struggled with mild, undiagnosed dyslexia paired with being left‑handed in a school where a couple of teachers tried to change the latter or pronounced me “stupid” because of the former. Today schools don’t do that, and I’ll let AI explain why: “Forcing a left-handed child to use their right hand disrupts natural brain development, often causing emotional distress, academic confusion, and neurological stress. Common consequences include reduced coordination, stuttering, dyslexia-like issues, shyness, and lower self-esteem. Handedness is rooted in brain wiring, not just habit.”

I struggled with reading and had a hard time keeping up in classes that required keeping my nose in a book. Thankfully, I excelled at art, mechanical drawing, home ec and math, so my average got me accepted—probationally—into college. There, I had to take what we students called Dumbbell English.

Something happened that summer between high school and college. It was as if the two sides of my brain quit warring over control, and I aced both semesters of Dumbbell English. It might also be because the class gave us all a fresh start without the preconceived opinions of our intelligence or lack thereof. I’ve had two outstanding teachers in my life, and the woman who taught that course was one of them. I still have the worn and tattered books we used those semesters: Basic Composition and Clear and Correct Writing.

Note to my nieces: If you ever have to move me out of Independent Living and into Memory Care, make sure these books go with me. They’ve always been my benchmarks, reminding me that I’m not stupid or dumb—words no child should ever hear an adult, much less a teacher, label them.

One of the guys who lives in my building offered me a watercolor set of his wife’s shortly after she had to go to Memory Care. “She doesn’t use them,” he said. I told him to leave them in her room unless she asks him to take them away. “She’s been an artist her whole life,” I went on. “On her good days, she probably still thinks of herself as an artist, and seeing the watercolor set could help with that.” I’m a firm believer in keeping benchmarks around for people struggling to remember who they are.

The other outstanding teacher in my life taught a class called Women in Transition that I took twenty‑three years later. It was a required, no‑credit course for—yes—older women going back to college to finish their degrees. Had I stayed in college back in the ’60s, it would have taken only a year to graduate, assuming I didn’t flunk out, which was a possibility given the fact that I had left all the heavy‑reading courses for my senior year and was still struggling with the slow-reader bugaboo. But between the ’60s and the ’80s they added a bunch more required classes, so it took me two years to finally graduate. The day I walked across the stage to get my diploma was one of the top two happiest days of my life.

If you want to hear about the other happiest day, you’ll have to come back on the 9th, when the letter H will be my muse. And no, it’s not about my wedding day. ©

 

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