I don’t know why they even bother to go out to dinner. You know them: the couples who sit, picking at their food, staring into space? Often at the best table, wearing their finest, they manage somehow to make all the other diners uncomfortable with their obvious lack of interest in one another. Mostly, they are of a “certain age.” I think these older couples just need a little nudge to get the dialogue flowing. A few good conversation starters, and even the least communicative duos might find themselves having a fascinating evening. I imagine them now, sipping their Old Fashioneds, and chatting gaily about topics like:

What will those crazy kids say next?

“Frank, did you know that a “wedgie” isn’t a kind of shoe? I think it has something to do with buttocks.”

Reality television

“Bernice, have you watched any of those new shows out? You know, the ones about real people? I hear that some of them have people dancing on tropical islands, and then a panel of British chefs vote and send the worst ones home. After that, they all have a great big scavenger hunt. I don’t understand why they are so popular. I find them quite confusing.”

The state of the economy

“Harold, you are just going to have to start eating stewed prunes with me every morning. The price of Metamucil has gone up ten cents in the past year! I don’t know what those drug companies are thinking—that we seniors are made of gold?”

Sports

“I don’t know how your brother plays golf with that truss on.”

Politics

“That Mitt Romney seems like such a wonderful, handsome young man. Really, Milton, he is such a family man! But do all Mormons put their dogs on the top of their cars? Or is that just a Romney family tradition?”

The internet

“Florence, are you familiar with Facepage and Twitler? They are very popular these days with the kids. They do that stuff on the internet. I got on the internet one time, at my niece’s house. She’s always on Googler. I think all of that is such a waste of time. Why do young people like typing so much? What’s wrong with the telephone?

Gossip

“Frank, did you hear that the Bensons have separated? Yes. They tried everything to stay together: rhumba lessons, skydiving, yoga, and even gourmet cooking classes. But Harvey got gout, and Gracie slipped a disc. So now they are divorcing…”

But I might just be barking up the wrong tree. Perhaps older couples don’t want to have conversations. Maybe Frank, Edna, Bernice, Milton, and Harold are all talked out. And the Bensons are obviously exhausted. Maybe “date nights” are overrated, once you hit a certain age.

There is a lot to be said for peace, quiet, and a nice shrimp cocktail.

1. Was she married in the fifties? Then your mother in law used LARD. Lard is universally known to make all foods cooked with it or in it absolutely delicious. Yes, it will eventually kill you, but we know that NOW. He is still alive, and fondly remembers his mom’s crullers. You will never measure up with Crisco.
2. He had nothing to compare her to. All children think their mothers are good cooks. She made the best weenies and macaroni. All children love weenies and macaroni. The fact that YOUR mother made home made pasta with freshly grated parmesan has absolutely no bearing on the weenie discussion.
3. There is a common genre of food for children called “nursery food” in Britain, and “comfort food” over here. It consists of mashed things mixed with milk or sugar. Mashed potatoes. Mashed cooked apples with sugar and cinnamon. Mashed bananas with cream. These foods appeal to children, and are committed to memory, and then worshipped for the rest of said child’s life. Only mothers can make really fine comfort food. But his mother’s, although inferior to your mother’s, is what counts.
4. His mother and he have a really tight bond. There is something about mothers and sons. So you simply will never measure up in his mind to that paragon who fixed his lunch every day. We women usually have very ambivalent feelings about our mothers. So it is hard for us to understand that mother/son thing. Personally, I think his mother’s baloney sandwiches were on the dry side. Granted, by the time she offered to make me a sandwich, I had stolen her son. No wonder she stinted with the mayo…
5. At Thanksgiving, his mother made stuffing out of Pepperidge Farm Croutons and just mixed it with a little water. So he grew up thinking crunchy stuffing was the norm. His mother also didn’t like the idea of sticking her hand inside a bird cavity, so her stuffing never received the benefit of the turkey juices. Actually, think of this as a boon, because who wants to bother making delicious stuffing, when he’s happy with a few croutons with gravy?
6. His mother made fifteen kinds of Christmas/holiday goodies. (ditto the lard) They were made with crushed nuts that she shelled by hand, things like citrons, jam, and confectioner’s sugar. She stored them in assorted tins and served them throughout the holiday season. They were delicious. Forget this! You have a job and soccer practice! Concede, and get those cookies in the roll from the freezer case!
7. His mother made just about everything from scratch. She did this because Marie Callender and Bob Evans are in her age group (well, they may have died, actually), and so they hadn’t grown up to invent frozen entrees yet. We all know that Bob Evans mashed potatoes and breakfast sandwiches are heavenly, but for some reason, those words from scratch really appeal to husbands. Apparently, making things from scratch implies a fortitude and work ethic that we soccer moms just don’t seem to possess.
8. His mother wore aprons. She made them herself. They were pretty, had crocheted or lace edges, and they tied at her waist. Your mother in law never schlepped tomato sauce on her bosom. Nor did any of that lard plop onto her bodice, either. So she was not only a wonderful cook, but she was clean. You, on the other hand, need one of those Mario Batali sized aprons, to save your good yoga shirts from staining. I know. We modern women are slobby in the kitchen.
9. His mother and dad had a cocktail hour. I don’t know how they accomplished this one! Apparently, he and his siblings were locked up somewhere, or sent outside (where children could play without supervision and not be abducted), while your mother in law and her man sipped martinis and discussed his day at the office. You have to quickly slug down some of the Marsala before you pour it into the sauce for the chicken, and then get going! There are three soccer games tonight!
10. His mother grew her own vegetables and then made stuff like tomato juice, which she “put up” for the winter. She also made her own pickles. He has fond memories of her fig preserve. This is pure #$&**t. I have had her tomato juice. And the fig preserve? I will just say this: Fig Newtons are awful. Fig anything is awful. All those little seeds. It’s seedy! Look the word “seedy” up in the dictionary!
11. She cooked/cooks dinner every single night. Even though she and your father in law had/have lots of time on their hands, discretionary income, and a car with only ten thousand miles on it. So when you want to go out for a lovely candlelight dinner at “Chez Gourmet,” he sees her in his mind’s eye, happily making pot roast and glazing carrots. Saving money. And then he turns to you and says, “I don’t understand why we can’t just eat here. Why don’t you change out of your work clothes and just whip up something while I have a beer?”
12. She died too soon. Or she is still living an exemplary life. Either way, you lose.

I saw an acquaintance at the dry cleaner’s the other day. I haven’t seen her in awhile, and I waved. She just bustled right over and grabbed my hand. “Oh, you are so funny!” I looked around to make sure she was talking to me, and sure enough, we were the only two people in the establishment. I gave her a questioning look. “Oh, I read your blog. You know, the one about your husband? (They are all, in one way or another, about my husband)” To be polite, I thanked her.

“So how do you do it?” She asked.

“What?”

“Write those funny things!”

I couldn’t answer. I have no idea how I write funny things. As a matter of fact, some of the things that I write don’t really seem that funny when I write them. I gave her a somewhat pat little answer: “Oh, well, you know, my family is hilarious, and I just take it all down.” But that got me thinking.

Funny people are one thing. Funny people can tell jokes, entertain people at parties with witty remarks and repartee. Funny people remember punch lines and can do foreign accents with ease. Funny people have good timing, and know just how long to wait before zinging listeners with a great one liner.

Funny writers are completely different. Well, at least I am. I think of the absolute best one liner—unfortunately, I think of it two days after party is over. I have one absolutely favorite joke that involves a guy who wants to be a newscaster, aspirins, and condoms, but although I know it is absolutely rip-roaringly funny, I can never put all the pieces together to tell it. When I tell it, there is a guy who wants to be on the news, and he has condoms in all his pockets. I have stopped trying to tell this joke.

So when people say things about how funny I am, I get nervous. I feel a “funny demand” coming, and I know I am not going to live up to it. My husband is the worst offender. He starts out (after a glass of wine) with a very vague reference to something:

“Oh, yeah. Last week. Tell them, Molly!”

Ok, last week…nothing comes to mind. By this time, my husband is doubling over with laughter, weakly gesturing in my direction.

“It was hilarious! Tell them, Molly!”

By the time I figure out what he is referring to, the moment has passed, the audience is bored, and everyone wonders if I have a ghost writer for my columns.

Are there training camps for humor writers who yearn to be funny in person? I need to go to one. I imagine it might have an agenda something like this:

SIS AND BUD’S COMIC CAMP FOR HUMOR WRITERS

LAKE SILVER, in the lovely Catskill Mountains

Two day sessions, all inclusive

DAY ONE: PUT YOUR PENS DOWN AND PARTICIPATE

1. DON’T READ IT, SAY IT!
2. HOW TO MAKE JOKES TO PEOPLE WEARING HEARING AIDS
3. HOW TO START A JOKE: DON’T BEGIN WITH WHAT YOU HAD FOR BREAKFAST
4. HOW TO TALK ABOUT URINATION IN MIXED COMPANY
5. WHAT MAKES YOU THINK YOU’RE FUNNY, ANYWAY?

DAY TWO, FOR ADVANCED JOKESTERS

1. LEARN TO DANCE LIKE ELLEN DEGENERIS
2. SELL IT WITH A LOOK
3. STOP WRITING THINGS DOWN!
4. IT’S BETTER IF YOU GET UP; THEY DON’T CALL IT STAND UP FOR NOTHING
5. TAKE MY WIFE, PLEASE

Sis and Bud, here I come.

I really can’t believe that Madonna is 53. I remember when she was the quirky material girl, scandalous and bisexually threatening. Now she’s almost my age, and I bet she worries about those boys who lust after Lourdes. She probably finds herself echoing her own mother, saying things like, “Lourdes! This room is a pig sty!”

If Elvis were still alive, I bet he’d be bald. All that gyrating would have ruined his hips, and he’d be entering the hospital for hip replacement surgery. The nurses in the rehab center would be all aflutter, wondering which one would be lucky enough to give him his sponge baths.

It happens to everyone. We age and become our parents. The first time the words “This room is just a breeding ground for cockroaches” came out of my mouth; I was shocked to the core. How had my mother entered my body and taken over? I used to take my shoes off when I came home. And leave them. It was logical. Why take them upstairs and put them in the closet, when I would just need to wear them again the next day? And it made no sense at all to put the peanut butter and jelly in the cupboard, only to trot them out the following day to make another sandwich.

As we age, appearances seem to matter less. Order and a cheery environment become more important. Is it because we no longer take center stage ourselves? When I was younger and more vivacious, I spent a lot of time thinking about myself and my own effect on the world. Now I am sagging in critical areas, and I look outward, rather than focusing on my impact on others. I find great pleasure in things like new sofa cushions and artistic floral arrangements. My children’s homes seem chaotic and just a bit seedy. And my mother and I are suddenly in sync.

It’s a shame that my mother didn’t live to see the day that I shuddered at the inside of my daughter’s refrigerator. She would have been so proud of me. And I bet she would love talking to me about her arthritis and how terrible it is to drive on the highway these days. I would love to compare shelf paper with her, and tell her about the latest methods for removing heel marks from linoleum.

I remember the days when I put on mascara the minute I got up. There was a time when I could eat cupcakes for lunch and still look taut in my skivvies. I found an old picture of my parents on the beach, and my mother was wearing a two piece bathing suit. She looked like a super model. My God. That pudgy old lady who scolded me for the dust balls in my closet may have once had an electrifying social life.

It is a shame that we have that intervening generation between ourselves and our children. I just wish I could be around to hear my daughter exclaim “Oooh, my knees ache. I wonder if it’s going to rain.” And I bet Madonna’s mother is just waiting for the day when Madonna looks at her tattoos and wonders what on earth she was thinking….

Everyone should be in therapy. Unfortunately, not everyone can afford it. Was it Freud who said that by the time you are three, your personality is fixed? What a downer he was! But if that is true, we have all been struggling with the same old stuff for virtually our entire lives! I am getting weary. So perhaps if I reveal my personal issues here, I can walk away from them once and for all.

I have issues with my mother. Well, maybe not any more, because she passed away. But good grief—she ran her finger over the door frames every time she came over to my house! And if she told me once, she told me a hundred times that my rear tends to follow me around. Is it a mystery as to why I rely so much on Spanx?

I fear crowds a little. Especially when they are in a room together, holding cocktails, and chatting about either Michelle Bachman or orthopedic surgery. I know very little about either subject. I can’t make small talk. I end up confronting people at parties with observations like “That mole looks a little like melanoma to me,” or “I take sleeping pills every night.” This rarely leads to scintillating give and take.

I am addicted to three things: toast, cereal, and mocha lattes. Does this mean that I am suffering from arrested development? Am I really just one cup of hot chocolate away from carrying my blankie around again? Do I have a carbohydrate addiction? Or am I just a morning person?

I can’t go more than a half hour without using lip balm. If my lips aren’t slightly mentholated, they feel dry and rough to me. If I were to leave the house without a Chapstick on my person, I would fear that my lips would crack open and bleed. I never lick my lips; it’s too drying. And in the winter, this whole condition worsens to the point that my lips actually ache sometimes. I just admitted to aching lips. And this isn’t even a romance novel.

I think that I have every disease that is featured on “Grey’s Anatomy.” I develop the symptoms the minute the show is over. I worry about getting Lyme’s disease, SARS, and hot flashes. So I take vitamins, use a lot of “Off,” and carry little collapsible fans.

So there are my worst issues, laid bravely out here for all of you to see. I feel free. This was very therapeutic. So now I am going to have a few Cheerios and call it a day.

My husband has a good command of technology, but he isn’t defined by it. He is not sure what an “app” is, for instance. I feel very comfortable with technology, and as a matter of fact, I spend at least five hours a week connecting with my worldwide friends on social media.

Charlie, my husband, loves social events where there are actual people. He thinks the “community table” at restaurants is a stroke of brilliance. He has lengthy conversations with bartenders and servers, while I sit and stare into my wineglass.

This morning, he showed me an article about some emerging companies that  mesh social media and people in a unique way. There are “apps” available which will tell you if there is, for instance, one of your Facebook friends in the row behind you at the movies.

“I think this is totally creepy and ‘Big Brotherish,” I said.

“Well, it should appeal to you. You have four thousand Facebook friends. Wouldn’t you like to say ‘howdy’ to one at the movies?”

“Well, actually, it’s four thousand Twitter buddies. I don’t spend that much time on Facebook.”

A discussion ensued about the merits, in my eyes, of social media. It’s a way to get one’s ideas out in the world. It transcends neighbors, who know what I think, anyway, and lets me share my ideas on a scale I never imagined before. And as a face to face small talk failure, I seem to sparkle on social media.

“You like social media because you can fart while you are tweeting. And if you get bored, you don’t have to make a graceful exit.”

“You’re right. But it’s more than that. I have never met an Egyptian student at any of our parties. I talk regularly with two of them on twitter. They have shared their pride at the role they played in the revolution there. And I talk about books with friends in England and Australia. And I don’t feel self conscious, and yes, I have burped while discussing “The Dressmaker of Khair Khana.”

So what is it that endears introverts like me to Social Media? I think I share the love of connection that binds all of us on the planet. But it is also becoming evident that many of us like our connections brief, under our own control, and in the privacy of our homes. We see enough real people, we have to conduct transactions with them, they often annoy us, and by the end of the day, we just want to put on sweats slump over our laptops.

Despite Charlie’s enthusiasm for the people who are beginning to blur the lines between social media and real life, I won’t be getting the Big Brother app that will tell me which of my Facebook or Twitter friends might be shopping in the produce section squeezing melons as I select my cereal. It creeps me out to think that @soandsowhosoundsveryintelligent may just be the schlub who opened that bag of grapes and actually started eating some.