Any day now I expect a visit from Elder Services. If there is any such department in my area.
They will come and crowbar my door open, and find me frantically crocheting a rainbow afghan, already too large for the couch, and still going.
They will find parakeets in cages, begging for clean water and seed, because I have forgotten to feed them.
They will find stacks of real newspapers. Real newspapers, with current dates. Because old people still read them. And forget to throw them out.
They will find old-fashioned food. Retro food, bless my old heart, but it looks... old. And when the eater is old, how can you tell that she's actually eating ironically? (A word I hate, but you will get my meaning.)
I'm just having fun, but Elder Services wonders whether I'd like a nice, modern tofu shake.
No, thanks. I'm having a salad with "French" dressing, the shocking orange glop with a shocking, throat-burning flavor. Poured from a bottle.
Of course I'm not! I hate bottled dressings. I tried to make an orange dressing with mayo, ketchup, buttermilk, and a little paprika and turmeric. I could not get a deep, saturated result. Fine, say I. (Old people talk this way.)
Here's a wonderful salad of lettuce, radishes and cherry tomatoes (from California), topped with what turned out to be a mild and lovely sauce.
So not old, I want it again, already.
Now, what is this FaceTube all the kids are talking about?