Wednesdays are designated "Mom Day," the day I spend with my seventy five year old mother. She lives in a nearby independent living retirement home. I pick her up in the early afternoon, we run errands, and eat lunch. Six years ago, when we began this tradition, I have to admit that I found Wednesday vexing and stressful. That's because I had the wrong perspective. With time, I've realized that this day is not about me, it's all about my mother. There are still times when I have to repeat the mantra "this isn't about you, this isn't about you, you're here for her, this isn't about you," but for the most part I've grown to cherish this time. After a minor illness last year, that turned into a major health event for her, I realize that I am now walking with her through the beginning of the end. That breaks my heart. Nothing funny I can say about that (I've teared up. Daniel just glanced at me and asked what the hell was wrong. I told him that we were out of Fritos. Now he's crying.).

So with that introduction out of the way, I can tell you some of the things that I have observed about my mother and her friends at the retirement home:

• They throng around the mailman like he's Hannah Montana. Every day (and for some residents that means Sunday too) they gather nervously in the front hall anxious for his arrival. I've asked my mom why they do this. She says she can't speak for others, but she waits for the mailman because there might be mail. It's hard to argue with logic like that. I'm thinking that as you age, you might get bumped up to a different level of literature from the AARP. My husband has started to receive the basic mailings droning on about elder rights and cheap motorscooters (btw, he is just thrilled to receive biweekly mailings reminding him he's old - tick tock). Maybe my mom and her friends have moved up to racier AARP mailings - though I'm not sure if I want to see a nude pictorial of Wilford Brimley (that's not true, I so want to see a nude pictorial of Wilford Brimley).

• Getting a rep for being a loose woman at the senior center is much easier to achieve than being considered a loose woman before retirement age. Before retirement, you would probably have to actually have sex with someone to be "loose". Senior center hussiness can be achieved by wearing bright fuchsia, or walking unassisted. A woman strolled by us when we were waiting in the lobby for Hannah Montana, my mom leaned over and whispered "She doesn't use a walker. She prances around here like she's sixty, that woman is pushing eighty. Who does she think she's fooling?"

• The internet. Forget about it. When mom first moved into the center, we thought it would be a good idea to get her a computer so she could access email and order groceries online. Well that was a mistake. She has yet to be able to figure out how to operate that "flashy line thing." I use to get calls where she would tell me her email was broken. There is a man in the building that does understand the internet. He has a flyer in the laundry room advertising that for $5 a month, you can come by his apartment and he'll help you check your email. He's revered (not as revered as the mailman, but close). I think he's just waiting for a woman in fuchsia to show up.

• Crafting takes a whole new evil animal turn. The hallways are strewn with little fetish looking creatures that the ladies paint on Thursday nights. Mom swears there's nothing sinister about this; you can decide for yourself: