Even though I try not to, some days I just feel old. Not from my occasional creaking left shoulder or the unexplained pain right in the center of my knee that nagged at me yesterday. Nope, it's that comment in passing from a youngster that makes me realize I really am an oldster.

Abigail Breslin, that cute child actress from Little Miss Sunshine, visited this morning with Matt and Meredith on the Today show promoting a new movie set in the Great Depression. To become familiar with life during the Depression, Abigail had talked to her grandmother. The Depression was long before my time too, but Abigail's comments about the old-fashioned typewriter made me feel older than a dinosaur. She related that when she saw a typewriter on the set, her first reaction was, "Where's the screen?" and when told there was no screen, she asked, "Then how do you delete?"

Duh. "You don't."

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When I first asked where babies came from, my mom said that the daddy plants a tiny seed in the mommy. Later when I demanded anatomy not botany, my mom handed me a book for details about the planting of the seed.

Today on Father's Day I remembered that early "birds and bees" answer as I reflect on the man who planted me. This past week I had watched photojournalists pay moving tributes to their fathers, and I longed for a similar chance to pay tribute to my dad, but it's likely I'm network-bound in the near future. So I visited my local Hallmark store, caring enough to send the very best, but coming up empty handed. None of the words were quite right--maybe because I'm a writer who hates to rely on someone else's words to describe how I feel.

I dismissed the idea of buying a present because Dad has always been hard to buy for, although Russell Stover or his favorite brandy make standard gifts. On Mother's Day we say it with flowers, but I continued to wonder how to say "it" on Father's Day, whatever "it" was.

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It was a laugh-out-loud scene for me when Sarah Jessica Parker's character in the movie Sex and the City arrives at the church without her cell phone. Someone throws her an Iphone but she throws it back. "I don't know how to use THAT!"

I've been saying the same thing since Christmas when my business partner gave me an IPhone. For five months it has sat in its box on my desk as my decidedly techno-ungeek side ruled.

My business partner loves his. He's very technologically saavy for an old guy, and I guess he thought I'd take to the phone like he has. I would watch him in awe waving his fingers over the IPhone screen like he's performing an abracadabra trick. How could I ever learn to use this complicated piece of technology? I resisted, stuck in my fear of technology.

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I'm grumpy these days. I pull up to the gas station and notice the ten-cent price jump since I pumped a few days ago. I get out of my car, muttering, immediately in a bad mood. And nobody, NOBODY seems as grumpy as me!

I feel like rioting. I feel like spilling some of the expensive gas on ground. I'm mad as hell and I can't take it anymore.

Then I calm down and pump my gas. I try not to remember how cheap gas was when I was a teenager. Back then, we could cruise the town on a gallon or two of gas. Okay, I admit it was a fairly small Iowa town to cruise through and this was about as exciting as life could get. After the ride, the driver would hold out his palm waiting for each passenger to contribute a quarter to the gas fund. Ah, those were the days: 29.9 cents a gallon for gas and even as low as 19.9 cents a gallon--do you remember when?

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As I was watching the Today show this morning, admiring Meredith Vieira maneuver a big semi-truck as part of the "Dangerous Jobs" series, my daughter walked by the TV just as a closeup of Meredith flashed on the screen.

Considering I have trouble parking my minivan, I was appreciating how much concentration and skill Meredith was demonstrating when Daughter No. 2 interrupted with, "Wow, how old IS she? Look at her wrinkles. They're worse than yours, Mom!"

Was that supposed to be a compliment? I decided to wait for the next closeup of Meredith's face to see what my daughter saw. And there they were--very distinct crow's feet appearing without the benefit of Today show makeup. Wait...one more closeup to be sure. Yes, definitely lines, lots of them. Just how old is she?

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When two of my women writers and their letters were recently featured in a story in the Arizona Republic, I was like a proud momma. In response to the question, "What would you now say to your 18-year-old high school graduating self?" both had sent in a letter to themselves from the perspective that age provides.

Jennifer advised herself to focus more on who she would become than on the what--certainly great advice to pass on to kids of any age. Lisa's letter contained several bullet points of advice, and one in particular gave me goosebumps: "Accept invitations because you never know what wonderful, unexpected surprises may be in store for you."

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If you're one of the few women who hasn't yet read Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, then you don't have very nice friends. This is the kind of read passed from friend to friend--whether you're a Gen Xer or a Baby Boomer or a woman my mother's age.

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It's taken me awhile to process my visit to Chicago and the Oprah show. After one Monday being in the audience of the Oprah show and the next Monday sitting in a courtroom on jury duty, I needed time and distance.

I didn't get selected to be on the jury. I didn't get picked to sit up front at Oprah.

Was it luck in both cases? I sat in the back row of Harpo Studios, on the opposite side from where Oprah enters. I didn't sit on the jury of a trial that would have played havoc with my schedule because the judge didn't like one of my honest answers.

But I'm sure you're more interested in Oprah than the judge.

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If you've read my bio, you know I'm an Oprah fan and even whined in a previous post about people who get to be on her show. So here's my news: In four more days, I'm going to be on the Oprah show!

Got your attention, didn't I? Are you assuming I'm going on Oprah because my children turned me in for my outdated wardrobe like the poor unfashionable woman who was on last week? (I do have a lot of really old clothes I refuse to give away and I'd love a makeover just to hear Oprah say "Go 50, go 50," about me.)

Maybe you're imagining that I'm in need of some charity, some Big Giving that only Oprah can fix with her Midas touch. (Does it count that I'll have three children in college next year?)

Maybe you're thinking the Talk Show Queen finally took note of my work with fearful flyers after she got tired my email barrage. (I've only sent two really nice ones and another one to her magazine.)

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I don't care how old you are. Children are forever joined to your hip, no matter how close or far away they are from your nose. The hard part of parenting is not jangling that invisible chain too loudly as your children get older.

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