Cooties

(Okay folks! I'm back again and will attempt to Dishin' it Out a la Ginger, our fearless founder!

I write historical novels. Some are romances, some fantasies, some straight out bio-fic, like A Master Passion, which is about Alexander Hamilton and his Betsy. The settings I work in range from the Middle Ages to the American Revolution to 1870's Pennsylvania, just after the Civil War, so sometimes I'll talk writing and sometimes history. Seems my own childhood has lately become "historic" too, so sometimes I'll reminisce and/or grumble  about "nowadays."   :)

Lizzie helping me write

http://amzn.to/1UDoLAi    Books by JW at Amazon

Remember when we were little girls, and boys had “cooties?”

Now, I wasn’t a prissy child. I played with frogs, pollywogs, and worms. I did outdoor tasks, such as pulling weeds and mowing, and I knew the correct flip of the wrist to toss dog poop into the acre of weeds which surrounded our house. In summer, when I was little, I made “roads” and built little towns and set my plastic cowboys in the gravel of the driveway and then flooded them with the hose to create a flash-flood disaster upon those dusty plains, like the budding writer I was. Whatever, the point is I was no stranger to grub, grit, and sweat.

But little boys were definitely a level-up gross. They smelled funny, like members of some other tribe—which, of course, they were, especially in the 50's. Hair was cut short in those days, so their big heads and pink scalp was always in view. Lots of them picked their noses. They sneezed and burped and farted—and then laughed about it. Their ears might be full of wax. (A girl’s ears might be full of wax, too, but she at least had hair to hide it.) Boys were rough and loud, likely to start pushing and shoving when they were asked to line up, instead of just stand and wait for the bell sensibly like the girls did.   

Then, the inevitable change. Suddenly those scalped boys—some still not as tall as we were—became, for the first time ever, extremely thought-provoking. Friends started to-- “like” was the euphemism--some of these boys. High School Romances began. The participants traded each other like cards, one by one, entering the lists of drama & heartbreak. Sometimes a girl was popular and sometimes she was not, mostly depending, back in those days, upon how dreamy/eligible her boyfriend was or whether she was a cheerleader. Boys became men and girls became women. The mating game began in earnest, with all those triumphs, tragedies, ecstasies, and Nymph-and-Satyr-Aphrodite-in-her-Nightie lusts and longings.

I’m sure you remember all that—some good, some bad, some bleeeh--so I’ll fast forward, because it’s easy to forget now, too, here in my Crone age. Maybe, in my case, it’s because all the organic bits that made the other sex desirable have been chopped out, for one pretty good reason or another, by surgeons.

Many older women, I know, do not share this experience of aging, but frankly, I'm back to square one. I have looked in the mirror and what I see reflected there is no longer any sort of goddess. The same holds true for my male age mates. Testosterone burns (and burn-out) have scarred these long ago super-cool, motorcycle ridin', guitar pickin', greased-lightning heart-throbs.  

 

I have one of these senior gentlemen at home, who, despite 50+ years of marriage--Purple Hearts all around--and despite pleading and wiles, has remained steadfastly impervious to domestication. I'm still living with a “Bear with furniture.” I have to sneak his outer clothes, those vests, jackets, and gym clothes into the wash, because little matter that these garments are about to achieve sentience and walk on their own, they "aren't dirty yet."  

His principal lair is a special chair in the living room, around which I may not clean because I’m can't return it to the exact spot. Daily, there are certain paths that he walks, this old caged bear, TV breaks to the fridge, or into his sanctum sanctorum of a workroom filled with sawdust, tools and firearms, and or to his computer, or to the liquor cabinet for a late afternoon libation said to be in honor of a certain deceased uncle of mine who introduced him to this venerable Celtic practice.

Male and female have never been reading from the same instruction manual, particularly when we attempt to express our feelings to one another. Books have been written on the subject of communication between male and female. Even so, on top of the ordinary Mars/Venus thing, for me, the old otherness is back again. We're in hitch--we're used to it--but we're just by nature a tad alien to one another. 

Doesn't mean we can't get along and work together, though, which, I guess, is the change from childhood. Sort of like this amazing old photo:

Kenya, 1929

~~ Juliet Waldron

http://amzn.to/1UDoLAi    Books by JW at Amazon

Sisters Series, #2, Pretty German girl hopes to find herself a nice Pennsylvania husband...

http://amzn.to/2gvXVxl  Butterfly Bride    B01MEENIRA

Chapter Three - Life is A Bowl of Toilets and I Feel Flush #humor @gingersimpson

Strangers in the Night

Oh, how I wish I still had a memory.  That's one of the first things to go as you age.  One day you're heading down the  hall and you suddenly realize you have no idea why...or even of your final destination.  The first time it happens is a horrible feeling, but soon becomes so commonplace you simply rearrange your life to accommodate those lapses in memory.  Some use a checklist before leaving home to make sure they don't burn the house down by forgetting to turn off appliances.  I don't bother because I can't count how many times I've made a list for the grocery story and get there without it.  I've solved the key finding dilemma by attaching them to my purse strap with a hook, and now the problem is remembering where I parked by car.  Thank goodness for the panic button on the back of the keyless entry or I'd still be wandering around in the parking lot at Walmart.

And...is there anything more embarrassing than running into people you don't remember, especially when they seem to know you quite well?  If the "strangers" are close to my age, I try to fish for tips on how we know one another.   Hopefully, they won't remember when they get home, anyhow.

I think everyone over fifty should have their names embroidered on their clothing in a highly visible area, and in large letters for those of us who left our glasses somewhere and can't find them.

Here's an example of what might be looming in our future:

Two elderly women were out for a cruise, neither could barely see over the dashboard of the large vehicle.  As they moved along the boulevard at a healthy clip, they reached an intersection where the traffic light was red.  Instead of stopping, the car went right through.

The woman in the passenger seat glanced back over her shoulder while mumbling, "I must be losing my my mind.  I swear that light was red."  

After a few more minutes they came to another intersection and red light and just as before, the car raced right through.  A little further down the street, it happens again.

Now the lady in the passenger seat begins to panic, but before she can say anything, her friend runs another red light.

Fearing for her life, the passengers turns wide eyes on her friend.  "Mildred, do you realize you've been running every red light since we left home.  You would have killed us both."

Mildred turned to her with a bewildered look.  "Oh crap!  Am I driving?"

******

Along with your memory goes you eyesight.  God was kind here because most people over fifty have lost some degree of vision, most likely to balance the shock of the body changes we experience.  Luckily, we don't have to wear our corrective lenses to bed or senior sex would come to an immediate halt.  If we saw one another with 20/20 accuracy, we'd probably consider celibacy a serious cure.

Senior sex, you say?  Studies show that most adults stay sexually active well into their golden years and actually enjoy the intimacy more than when they were young.  I have to admit, I'm trying only because I've read that sex can prolong your life.  I view intercourse as a monthly dose of exercise.  Why jog when I can make love and cause my heart to race just by trying to assume positions I favored in my younger years.  I've decided the "missionary" is my favorite at this stage of life since I spend most of my time praying for the torture to end.  The article stated seniors actually enjoy sex more?  I've come to the conclusion the study most likely was based on bedroom noises.  It's hard to decipher between someone lost in the throes of ecstasy and someone with the sudden onset of leg cramps.  Face it, at fifty or older, most of us just aren't as agile as we used to be.

I just don't want to be like the women in these jokes:

An elderly woman ambles down the nursing home hallway.  She stops in front of each old man along the way, rests on her walker, flips up the bottom of her nightgown and says, "Supersex?"

After stopping in front of four or five gentlemen and not receiving any response, she pauses before a newcomer who sits in his wheelchair.  Again, she flips up the hem of her gown and says, "Supersex?"

The elderly man gives her a quick once over.  "I'll take the soup, please."

OR

Eight-year-old Bessie bursts into the rec room at the retirement home.  She holds her clenched fist in the air.  "Anyone who can guess what' s in my hand can have sex with me tonight."  A yell comes from an elderly man in the back of the room.  "An elephant?"

Bessie thinks for a moment then smiles.  "Close enough!"

My gradual loss of vision and sex drive coincided with the spouting of long hairs on my neck and a few on my upper lip.  What's that about?  I had a hysterectomy, took hormone replacement pills daily, and now I'm growing a beard?  I don't know about you but I think my husband should be the only one in the house with whiskers or a moustache.  It's even more humiliating when I have to ask him to "pluck" me since I can't see well enough to do it myself, and he can't hear without his hearing aids.  I can't stand the look of rejection on his face when I clarify what I asked for, so I've taken to getting facial waxes at my local salon.  

I remember my first visit when I first read the menu and found they offered "bikini waxing."  I might have considered one if I had a bathing suit body, but a few stray pubic hairs really are the least of my concern at this point.  In my younger years I did do a little trimming here and there on occasion, but I never considered asking a stranger to do it for me.

I realize I'm touching on a very sensitive topic, but consider this a warning.  Be thankful you have what you have, while you have it.  One of life's best kept secrets is that the hair on your head aren't the only locks that turn gray, and worse than that, not only men develop male-pattern baldness.  Let me just say that baby girls may look cute out of their diapers, but there is nothing attractive about a graying, balding who-who.  The way gravity is shifting everything downhill, it won't be look before my boobs hid the problem anyhow...as long as I don't lay down.

Here's a few things you can count on after you turn fifty:

• Time may be a great healer, but it's a lousy beautician.
• There are three signs of old age...the first is memory loss...I can't remember the other two.
• Your mind wanders.  Sometimes it leaves completely.
• You are definitely old when you get the same sensation in your stomach from a rocking chair that you once got from riding a roller coaster.
• Never read the small print.  Too much effort for something you won't like anyhow.
• If you let a smile be your umbrella, you'll most likely walk around soaking wet.
• There are two things you will do with greater frequency...urinate and attend funerals.
• After a certain age, if you don't wake up aching in every joint, you're most likely dead.

Stay tuned for Chapter Four next time.

Chapter Three - Life is a Bowl of Toilets and I Feel Flush #humor @mizging

Breaking Up is Hard to Do!

My granny always swore she could predict the weather by her aches and pains.  Of course, when I was young, I laughed at the idea, but now I wish I could apologize for doubting anything she told me.  I never realized I'd learn so much from that lady, and I hope even though she's been gone for a lot of years, she knows I really miss her and I'm not laughing anymore.

I had arthroscopic surgery on my knee years and years ago to fix a torn meniscus...my old softball injury.  For those of you who don't what it is that I tore, all I can tell you that that it's in your knee and if you tear it, you can't walk, and it hurts like a son of a bee-atch.  At the time the new and improved procedure was less invasive and repaired the problem, but wasn't without it's own pain.  I spent eight glorious weeks in a full-leg cast that weight as much as an anchor.  I slept on a lumpy roll-away bed at the foot of my usual, comfy water mattress because the excess weight of the plaster kept me sunk to the bottom and caused a tidal wave that tossed my husband out of bed every time I tried to turn over.

I'm sure my then husband was glad when I finally had the cast removed, but I'm POSITIVE the doctor was.  I must be listed somewhere as the most annoying person ever to wear a cast and the biggest pain in the butt.  I can recall at least six occasions where I showed up at his office complaining about that awful abomination.  (You thought it was going to say Obamanation, didn't you?)  Same thing, just a different kind of discomfort.

The day after I came home from the hospital, my then husband took me out to dinner to help me forget the grudge I had against the witch who slid into first base and took me and my knee out of the first game of our district tournament.  Let me describe how I felt.  If you picture stuffing your leg into one of those long cardboard rolls that holds wrapping paper, then try to maneuver gracefully, you'll have a fair idea of what it was like...but don't forget to add about fifty pounds to the mental image.

Sometime during dinner, I got a horrific cramp and stood up with speed so blinding, I knocked the chair over.  Of course the idea was to walk it off.  The spasm was forgotten when the entire cast shifted downward and rested like a razor blade atop my foot.  Talk about a cylindrical torture chamber!!  I demanded my then husband take me to the doctor and make him fix the problem.  At that time, I didn't realize the problem was ME!

The doctor used one of the handy little saws and removed the offending cast, but he immediately applied another fifteen layers of plaster.  Makes sense to me, doesn't it to you?  Add another three hundred pounds to an injured limb that's trying to heal.

That cast lasted almost a whole day and a half before it too shifted down and impeded my ability to walk.  I had already made numerous calls asking how to scratch an itch, how to bathe, and why my leg was sweating, so I wasn't in a hurry to visit his office again, at least not so soon.  I decided to take matters into my own hands.  Bad decision.  I limped to the garage, and using a pair of pruning shears, tried to make my own adjustment.

Did it work?  Well, it was no easy feat.  Remember I had my leg in a full-length cast so there was no bending involved except at the waist.  Do you have any idea how dizzy you get bending over for twenty minutes while trying to re-sculpt plaster?

I managed to carve a little arc about the top of my foot.  I was soooo proud of my ingenuity...until I tried to amber back inside the house.  My work was for not.  The cast slipped further down, and now the edges rested on the floor and made walking impossible.  I hopped back inside and called the doctor.

He wasn't impressed with my handiwork, but by now realized he had to fix the problem and make me go away for a while.  There had to be a solution besides amputating my leg,  He cupped his chin like Sherlock Holmes, and pondered.  I'm pretty sure somewhere in his mind was the old saying, "They shoot horses don't they?"

Finally, he had an "aha" moment.  A lighter cast.  What a concept.  So off I went to the casting room once again to "go under the saw."  This time instead of plaster, the tech applied layers of fiberglass, I'm sure praying the fix solved my dilemma and he didn't have to see me again anytime soon.  Too bad, it didn't.

This cast shifted easier than the other, and in two days, I painfully discovered that fiberglass cuts even deeper than plaster.  Sooo, back to the drawing board.

The doctor "threw in the proverbial towel" and left the problem in the hands of the casting tech.  I'm fairly sure his remedy didn't originate from medical school, but at this point I was ready to try almost anything.  He attached an actual garter clip to the top of the cast and gave me an elastic belt with instructions to put it on and latch the two together.  The whole thing reminded me of my days wearing a "kotex" belt, but off I went thinking I'd have no more problems.

WRONG!  The solution might have been ingenious, but it didn't work.  The weight of the cast, although lighter than the previous one, still slid down atop my foot.  The elastic belt (the clue being ELASTIC) simply stretched, cutting into my waist and adding new discomfort to the situation.  Now I had an rash around my middle, a curved spine to go with my limp, and looked like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  Remember when someone gave you an "Indian burn" when you were a kid.  That's what my middle felt like.  Yikes!

The look on the technician's face when I showed up again spoke volumes.  He motioned me to the table and displaying knitted brows and his bottom lip sucked between his teeth, promptly put my foot into the cast to support the cylinder.  Why didn't they think of that before?  I'll tell you why.  Somewhere, someone must have known it was a bad idea.  Although I limped out of the office with a now fully-supported cast, little did I know that my severe claustrophobia would kick in.

For those of you who share claustrophobic feelings you can appreciate how awful this was.  First I tried relaxation techniques, picturing myself on a beach in Fiji, but anywhere my mind took me, that damn cast went along.  Thank goodness I had some Valium left in the medicine chest or I wouldn't have made it through the night.  I even made another trip to the garage, but found NOTHING that would cut through fiberglass short of a table saw, and I wasn't about to risk that.  I hobbled back inside, took another Valium and tried to relax.

At five A.M., I drove myself to the emergency room, and paced back and forth with the worst cramp ever.  Talk about a fierce Charlie Horse...wow, I had to get that cast off my foot.  I'm a foot jiggler, and unable to perform that ritual caused every muscle in my leg, ankle and foot to tighten into a painful wad.

I was so grateful to see that little saw again.  At this point I didn't care if I had to hold the cast up with my teeth, I just needed relief.  The doctor skillfully and quickly (not taking the amount of time I had to cut an arch in the cast) removed the fiberglass from my foot, then adjusted the fit of the cast by applying foam between my skin and the sharp edges.  Oh, I love that man to this day!  I managed to get back home before my then husband even knew I was gone, and I handled that horrid cast for the remaining six weeks.  You don't really appreciate freedom until the day the cast comes off for good.  Of course, after eight weeks, I had a choice of shaving my legs or braiding the hair, but that was a small price to pay for joy!

Just my luck...the very week after I had my cast removed, my youngest son broke his leg.  His pain was my pain, his itches, mine too.  Listening to him complain was like having my leg casted all over again.  I just don't understand how he got to be such a wimp.

Oh, this experiences is all a distant memory now, and just like Granny did, I've become proficient in predicting the weather.  My conclusion...try hard not to injure anything.  The repercussions last long beyond the healing process, and I've concluded that if I ever break or tear anything again, I hope they do shoot me.

*******

An elderly woman calls 911 on her cell to report that her car had been broken into.  In hysteria, she explains how someone has stolen her steering wheel, stereo and stripped the dash of all buttons. 

The dispatcher tries to calm her.  "Just sit tight ma'am.  An officer is on the way."

When the policeman arrives, he promptly calls dispatch.  "Disregard the theft call.  Mrs. Ramsey got in the back seat by mistake."

*****

I hope you'll continue to come back for more from LIABOTAIFF.

Life is a Bowl of Toilets...

Two of the first books I published started with these words, but like all poor suckers who didn't do their homework, I signed with Publish America and probably haven't made enough money to cover the nail polish I wore off while typing the manuscripts.  Both are short reads...perfect for one sitting in the john.  :)

While trying to think of something humorous to share, I thought, why not an excerpt from Life is a Bowl of Toilets and I Feel Flush.  I did get some pretty great reviews on my efforts, but this particular book is fraught with errors, yet PA didn't think they were important enough to fix.  Hope you find something to chuckle about in this offering:

Strangers in the Night

Did I say memory? I wish I still had one. That’s one of the first things to leave. One day you are heading down the hallway and you suddenly realize you have no idea why…or even of your destination. The first time it happens is a terrible feeling, but then it becomes commonplace
and you just have to rearrange your life to accommodate it. I now use a checklist before leaving home to make sure I do not burn the house down by forgetting to turn off appliances. I have lots of time to create the list because I usually am searching for the car keys that are in a spot
that I can’t recall.

And…there is nothing more annoying than running into people you don’t remember, especially when they know your name. It’s embarrassing to say the least. If they are my age, I want to ask for tips on how they recall who I am, but then I probably wouldn’t remember what they said anyhow. I think everyone over fifty should have their names embroidered on their clothing in a highly visible area…and in large letters for those of us who put our glasses somewhere and can’t
remember where.

Here’s a prime example of what may be looming on my horizon:

Two elderly women were out driving in a large car—both could barely see over the dashboard. As they were cruising along, they came to an intersection where the traffic light was red. Instead of stopping, they went right on through.

The woman in the passenger seat thought to herself, “I must be losing it. I could swear that light was red.” 

After a few more minutes they came to another intersection and red light. Again they went right through. A little further down the street, it happens again.

Now the woman in the passenger seat is beginning to panic, but before she can say anything, they’ve run through another red light.

Fearing for her life, the passenger turns to her friend and says, “Mildred, do you realize that you have been running every red light? You could have killed us both!”

Mildred turned to her and responded, “Oh crap, am I driving?”

Along with the memory goes your eyesight. God was kind here because most people over fifty have lost some degree of their vision. I figure he planned it to balance the shock of the body changes we experience. Luckily we don’t wear our corrective lenses to bed or senior sex would come to an immediate halt. If we could see each other with 20/20 accuracy, we’d probably consider celibacy a serious cure.

Senior sex you say? Studies show that most adults stay sexually active well into their golden years and actually are enjoying it more than when they were young. I have to admit that I am trying it only because I hear it can prolong ones’ life. I view intercourse as my monthly dose of exercise. Why jog everyday when I can make my heart race three times faster by just trying to assume some of the positions I liked in my younger years? I have decided the “missionary” is my  favorite at this stage since I spend most of time praying for the torture to end…and I have finally come to the conclusion that the enjoyment study might have been based on bedroom noises. It is hard to decipher between someone lost in the throes of ecstasy and someone with the sudden onset of leg cramps. Face it, at fifty and over most of us just aren’t as agile as we used to be.


I just don’t want to be like the women in these joke I recently received in my email:

An elderly woman was ambling down the nursing home hallway. In front of each old man, she would stop, rest on her walker, and flip up the bottom of her gown and say, “Supersex.”
 After stopping in front of four or five gentlemen, and without having received a response of any
kind, she paused before a newcomer sitting in his wheelchair and again flipped up the hem of her nightgown and said, “Supersex.”
The elderly gent gave her a quick once-over, and without hesitation responded, “I’ll take the soup.”

OR

Eighty-year-old Bessie bursts into the rec room at the retirement home. She holds her clenched fist in the air and announces, “Anyone who can guess what’s in my hand can have sex with me tonight.” An elderly gentleman in the rear shouts out, “An elephant?” Bessie thinks for a moment and says, “Close enough!”

My gradual loss of my vision coincided with the sprouting of long hairs on my neck and a few on my upper lip. What’s this all about? I had a hysterectomy, take hormone replacement pills daily, and now I am growing whiskers? I don’t know about you but I think my husband  should be the only one in the house with a beard or moustache. It is yet another humiliating experience of aging to have to ask my husband to “pluck” my neck since I can’t see well enough to do it myself…and it’s amazing how quickly they grow back. I had noticed that the hair growth on my legs and under my arms had minimized so I guess this is the repercussion from that. On a good note, having my moustache waxed on a monthly basis at my local salon has taken a few of the pleats out of my lips.

I remember when I first heard the term “bikini wax.” I might have considered one if I had a bathing suit body, but a few stray pubic hairs were the least of my concerns. In my younger years I did do a little time trimming of that area on occasion just so all those little curly hairs did not peek out of my undies, but I sure as heck was not about to go have a stranger take care of the problem for me. Isn’t life humiliating enough without letting other people know how hairy you are? I realize this is a sensitive topic, but I do want to warn those of you who find this a common complaint; be thankful you have what you have while you have it. One of life’s best kept secrets is that the hairs on your head aren’t the only locks that turn gray, and worse than that, not only men develop male-pattern baldness. Let me just say that baby girls may look cute out of their diapers, but there is nothing attractive about a graying, balding who-who. But, the way my body is aging, my boobs will hide the problem before long…as long as I don’t lay down.
 
  Are you kidding me?  $24.75 for a 50 page book?  If anyone wants a copy, I have several I'll be willing to see for less than half the price.  Gees, it's not like I'm Nora Roberts.

George Carlin's Views on Aging

As I approach my sixty-fifty birthday, this seems like a timely post.  I keep asking myself, "When did I get old?"  I  went to bed one night, a young person, and woke up facing medicare...or so it seems.  Yes, I'm very grateful to still be here and I hope God allows me to hang around a while longer. I've got lots to accomplish and I just bought a new car.  :)

I've often heard that laughter can prolong your life...so my friends, read, laugh and live life like everyday is your last.  You never know if it might be.  To coin someone's brilliant words:  Life's journey is not to arrive at the grave safely, in a well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, totally worn out, shouting, "holy sh*t...what a ride."  I'm sure Mr. Carlin did just that.  :)  He remains my favorite comedian although he's been gone for two years.

Do you realize that the only time in our lives when we like to get old is when we're kids? If you're less than 10 years old, you're so excited about aging that you think in fractions.  

'How old are you?' 'I'm four   and a half!' You're never thirty-six and a half. You're four and a half, going on five! That's the key..

You get into your teens, now they can't hold you back. You jump to the next number, or even a few ahead...

'How old are you?' 'I'm gonna be 16!' You could be 13, but hey, you're gonna be 16! And then the greatest day of your life  !   You   become   21. Even the words sound like a ceremony.YOU BECOME 21. YESSSS!!!  

But then you  turn  30. Oooohh, what happened there? Makes you sound like bad milk! He TURNED; we had to throw him out. There's no fun now, you're Just a sour-dumpling.. What's wrong? What's changed?

You  BECOME  21, you  TURN  30, then you're  PUSHING  40. Whoa! Put on the brakes, it's all slipping away. Before you know it, you  REACH  50 and your dreams are gone..

But! wait!! !  You  MAKE it  to 60. You didn't think you would!

So you  BECOME  21,  TURN  30,   PUSH  40,  REACH  50 and make  it  to 60.

You've built up so much speed that you  HIT  70! After that it's a day-by-day thing; you HIT Wednesday!

You  get into  your 80's and every day is a complete cycle; you  HIT  lunch; you  TURN  4:30; you  REACH bedtime. And it doesn't end there. Into the 90s, you start going backwards; 'I  Was JUST   92.'

Then a strange thing happens. If you make it over 100, you become a little kid again. 'I'm 100 and a half!'
May you all make it to a healthy 100 and a half!!  

HOW TO STAY YOUNG:  

1.  Throw out nonessential numbers.  This includes age, weight and height. Let the doctors worry about them. That is why you pay them.

2.  Keep only cheerful friends.  The grouches pull you down.

3. Keep learning.   Learn more about the computer, crafts, gardening, whatever, even ham radio.. Never let the brain idle.. 'An idle mind is the devil's workshop.' And the  devil's    family name is    Alzheimer's.  

4.  Enjoy the simple things.  

5.  Laugh often, long and loud. Laugh until you gasp for breath.

6.  The tears happen. Endure, grieve, and move on. The only person, who is with us our entire life, is ourselves. Be ALIVE while you are alive.

7. Surround yourself with what you love   , whether it's family, pets, keepsakes, music, plants, hobbies, whatever.....Your home is your refuge .

8. Cherish your health: If it is good, preserve it. If it is unstable, improve it.. If it is beyond what you can improve, get help.

9. Don't take guilt trips.... Take a trip to the mall, even to the next county; to a foreign country but NOT to where the guilt is.

10. Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity..  

AND ALWAYS REMEMBER:
Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take, but by the moments that take our breath away . 

 

Aging Not So Gracefully

My sister and I were talking about growing old, and we both explained our feelings in the same way. We both woke up one morning and realized we were old. I'm not just talking wrinkles...although that's a big concern...I mean aches, pains, eye problems, teeth problems. If you're over fifty, you're probably in the beginning stages. I hate to tell you, it doesn't get any better. I'd like to meet those people who said, "Life Begins at Forty." They forgot to mention it comes to a screeching halt after ten more years. *lol*

Cataracts is a term I've heard, but until I was diagnosed with them, I considered they only affected senior citizens. I made that comment out loud, then realized, I AM A SENIOR CITIZEN. No amount of waxing, plucking, or whining is going to change that. My friend keeps telling me to be thankful for every day I'm on THIS side of the grass, and although I am truly grateful for each and every day...I'm finding it hard to deal with looking in the mirror.

It's like your body takes on a mind separate from your own. Everything shifts at will, elongates, expands, thins, disappears or freezes up on you. As evidence I offer whatever held up my "neck skin." Clearly what ever it was has left me! And did I mention PAIN. Getting up and down is now a chore.

No one told me that blood pressure medicine causes something akin to 'male pattern baldness.' I suppose I could elect to have a heart attack with a full head of hair or hang around a while and try to cover up this bald spot smack dab in the front of my head. I stopped my hormone replacement therapy to remedy the mustache and sprouting stray hair dilemma, what next?

I've been married to my second husband for twelve years. The first picture was taken at my wedding shower, the second, recently at a Starbucks. I went to meet a new galfriend I met on the internet and thought I looked pretty good. Imagine my surprise when an old hag showed up in MY picture. I'd like to say someone photoshopped it, but I think they probably would have used someone else entirely...or at least airbrushed the face a tad.

What happened in those twelve years? Egads. In my fifties, people always told me I didn't look my age. Up until a few years ago, they even told me that. Guess what...no one is saying it anymore. I worried that since I married someone ten years younger, I would eventually really look much older than he, but I devised a plan to nag him at a rate that caused advanced aging. I checked him out today and it appears to be working. I might feel sorry for him if I wasn't so lost in my own self pity. *lol* I realize I was never a super model, but it doesn't matter how little or great the sacrifice... you either know what I mean or you will soon enough.

Oh, I know there are those of you who exercise, eat right, don't smoke, and will want to preach that you're over fifty and feeling fit and frisky, but that accounts for maybe one in fifty people. May I say...I don't like you much. *kidding.* I quit smoking in 1979, but I think the effects of the years I smoked just remained dormant until now. Those pleated lips I stopped to avoid still happened. It hardly seems fair when I didn't have an ample set of lips to begin with.


Honestly, I actually think God should have reversed the process. I don't mean to tell him what to do, but now that I'm experiencing the other end of life's spectrum, it just seems it would be easier to chalk up diminishing bladder capacity, poor eyesight, thinning hair, and holes in one's smile to being a baby. It's bad enough to watch old movies and realize that every one who starred in them is now dead, but every day, we face our own mortality. Wouldn't it be wonderful, when you lose teeth and have fat rolls around your knees, to have someone come up and chuck your cheek and say how cute you look? Ain't happnin! I'm just saying that preparing for the end of your lifetime would be a lot less painful if you grew cuter and cuddlier every day.

Okay...that's my rant and pity potty for the day. I'll try to be more upbeat tomorrow.