Showing posts with label aging. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aging. Show all posts

Sunday, December 11, 2016

Knee Deep


Can knees cry?

That's what I feel my right knee is doing right now. Plain out bawling its tears.

If there is no longer any padding within our kneecap, does that mean the bones are grating against each other?

I know the answer. It's what the doctors have been telling me lately,"You're rubbing bone against bone." Grate, grate, grate.

Shudder.

The specialist bone doctor, who I shall call Looking-Mighty-Tired, told me on Friday that knees like mine have four options for improvement. Medications, shots, physical therapy, and surgery.  Hahaha,

Guess what? I achieved without trying. I went straight to the top of the class. Bingo! Surgery!

Ouch.

Slowly by slowly, since Friday, my brain is understanding the impact of my (without trying) achievement. Half an hour after the appointment, I had said to the Husband, "I wonder if this is outpatient surgery. I forgot to ask."

Hahahahahaha.

Right, silly me.

To be continued.

Wednesday, October 19, 2016

Oh, Gee. Oh, My. Oh, Gosh!


"Are you ready?"

"Me?"

"Susan?"

"Yup. That's me." I pushed myself off the bench and grabbed the Mama's cane.

"Take your time," the X-ray lady said. "No hurry."

"I finally think of myself as old," I said, trying not to grimace as I stiffly walked into the inner room of the X-ray laboratory.

"Is that why you gasped when I gave you the form to sign?" the office lady asked, as I walked behind her desk. "I wondered what it was on the form that made you hesitate."

"Seeing my age, yes," I said. "I don't think of myself as being that old. 62!"

"I don't think of myself as old either," said the office lady, who may have been a few years younger than me.

The X-ray lady, who looked to be in her late 40s  agreed as well.

 I felt like the three of us gave a invisible collective sigh.

Since the beginning of August I've been hobbling along most days because of the knees. At first it was my left knee that gave me trouble. Then at the beginning of October, it switched over to the right knee. Too much overcompensation, I figure, from too much lifting and carrying of heavy boxes. So forth and so on. Bleah. The X-rays show arthritis in both knees. Also, the misalignment of bones in my right knee. Fun stuff.

My knees have been an issue since I was a kid. On the bright side, it has taken 50 years for the knees to kick in and say, "It's time to see an orthopedist."

I'm missing my rides with Tilda-Hilda.  One day, soon!


It's ABC Wednesday time. (Thank you very much, ABCW team!)  Here we are at the letter O. Oh, boy; oh, girl! Click here to join in and/or to check out the other participants.

Wednesday, June 29, 2016

Youth


Old age realizes the dreams of youth: look at Dean Swift; in his youth he built an asylum for the insane, in his old age he was himself an inmate.
~ Soren Kierkegaard

When I was a youth, I dreamt of hiking mountains, pedaling bicycles, paddling boats, crafting words for a living, seeing wondrous sights, traveling to distant lands, hanging out with great friends, and sharing life with an honest, respectful, kindly, compassionate, intelligent, and funny gentle man.

I have realized, and continue to realize, my youthful dreams. How about you?

Youth has no age.
~ Pablo Picasso


It's the letter Y at ABC Wednesday. Click here to read other Y posts and/or to join in at the fun weekly meme. 

Thursday, March 24, 2016

Killer Wheels


Molly the Cat and the Mama got a set of killer wheels the other day.

Neither responded well to their portable travel wheelchair. Of course, who really wants to use such a chair much else actually own it.

"You think the cat will like that?" asked the Mama when she saw what new tool we brought into the house to help her get around safely. The day before it was a bedside commode, and the day before that a walker. Each purchased just in time for its suddenly urgent need.

When the Mama was too tired to inch her way forward any further, she sighed and allowed herself to sit in the chair and be glided to the other room. Settling on her couch, she said, "Give the cat a turn." I think Molly the Cat sighed too when she sat on the seat. She allowed herself to ride for a few feet.

The killer wheels came into the house only two days ago, but it seems more like weeks. Sigh.

In my imagination, I see the Mama, the Husband, and I charging out of the house and down the sidewalks in joyful glee. Molly the Cat, of course, sits at the window swishing her tail in Have a grand time! See you when you get back. 

I can hope.

It's the letter K at ABC Wednesday, a fun weekly meme headed by the friendly ABCW team headed by Roger Green. Click here to join in or to read the K's of other participants.

Sunday, March 20, 2016

An Adventure, Nevertheless


We are on a new adventure—the Mama, Molly the Cat, the Husband, and I.

The Mama's body is failing. Thank goodness, her spirit is not.

She's stubborn. That's a positive.

Yesterday afternoon, she faced reality. She fell! "You need to use the walker," I exclaimed.

"No! The dead people used it," she said, referring to the walker gathering dust in the garage. She used it once upon a time when she was healing from a broken hip. Somewhere along the line she let a friend borrowed it, which his wife returned after he died.

"We will get you another one," I said. It was 5 o'clock in the afternoon. Fortunately, for us, we found a bare-basic walker, without the sparkles and whistles, at the pharmacy.

Thankfully for us,  the Mama allowed herself to use the walker. I loved that at one point, as she slowly made her way down the hallway, she stamped her feet and scolded her legs for not working with her.

Last night, Molly the Cat gave the Mama an extra dosage of purrrrrrrrr while she laid on the couch in the living room. Molly first kneaded the Mama's blanket, then snuggled beside the Mama's legs. Sweet, Molly the Cat.

It seems that Molly's and the Mama's appetite are in sync. Mama eats a little bit, Molly eats a little bit. The Mama eats a good bit of her food, Molly eats her food. When Molly doesn't eat her meal, the Mama urges her to "Eat, eat, eat." I would love it if Molly could say, "You first, Madame."

As I'm writing, I can hear the Mama washing her breakfast dishes. (It was a good day for breakfast for the Mama and Molly.) My first thought when I heard the clang of dishes was to stop her and wash them for her. No. It's routine. It's normalcy. It's independence. For her. And for us.

Today, when the Mama is watching her game shows, the Husband and I will rearrange the furniture in her room so that she can move about fairly easy with her walker. She'll strike back at that change of reality. That's good.

I have begun to cry. I do my best not to do it in front of her. So far, so good.


Saturday, November 28, 2015

The Search for the Missing Teeth


"Are my teeth over there?" asked the Mama, as she slowly shuffled towards the kitchen.

Hence, began an all-day search for the Mama's dentures.

We went through her clothes pockets, looked behind and under things, moved things from here to there in her bedroom and bathroom, the kitchen, the hallway, and the living room. Several times.

The fortunate thing was that the Mama had not gone outside into her garden that morning.

The plus side to the Mama misplacing her dentures was that she found her cute, green hand towels and she reorganized her bathroom. I also think she was mentally stimulated by the challenge. I thought I could see her brain cells tightening as she recalled more of her path between the kitchen and her bedroom.

So, where did the Mama finally find her dentures?

Precisely where she put them. In her vest pocket, which was on her bedroom closet floor. The one piece of clothing she normally wears that we had not thought to look through. Oh well.

I'm actually grateful that the dentures went missing. I discovered we could all keep our sense of humor and be all low-key about it all. That hasn't always been the case. Also, the Mama has been a lot more in the moment since then. And, she was able to smile big for the camera on Thanksgiving Day!



I'm linking up with Warm Heart Wednesday, a joyful meme hosted by the lovely Jenny Matlock. Yes, yes, I know it's past Wednesday. That's the cool thing about the meme. You have several days after Wednesday to hook up.  If you'd like to participate and/or read other warm-hearted posts, please click here.


Saturday, November 21, 2015

Oh, Well


Just before we turned off the lights last night, the Husband and I were talking about something that reminded of something else that I thought would be fun to write about today. I always like when that happens.

This morning, I woke up thinking about what I wanted to write. But, I couldn't recall. The Husband couldn't remember either.

I figure the thought would pop up by lunchtime. It didn't happen. Nor, did the thought reveal itself after lunch.

Still, I wrote about something. Ha!

See you tomorrow.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

Success!

Hurrah!

The Husband and I found a market yesterday in Santa Cruz that sells beef liver and beef soup bones that I can trust. The Mama has been wanting soup-bone soup lately, too.

We bought three half-pound frozen containers of liver. Two containers went into the freezer, while the liver in third one was cooked with onions, garlic powder, salt, and soy sauce for the Mama's and my dinner last night. The Husband does not eat liver, no matter how much I tell him I cook so he'd think it was steak. He won't bite. So, he got leftover Chinese food to eat.

This morning, I asked the Mama if she liked the liver. "Yes," she said. "I feel stronger." 

Yay!

Wednesday, February 11, 2015

Endless Energy

My ABC Wednesday theme: The Mama and Her Authentic Green Thumbs
. . .and Fingers

In the late 1990s, when the Mama was in her mid 70s, her doctor prescribed her one and only medication -- a pill for low thyroid. The doctor started her with .05 mg, a very low dosage. But, in the Mama, woooo-weee! It made her run the marathon, jump over the moon, and lift several 100-pound bags of soil every day.

Essentially, taking the medicine made her tired. And, of course, after awhile she stopped taking it.

A few months went by before I discovered she was not taking her medication. While visiting her one weekend, I noticed she was looking very tired so I checked her bottle. She was very good at not refilling prescriptions.  The bottle was the one I had ordered months ago and it was still full. The Mama admitted that she stopped taking it. Sigh. 

"Why?" I asked. She shrugged. Her usual answer to questions to which she was not ever going to respond.

"That's why you're feeling tired," I said. "The doctor prescribed this medicine so you can have the energy to do your work."

After more nagging from me, the Mama reluctantly took it.

That day, I watched her run a marathon, jump over the moon, and lift several 100-pound bags of soil. I was tired keeping up with her. The following Monday, I called her doctor and told him what happened. He mumbled that he would cut the dosage in half. All was good. She was back to just running a 10K, jumping over the roof, and lifting 50 pound bags of soil.

Last year, the Mama's thyroid levels had decreased, so the doctor doubled the dosage to the original .05 mg. I worried that she would start running around like crazy and hurt herself. Nothing happened. Hurrah!

All is good, as you can tell. The Mama no longer runs, jumps, and lifts like she used to, but she slowly and surely moves around her gardens, front and back, happily tending to their needs.


Today is the letter E at ABC Wednesday, a fun weekly meme created by Denise Nesbitt 16 rounds ago. Currently it is being administered by Roger Green at Ramblin' with Roger, with the help of his ABC Wednesday crew.  Please click here to read other ABC posts.

Tuesday, December 9, 2014

Rusted Running Feet


Plod, plod, plod. I jogged nonstop all the way around the block. Nearly one-quarter of a mile that first day. Yes, it was tough. On my lungs. On my knees. On my whole body.

Lumber, lumber, lumber.
The second day, I jogged, gasping, but nonstop, for half a mile.

When I got home, I told the Husband that my jogging went from  plod, plod, plod to lumber, lumber lumber.

The Husband asked, "How is plodding different from lumbering?"

The sound is different. It is.

Pad, pad, pad. My gait sounded like Molly the Cat's when she scoots across the kitchen floor in search of something mischievous to do. I went three-quarters of a mile that third day. I remembered to breath in through my nose and not my mouth. I tried not to think of the twinge in my right knee.

The fourth morning, I laid in bed thinking which route around the neighborhood would make one mile. And I thought about whether I ought to run at all. Maybe I ought to pay attention to the twinge that was now twanging in my right knee. It might go away after I stretched and rumbled along the street a bit. Or, it might tear.

I got out of bed and did my stretching exercises.  Afterwards, I decided for once in my life to pay attention to my body.

That was last week.

"Walking is just as good," the Husband said yesterday as we walked back from the bicycle shop where Tilda-Hilda was getting an extra-duty tire tube installed. "It's better for your knees."

"I know. I just miss the feeling of running."

It's been nearly 30 years since I ran -- excuse me, jogged -- on a regular basis. That was when I lived in San Francisco and ran every other day in Golden Gate Park. I liked going pad, pad, pad down the dirt paths, imagining that I was a village messenger bringing important news to the other villages. And, I liked participating in the fun races for the tee shirts. Actually the idea of doing a local 5K run in January got me motivated to see if I could actually do the motions of running again. Now I know.

Saturday, April 5, 2014

The Elephant in the Room


Lately I've been hearing this phrase a lot—the elephant in the room. For example, a character says, "We can't ignore the elephant in the room anymore."

That said, I shall address the elephant that has been showing itself the past few days on my blog. The drawings. Rather, the doodles.Those are mine, you betcha! Very rough and kid-like. You'd think I'd be embarrassed to show them. Nope.

This elephant -- my doodles -- is just another something new for me to attempt. Ever since my first grade teacher told me that my cows needed to stand on terra firma, I have been insecure about drawing, painting, sketching, and anything to do with art. Not anymore. The elephant in the room is now s-i-x-t-y and can do whatever she darn well pleases.

So, I may be posting a doodle every day of this A to Z challenge. Or not. Because I'm talking about the elephant, I may not be inclined to do any more. But, then, as I'm composing this post, I can't think of what to do with the other letters. Perhaps, I'll just post a doodle a day. Wouldn't that be cool? Maybe you'll see a doodle of a fish, a foot, or a fan on Monday. Stay tuned.

I'm participating in the Blogging from A to Z Challenge this month. To check out other participants, click here. See you tomorrow. 

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Paying No Mind to Conventions


This is dedicated to the Husband's and my friends—the Young Old Fogeys.
We Do It!
We're too old to do this.
We're too old to do that.
We're too old so some think.
But, we do it.

I'm not a young man.
I'm not a young miss.
Ah. But, we have much bliss
For we do it.

We hike up the hills.
We zip through the trees.
We pedal against the breeze.
We like to do it.

We're too old to do this.
We're too old to do that.
We're too old so some think.
Ha! We do it.
© Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.


Thursday, March 21, 2013

Prepping for the Pain. Boo!

"Boo!"

"What?!" The Husband jumped.

I got him twice already.

"Stop scaring me," he whined in a fake scaredy-cat kid's voice, after he stopped laughing.  "Stop scaring me."

Maybe I will. Maybe I won't.

I'm feeling loosely-goosely right now. Almost floating on air.

It's the ibuprofen speaking.  I took one of them red pills a few minutes before I surprised the Husband the first time. "Boo!" I'd taken 3 of them before going to bed last night. "Boo!"

I'm getting ready for a big OW! later on today. An endometrial biopsy. The doctor said it would hurt a little Hah! I know better. I've had two in the past several years. The second one was the worse and I had self-medicated myself before then. Let's just say two ibuprofen pills doesn't do it for me. The Husband said he could hear me from the waiting room.

Until yesterday, I thought I was a wimp, a weenie, a baby for not having been able to take the pain. Then, I found posts written by bloggers, as well as a couple of forums in which women expressed bloody murder about how horribly painful the endometrial biopsy was for them. There is comfort in numbers sometimes.

One blogger was very graphic--and quite funny--about her experience. Her cervix was out of reach, so her gynecologist told her to cough so it would move into a position that he could grasp it with his cold metal graspers. He had to do two attempts with the doo-hickey that scrapes the lining of the uterus. His first try did not yield enough tissue, which exasperated the blogger, as you can imagine. Before he went in again, the blogger said something about the need for anesthesia. The doctor then mumbled something about he could've applied local anesthesia. Duh!

I don't know if I'd want the local anesthesia because a big fat needle is used. A woman commented in one of the health forums that she elected to have local anesthesia. The big fat needle hurt  as much as the procedure, and then, she wrote, it didn't help numb the pain at all. The  idea of a needle going into the soft tissue down there makes me shudder. I wonder if that's how a guy feels when he gets hit in the balls.

Just so you know, not every woman in the forums I've read had painful biopsy experiences. Some felt mild pain or none at all. I am very happy for them. No, I'm not being sarcastic.

I've been putting off the biopsy for a month, okay, maybe two, in the hope that the bleeding will go away on its own. Doctors recommend that when you have postmenopausal bleeding to go check it out. The literature says that in most cases, it's essentially hormonal imbalance. Then there's the But. But, postmenopausal bleeding may be a symptom of a precancerous condition or cancer itself. In most cases, the literature says, if the endometrial cancer is caught early, it can be easily treated.

So, why did I wait? I had my reasons but I'm not going there.

Seriously: If you're beyond menopause and you begin bleeding, please go get it checked. 

Gynecologists have several methods for checking the cause of postmenopausal bleeding. The endometrial biopsy is one of them. I elect to do it because it can be done in the doctor's office and it's something I can afford as a self-pay patient.

Should your doctor suggest an endometrial biopsy, don't be put off because you read this post or heard other women complain about the pain. I do suggest that you ask your doctor what and how much over-the-counter painkillers you ought to take before you go to your appointment.

The endometrial procedure only takes a few minutes. What's a few minutes of discomfort when you consider the bigger picture, right?  Me. I will pop a few ibuprofen pills 45 minutes or so before my appointment. The husband has said he will come with me. Him being with me always helps. Maybe, I'll stop scaring him. For today, that is.

Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Going to Church with the Daddy

 

One of the last times I went to church with the Daddy was to a Good Friday service. The Mama scored big that day as she not only got the Daddy to go with her, but me. I don't know how she did it. Maybe I didn't even sulk as I drove them to church. More than likely I did daydream through the service. That is, until the Daddy caught my attention.

It was a struggle for his old bones to do all the physical activity that takes place during a Catholic mass, especially at the longer Good Friday service. You stand, sit, and kneel a lot.  I don't think the Daddy realized he was protesting out loud. I still wonder if God and I were the only ones who heard him.

Stand.
Sit.
Kneel.
"Shit."

Sit.
Stand.
Kneel.
"Fuck."

Kneel.
Stand.
"God damn."
Sit.


Stand.
Sit.
Kneel.
"Shit. Fuck. God damn."

The Husband loves this story. After all, what's not to like: An old man swears in church.

How I miss the Daddy.

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Jenn's Challenge: S-i-x-t-y Things!


My birthday was a couple months of ago. It was a delightful day, spent wandering with the Husband. One of the many highlights of the day was a package from Jenn, a dear long-time friend. Many years ago we worked together in a community-based nonprofit in San Francisco. She  developed on-the-job-training jobs for at-risk youth, while I counseled them about staying in school.

Jenn and I had a lot of fun moments within our serious ones. She could get me to do things I would not consider doing, such as buying a disco dress in all its femme fatal glory. Not just once, but twice. And, then there was that time we were walking back from some serious moment, talking about non-serious things as we passed by the panhandlers, street musicians, and the folks talking into objects before there were cellphones on Market Street. We stopped in front of a wig store and gazed at the display of gigantic Barbie doll heads sporting long and short hairdos.

"I wonder how I'd look in a long blond-haired wig," I said.

"Let's find out," Jenn said, with her delightful twinkle of challenge in her eye. "I'll try one, too."

I looked quite ridiculous, and quite enjoyed the frivolity of it all.

Back to the package that Jenn sent me on my birthday. I didn't open it until we were settled in at my favorite place to eat breakfast. All I saw were a bunch of envelopes. My first thought was that Jenn had given me invitations to send for something I knew not what.  I dreaded the idea.

I opened the first envelope: A birthday card. The next, another birthday card. And so on it went until I had 12 birthday cards before me. Why twelve? 12-12-12 was the date.

Very sweet.

All saying in some way or another Happy 60th Birthday!

Except I wasn't.

But, that's what made the birthday gift from Jenn so perfect. It was just so like Jenn to want to do something special for me on my birthday and to get my age wrong.

I'm glad she my age wrong. The idea of turning 60 is a startling idea, more than any other age.

I saw Jenn a few weeks after my birthday. She apologized profusely. I told her, "I'm glad you did. You're preparing me for turning 60."

Jenn said, with that twinkle of challenge in her eye. "Then, Sue, you should do 60 new things before your birthday. Things you've never done before."

Stay tuned, dear readers.

Wednesday, February 6, 2013

Leaks!

Unless otherwise stated, all words and images © by Su-sieee! Mac
Warning: It's graphic today.

Leaking things.
Under the car.
Around the base of the toilet.
Under the water heater.
 

Leaking bodies.
From the gut.
Norovirus.
Postmenopausal bleeding.


Aaaaaaaaaaaack.


This will all stop.
Eventually.
Hopefully,
sooner.
Not later.

Thursday, October 25, 2012

What's the Word?

What's the word I'm thinking of?

Damn. What's the word?

That's my life these days. And, that's not good when you make your livelihood as a writer.

The word I'm trying to think of is usually a simple word, too. Forget about asking for an example, because I can't remember any one of my 500 million+ instances at the moment.

All I know is that the word I'm trying to think of just dangles ghost-like in my mind. I really dislike the way a word plays hide-and-seek with me.

If the Husband happens to be nearby, I'll ask him for help. "What's the word that means  blah blah blah." Most often, thank goodness, he knows the word I'm seeking. Some times, he throws out a bunch of words. None of which fit what I'm wanting to write. Other times, well, let's just say that I just type in blab blab blab and move on to my next thought, choosing to believe that the word will show itself. Eventually, it does. So far. Thank goodness.

This trouble of finding the right word snuck up on me all of a sudden. But, then, it could've been gradual. I don't know.  If I were to believe the psychobabble I was taught in my 12th grade psychology class, my mental capacity started going downhill right after I graduated high school. Ha! Seriously, I was taught that. I hope they don't still feed that kind of rot to kids. I mean, come on, what a way to discourage the adventure of starting off being a post high school kid. (Well, there's an example for you. Instead of a cool, smart precise word, I give you"post high school kid".)

What was I talking about? As usual, I find myself thinking about something way in the past. That's another thing. How did I suddenly become one of the oldest elephants in the room? One thing about being an oldest one, sometimes the very young ones applaud you for doing something you normally do—such as catch a fly ball (not that I do that) or walk up a mountain (that I still do).

I know I'm rambling now.  Before I go down another wordy path, I shall say this: I think part of my problem was/is due to menopause/postmenopause.  Not all. Maybe 30 percent. I didn't get the hot flashes, which I suppose was a good thing. At least my memory lapses weren't/aren't so bad that I forgot that I did agree to skip exchanging Christmas presents. But, then, I can't recall.

Here, word. Come here, word.

By the way, if I've already written about this. Well, uhm, Merry Christmas!

© 2012 Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Digging Canals for the Mama


Several days ago, the Mama fell twice as she was watering her vegetables. I didn't see either fall, but fortunately she told me about each one just after it happened.

I had gone out to give her a juice drink. It was a hot day and my mission was to keep her hydrated whether she liked it or not.  As I waited for her to gulp her drink (Sipping? No such thing when she's on a task), she mentioned that she was wet because she slipped and fell on top of the beans. If she hadn't said anything, I wouldn't have noticed she was wet. When I looked at the beans, I couldn't tell that anything was wrong. The woman is that light.

"Here, let me finish watering," I said, reaching for the hose.

"No, I can do it," she said, swerving away from me.

After three times of going back and forth, I let it go. After nine years of living with her, I have finally learned to choose my battles. Assured that she hadn't hurt herself, I went back inside to work.

About 45 minutes later, I was back outside with a cup of water and her medicine. (She knows that she has to take it at noon, but when she's outside working on something, she won't stop to come inside for medicine. See, this is the advantage of working at home for me.) Mama was now sitting down as she watered her flowers.

"I do that when I water this section," I said, handing the cup of water to her. Out of her whole backyard of vegetable and flower gardens, she lets me water a small part of the yard.

"I'm almost finished," she said, as she wiped a hand on her pants and held it out for her pill.

"I'll water the chayote this afternoon," I said. "When it's cooler."

She nodded. Then she said, "I fell on the onions. That's why they're flat."

"What? You fell again."

She nodded.

I put my hand on the hose. "Let me finish watering."

"No. No. This is it. This is the end."

"Why are you falling so much?" I asked.

She shrugged. I walked around her garden, noticing the muddy patches around the rows. Something had to be done. She waters her garden by hand, which means she drags the hose behind her as she walks on the uneven soil between the rows. She's fine when she's not impatient or tired. Sigh.
 
I don't want to take over watering her garden until it's absolutely necessary. I don't think that time is here yet.  Her garden is her domain. Her sense of peace. Her last sense of independence. I saw how depressed and angry she got when her brothers took over her garden many years ago. The Mama will be nine years shy of 100 soon. Gardening makes her happy and keeps her strong and healthy. I want her to to do it as long as she is able. 

"I'm going to dig the canals deeper," I said.

"No,"she said. "I'm okay."

"I don't want you to fall."

"I fall, I fall."

"You can break your leg or something. You know you don't want to go to the hospital."

Silence. I took that as a good sign.

"With deeper canals, you can make the water go slower. The vegetables will get more water that way. You know, the way Daddy did it. Remember."

Still silence. I proceeded to dig the first canal. I am my Daddy's daughter. I not only went with him to the fields that he irrigated, but I also helped him put up his garden every year when he got older. I enjoyed digging those canals for the Mama, even though it was a hot day. I liked getting my hands dirty as I dug and molded the canals, and then later getting them muddy as I guided the water through the canals. I quite understand the Mama's love of working and being outside.

So, now, if the Mama is willing to be patient, she can sit on her stool and watch the water go down each vegetable row, helping it along as needed. It may not stop her from falling in the backyard completely, but maybe it will be fewer times.  I can only hope.

© 2012 Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.

Thursday, June 21, 2012

Older

I'm old. Old. Old. Old. Old. Old.

Well, we're both hold. The Husband and me. Oh, he won't like me saying that. But, it is true. We are old.

Yet.

Yesterday, we pedaled our cruiser bicycles against that defiant wind for several miles to buy three pounds of freshly-picked locally grown, sun-kissed cherries.

Very yummy cherries indeed.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining about getting older. As wise folks say, "What's the use of complaining?" I'm just stating the fact today to myself, and you happen to be in on it.

Still, no matter how old I am, the Mama is older.

As many of you know, nothing is going to stop her from doing what she wants to do.  Example: The back yard that is her jungle of a vegetable garden. The better description is the mad scientist's horticultural sandbox. Any day, I expect her to tell me that she tore out all the bean plants and sown new seeds. Why? Because she can't stand that the plants are producing two and three inch beans, which the Husband and I are happily consuming one meal at a time.

Here's a look at her garden today.

Here's how it looked one month ago. Believe me when I say she does the garden by herself. She only lets me water the chayote vines (which aren't seen here) and that's after I whined I had to learn some day. Maybe next year, I'll get promoted to watering the bittermelon rows.

Here's a closer look of the Mama's garden today:

And, there she was at it one month ago!

I hope that I will be able to reach much older.

© 2012 Su-sieee! Mac. All rights reserved.

Monday, March 26, 2012

Remembering. . .What?

Some days are better than others when it comes to my memory.

Who am I kidding? It's really down to moments.

Once upon a time, a long time ago, when I was 17, I memorized all of Horton Hears a Who! by Dr. Seuss for a public-speaking competition. I recall stumbling once or twice. Maybe trice. Ah, I had a strong memory back then.

My long-term memory is still rather good. I just related a tale from over 40 years ago, didn't I?

It's the short-term memory. Sigh. The other day, I was telling the Husband how many states allow employers to pay their workers who receive tips far less than minimum wage, as long as the combination of their tips and hourly rate (let's say $2.13/hour) totals up to either the federal or state minimum wage, whichever is the higher amount in the state. Yes, I know. The Husband could not believe it either. I'm glad to say that California does not have that law. I told the Husband that I learned all this from research I had done the day before for the occupational profile I had written. But, I couldn't for the life of me remember what the occupation was. That was quite troublesome, you betcha.

That incident happened at around 2 p.m. in a supermarket parking lot. About five hours later, while I was pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator to make dinner, it suddenly came to me. Skycaps! That was the occupation.

And, since we're on the subject of skycaps, did you know that some airlines are now charging passengers $2 a bag for using skycap service? The bummer part about that is the money does not go to the skycaps. Passengers think it does, so they don't tip the skycaps for their help. Thank goodness for federal minimum wage. Currently that is $7.25 per hour. California's minimum wage is $8.00 per hour, which is one of the highest hourly rates for a state. Can you believe that some people believe that the federal minimum wage is just too high? Seriously. Some politicians want to abolish minimum wage because it will create more jobs. They obviously don't live on minimum wage.

I have digressed. What was I talking about?