In my mind, I'm five years old having a high old time wandering and wondering. In reality, I'm now approaching my late 60s, wowza! I tell you a lot of creativity is still to be found in this old young self. In you, too, whatever your age. Welcome to my barefoot world!
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 troub
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. Ab
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
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 f
You, liberals, want the government to give everything away for free. Huh? You want free sex and free rock-and-roll! Huh? Tickets to rock-and-roll shows cost too much for my budget. As for sex. Pay for it? You're kidding. Right? Ah, if only I had been more nimble minded to think of these answers not four decades ago, but just several weeks past. The funny thing was that the person who said it was not someone from an older generation. Unless, hmmm, I count my generation, which is now an older one. A night out means wearing my dancing shoes and carrying my fancy old-lady purse, which was free. Oh, no!
It happens. A loved one gets too old to cut her (or his) toenails. That same elderly loved one who can still drag a nine-foot ladder across the backyard and prune a lemon tree, when no one is looking. In my case, that is the Mama. I could take the Mama down to a nail salon. But, the idea of a stranger touching one's toesies is creepy. And, you never know if the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money really changes her gloves after each customer. That protection is more for the stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money than for the customers. Forget about trying to convince me otherwise. Then, there is the matter of the strong smell of chemicals. I've walked passed open doors of nail salons and been hit with a big wham of oppressive odors. The stranger-who-clips-toenails-for-money also wears a face mask, which makes me wonder why customers don't wear them either. Heaven knows what breathing in the toxins for even one minute does to your health. Of course, there is the
No, I haven't forgotten to write Part 2 about buying birthday perfume for the Mama . Yesterday afternoon while looking for a bookmark I found the envelope containing all the tags and bits of information about the perfume samples that I got her. So, part 2 is a coming. One day. These days, it just takes me a long while to get around to doing the fun writing. Something called writing deadlines get in my way, as does making meals for the crew and doing the minimum housecleaning that I can get away with, which generally means when we're all sneezing. Not to say trying to stay half a step ahead of the Mama and remember to go water the flowers and chayote vines before they wilt. Oh, and other stuff, whatever they are. By the way, is anyone out there flinching with my grammatical errors yet. I'm sure they're there. "They" referring to errors. I ought to be sleeping. I've got only 15 minutes left of the sleep cycle for my liver to regenerate itself. I read somewhe
I do feel sspassazzy about wearing something red now that I'm a young "old" fogey. Nope, not a red hat. Though I did learn I could've joined the Red Hat Society several years ago. Yesterday, I bought myself a red lacy brassiere. Ooh la-la, indeed. First time, I've ever owned a red one. Wonder why I never got one before. I liked the way I felt free, invincible, and joyful when I tried it on, similar to how I feel after having cut my hair very short. Do I feel this same way when I wear a red frock, red shoes, or red earrings? Not that I can recall, but then I rarely wear red because it is such a visible color. Hello, stop sign. When I was in eighth grade, the mama made me a lovely red dress. She was disappointed that I didn't like to wear it. Ah, kids. I would definitely wear it today. How about you? How does wearing red make you feel?
I believe that the husband and I have slipped into another level of the old rooty-toot fogeys. Friday, no Saturday, was food shopping day. I pulled into a space in the parking lot, opened the door, and saw what looked like sand-over-dried-crud on the ground. Sighing, I carefully placed my feet so as not to touch it and hauled my heavy self out of the car. "Yuck, dried vomit," I said. "Spilled drink," countered the husband. "It's all over here, too." I thought about moving the car, but let the moment past. I took out the grocery bags from the back seat and as I slammed the door I saw another one behind the passenger's seat. "Can you get that bag on your side, please?" The husband did, which meant first opening the front door, next unlocking the back door, and then fetching the bag with his bum arm. Now flash forward about 25 minutes. After loading our bags into the trunk, the husband and I noticed the front passenger side door wide open.
Today's letter is B . For more B posts, please click here . Bleeding. Definitely not to be taken lightly. Postmenopausal bleeding, in particular, for us mature ladies. Still, there's some humor to be found. Hold that thought. Serious stuff first: The medical experts say that postmenopausal bleeding refers to any bleeding (light or heavy) occurring after one full year of no flow. There could be various reasons that a post-menopausal woman may suddenly start bleeding, from benign cervical polyps to yuck! cancer. So, dear ladies, you know who you are, do not hesitate, do not pass Go . Make an appointment to see your gynecologist tout de suite. Okay, back to that held thought. Humor. Let me take you back to 2006. Then was my first bout with postmenopausal bleeding. Lady-Doc (and my gynecologist is a she) found a rather huge, very ugly hot potato of a polyp. She twisted that baby off and sent it to the lab. Ladies, the things our gynecologists must see and do. They're well wort
Alphabe-Thursday , hosted by Jenny Matlock at Off on My Tangent , is staring a new round of the alphabet. Whoo-hoo! To read more A posts, click on over to here . Of course, that's after reading my A post. ~ Su- sieee ! Mac Getting older is a learning experience. Duh. If someone gave me an operating manual for aging, I doubt that I would open it. That would be like finding out what date and time slot death has assigned me. No, thank you. I'm happy to grumble and gripe, cry and cringe, and mumble and moan through the aging process. The physical aspect, that is. Seriously, I don't think I am at all that old until I happen to glance into a mirror. Fortunately, we still haven't put up another mirror in the bathroom since the old one broke last New Year's Eve. So, what I don't see, well is what I don't see. Though a few weeks ago, someone asked me ever so sweetly and with much concern, "Are you sick?" Huh? Heck, no. Knock on wood.