Today's letter is E . For more E posts, please click here . I've just only settled into a writing groove when it's time to go to the kitchen again. About eight years ago, the Mama's health was failing because of poor nutrition. All she wanted to eat was cereal or frozen waffles and 2% lactose-free milk. Thank goodness for milk. Maybe if she didn't work so hard and long in her flower and vegetable gardens, she could've made do. But, the Mama can't stand still. And, as we all know, when we live alone, we pretty much eat what we want to eat and when we want to eat it. So, about eight years ago, it was quite obvious that her high-carbo, minuscule protein diet had taken its toll on her body. The decision wasn't easy for everyone involved, but it was made. The mama, the husband, and I became roomies. Today, the husband and I seem to spend a lot of time in the kitchen every day. Me cooking; him washing dishes; and me, him, and the mama eating. Most days, three

Warning: This post is really about nothing. My first try was 9 seconds. My second try was 20-something seconds. My third try? Ah, a full minute. Pretty good for a heavy-set old lady balancing on one foot. My left foot, too. And, that isn't even my dominant side. "What are you doing over there?" asked the husband as he was washing the lunch dishes. "I'm seeing how long I can stand on one foot," I said, setting the timer on the refrigerator door. "Why?" he asked, not turning around. "Because you never know when our survival depends on me being able to balance on one foot." He laughed. Of course. I did, too. "When could that happen?" "Say a crook holds us hostage in a bank. He'll only let us go if an old lady can stand on one foot for five minutes." "Like that could happen," the husband said, rinsing the dishes. "You never know," I said. "I want to be ready for any event. There could be a Surv

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 C . For more C posts, please click HERE . On the husband's and my last 23rd date, we got in our car and drove east over the mountain to finally do the wander we started a few months ago. The fog was too thick then so we had turned back. Not so a few weeks ago. It was a gorgeous day for being carefree and fancy-free. Back in January, a waitress had told us if we wanted to see some great views, we should go to the San Joaquin Valley National Cemetery in Gustine and drive up to the flagpole. She was right.  The husband thought that the Veterans buried at the cemetery were probably happy to finally be in a peaceful place. San Joaquin National Cemetery in Merced County is one of the 131 national cemeteries for U.S. Veterans . To read personal comments about the cemetery at Yelp.com, click here . We had one goal that day—to hike in the Great Valley Grasslands State  Park. It is truly an undeveloped park. It's a good thing we did our homework. Otherwise, we w

I'm supposed to be downstairs finishing up what I started over a couple hours ago: . . .washing the fresh veggies we bought at the local farmstand  . . .turning the cut unripe mango into a sauce or something . . .combining the ripe avocado and quarter-cube of tofu into mashed avocado and tofu with garlic, green onion, tomato, cilantro, and (shhhh!) kimchee juice . . .creating some kind of casserole with the leftover BBQ chicken from last Sunday's Filipino Community BBQ fundraiser. Oh, and don't forget, self,  wash the lunch dishes.  The husband is normally the dishwasher but because I needed to hog the kitchen sink and counter I said I'd wash them. That is, I will after I'm done with everything else I need to complete. Maybe I shouldn't have let the husband off the hook. Lunch was a concoction of mashed banana, tofu, peanut butter, and fig jam on toasted blueberry bagel. When the husband took a bite, he asked, " What the heck is this?" "What? You

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.