50 Cent Gas

Why is it so many people don't know what they have until they've lost it? I'm not talking about the keys to the car,  or those high-priced designer bifocals just added to the collection, or those "it's on the tip of my tongue" memories.  Losing those things can be traumatic, especially when one finds oneself digging through the morning's coffee grinds and bacon grease in the trash to get to the keys AND glasses they accidentally threw away because...uh...uh...because...uh...what was the question?  I can't remember.  Something about...sounds like...it's on the tip of my tongue.  No, really it is.

HEY! THAT REMINDS ME.

Did I ever tell you about the time I had to walk two blocks to school in the rain?  Really?   I've mentioned that already?  About two dozen times?  What about how much I paid for a gallon of gas for my Volkswagen Bug?  50 Cent! Yes, I do realize that's 1976 money and not relevant today.  And what do you mean, "50 Cent is a wrapper dude!"?  Sometimes you young people don't make no cents.

WHERE WAS I?

Oh, I remember now.  Why is it that so many people don't know that they've lost it?  I'm not talking about the missing "thing-a-ma-gig" they use to measure coffee grounds--it's on the tip of my tongue--or the keys to the safety deposit box, or occasionally directions back home.  No, I'm talking about...uh...uh...what was the question?

HEY! I HAVE TO INTERRUPT YOU TO SAY SOMETHING THAT HAS NO RELEVANCE TO WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT!

Did someone just say it's supposed to snow today?  Have I  ever told you about the time Peggy Nugent and I got stuck in the snow in 1962 in my dad's 1954 Ford Fairlane? Excuse me?  Eighteen times?  Really?  How about when I tried out for the cheerleading squad and didn't make it?  No?  Really?  You haven't heard that story?  Well,  I was in my freshman year, or was I a sophomore?  No, I think it was the summer between the eighth and ninth grades.  It was a Friday night in the school gymnasium.  Wait a minute.  I take that back.  It was Saturday afternoon on the football field, and...

hello?  hello?  Where did everyone go?

Why is it that so many of you people are lost and don't know it?

It's not me.  I know where I am.  Hey!  Have I ever told you about the time...

I Want My Sexy Back

Tom and I went to see the movie Les Miserables last Saturday night in Asheville, and afterward we ate Italian with our friends, Ken and Laura.  The restaurant was packed so we sat at the bar while waiting for a table.  I was sipping my water when Tom leaned over and whispered, "If I were single, and I saw you sitting here, I'd hit on you."  It took me a few seconds to absorb what I had just heard and then put it into some context that made sense.   "HEH?" I replied. My response was so loud everyone in the bar stopped and looked our way.  I wasn't sure I'd heard him correctly.  (It's my hearing; not so good anymore.)  At sixty-six (two and one half years short of seventy) there ain't no way I could be considered a pick-up for a sexy rendezvous.  Not possible. Nope.  Nah. Can't be.  Doesn't compute.  He repeated it again and yes my husband did say that.  Now you're probably thinking that I was thinking his comment warranted a sweet response.  Nah.  I leaned over and said, "Do I know you?"  Then I left with the twenty-seven-year-old bartender.  Hey!  It could happen. If J-lo can do it, I don't see why I can't!

LIAR, LIAR, PANTS ON FY-EER!

Okay. I'm lying.  I left with with Tom.  Well, he had the car keys, and the bartender didn't return my winks (I find I'm invisible to younger men) so I didn't see I had many options.

The truth is I'm not sure I want my sexy back.  It did nothing but get me in trouble when I was single and hanging out at bars.  Well, I didn't Hang Out at bars,  but I did frequent them on occasion.  That is what young people did before Internet dating became an option for finding love.  I tried finding my Prince Charming in places other than bars:  car repair shops, Harley motorcycle clubs, Jiffy Lubes, Wal-Mart's gun and hunting department, Ace Hardware, construction sites, cigar shops, but to no avail.

I was looking for candlelight dinners, eye contact, hand holding, tender touches, sweet nothings whispered in my ear, walks along a sandy beach, long intimate talks, promises made.  That is what I wanted when I sat down on those barstools all those many years ago.  I was looking for love, but my sexy back betrayed my intentions and cried out,  "MY CLOCK IS RUNNING OUT, GUYS! I'M DESPERATE!"

Then one cold January day in 1980 it hit me:  Tractor Supply.  Why hadn't I thought of farmers before?  They like sexy backs, too. So I slipped into my cowgirl boots, Carhartt overalls and camouflage baseball cap and hurried down to a 160-acre farm on Morgantown Road in Greenwood.  And there he was.  My husband-to-be.  The father of my future child.  My happy-ever-after.

Oops!  It appears my pants are smokin'.  Nope, they're definitely on fy-eer.  I hate it when that happens.

Mood Swinger

I'm grumpy.  Snippy.  Testy.  Prickly.  Not happy. Walking mad woman.

I only mention my state of mood because I'm thinking that you're thinking I'm an excellent example on how to live your life:  one who is always happy, who loves unconditionally, is eager to please, a friend to everyone, never judges, complains or holds a grudge, and doesn't sweat the small stuff. I'm thinking you're also thinking I'm loving and affectionate, too.  From what you've read about me in my blog, I think you think I'm someone to emulate, to strive to be more like.  While you're desperately treading just to keep your head above the sludge of life, you see my happy, stress-free existence as an inspiration, a goal to attain. You do think that, don't you?

Hello?  Hello?  Is anyone there?

It's true.  I'm a mood swinger. There!  I said it! I'm not the perfect person you thought I was.  But I've noticed lately that you're not "all that and a box of Cracker Jacks" yourself.  We are in this together, honey.  You and me.  Just like Oprah, we need to claw our way out of the sewer, crawl with bleeding fingers up to the high road, forsake our old self-destructive ways, strive to reach our personal best, hire excellent publicists, and then set up a secret bank account in Switzerland.  Are you with me on this?

Hello?  Hello?

There you go.  One vulnerable moment, a weakness revealed, and you're off to another blog, seeking inspiration and guidance elsewhere. But that's okay because I've found my own personal life coach.  For ten years she's been right under my nose, leading by example.  She is perfect in every way, and I'm going to follow her example on how to live life, except I'm not going to lick my butt.  I can't reach it.

Maggie want a treat?

The 25% Rule

My ears hurt.  My lips and tongue have gone to sleep from inactivity.  My eyes are half closed but you don't notice.  You've forgotten the 25% rule:  four people in a group, each person gets to contribute to the conversation 25% of the time.  With you, with me, it would be the 50% rule.  You get half, I get half. You talk, I talk, you talk, I talk.  Not you talk, you talk, you talk, you talk.  Get it?  I hope so.  There'll be a manners and math test later.

It's Good to be Bad

It's good to be bad.  It's cool. It's camp. It's just a silly little phase we're going through.  We, an intelligent, thoughtful, and mature society, will eventually get sick from our over-indulgent, insatiable appetite for mean and rude and gross and despicable "lowest-common-denominator" behavior and say, "ENOUGH! WE'RE MAD AND WE'RE NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE!"  We will individually and collectively climb up on top our soap boxes and demand change.  Our children (our future) will see us take a stand for good form, decency and civility and learn that bad really isn't good after all.

IT'S ABOUT THE MONEY, STUPID!

Oh, okay then...never mind.

Touchy, Feely

I'm dead.  At least if she has her way, I'm dead.  She hates me and I feel I've done nothing to deserve her ire.  She won't accept me for who I am, and I don't know how to change to please her.  She's never actually said it to me, but I can tell by the way she looks at me she thinks I'm the scurge of the earth.  Me.  The scurge of the earth.  Now that hurts.   She's obsessed with killing me, so I'm telling you that if something happens to me, it's her.  She did it.  She murdered me.

I just want to be close.  Is that a sin?  I'm touchy, feely.  It's my nature.  I love to tickle her cute little nose, nuzzle against her ear, play with her hair.  We even eat from the same plate. She says I bug her.  I invade her space.

They say opposites attract.  That is sooooo true in my case, but not for her.  I like being with her but over time, she's grown to hate me. Did I mention she wants me gone?   Not just a "see ya later gator, bye bye now sucker, adios amigo" gone.  She's contemplating murder.

I pooped in her French Onion soup today.  I didn't think she saw me, but she did.  I hurried away but then I could see she was really, really mad so I came back and she tried to smack me.  Now is that nice?

I have a feeling my days on this earth are short.  In fact, she could do me in today.  I need to stay clear.  Take cover.  Fly under the radar. Hide from this crazy woman.  If only I were a fly on the wall, I could watch her every move.

Wait a minute!  I am a fl...SPLAAAAAT!!



Another perspective

Is Reality TV Real?

A mother, with her seven-year-old daughter in tow, storms into a restaurant.   While screaming obscenities at a group of stunned people seated at a table, she knocks everything on their table to the floor.

While Sister #1 is lying on a sofa with her legs spread wide apart, Sister #2 takes aims with an electric shaver; they both giggle.

A beautiful twenty-something young woman is sobbing out of control on the bathroom floor.  It seems the man she loves, the man she's known for one week,  is also dating twenty-four other equally beautiful women...and sleeping with many of them.

A famous singer, who has had the respect and adoration of the American population for decades, shows 30 million people on national television (in just one hour) that she is cunning, deceptive, mean spirited, and unstable.

A mother with multiple children (as in six all the same age) belittles and screams at their father over and over and over again, until he screams back and then leaves the family.

A father walks into his twelve-year-old daughter's room to discover she is doing her homework with a neighbor boy who is also her age.  He loses his temper and screams obscenities at the boy and tells him to leave; then turns his ire on his daughter.  

IS REALITY TV REAL?

Absolutely!  It really happened.  I saw all of the above while I was channel surfing, trying to find something worthwhile to watch within my 800 channel selection after a very long day of retirement.

I was going to keep my occupation a secret--don't let anyone tell you retirement is not hard work--but I've never been able to keep a secret, so why try now.  I'm a sixty-something baby boomer. Actually, I'm lying.  I'm closer to seventy; not a baby boomer at all.  I only mention my age here because it's the reason I'm upset about what is happening on television these days.  Is anyone else as disgusted and appalled as I am? Something needs to be done.  We seniors need to raise our voices and say "Why is Reality TV discriminating against old folks?"

OLD PEOPLE DISCRIMINATION

Reality television is focusing too much on youth and ignoring the drawing power of us old folks. Imagine the following scenarios and tell me people wouldn't like to see...

Ten ninety-plus-year-old women hobbling after the only man in their wing at the nursing home.  His wheelchair is faster than they are, but as he rounds a corner he slides out onto the floor.  He frantically crawls to the bathroom where he can be heard sobbing uncontrollably.

An elderly couple walk into a restaurant and ask for the early-bird special.  When the hostess tells them the special ended at 6:00p.m., they plummet her with their canes.  

Two sisters, who appear to be in their late eighties,  are sitting on a sofa.  One lays down and spreads her legs while the other plugs in an electric mixer.  In the background a voice yells out, "No! Edith. No! Electric shaver, not mixer."  The sisters giggle.

A ninety-five-year-old man is wheeled into an Emergency Room by his wife who has a huge smile on her face.   He's holding a bottle of Vitamins, he thinks.  "That's Viagra, not Vitamins," the doctor says.  "How many did you take?"  His wife giggles and holds up four fingers.

An elderly, never married sheep farmer...oh...nevermind.