Dirty Little Leaking Secret

Marianne does it when she walks by bottled water at the grocery store. Ellen says the sound of running water causes her to do it, and Shirley does it when she touches water, especially when it's warm. I do it, too, but not when I see, hear or touch water.  For me, it's about proximity, i.e. distance to the toilet. The closer I get to that white porcelain bowl, the more desperately urgent the urge becomes. As soon as I can see the john, I have five seconds to close and lock the bathroom door, WAIT! unbuckle my belt, NOT NOW! unzip and pull my pants down, HOLD ON! and sit. TOO LATE!

Incontinence, leakage, peeing in your pants, not having complete control of your bladder used to be considered one of those embarrassing personal secrets that you wanted no one to know about. Discussing malfunctioning body parts was considered bad form and it just wasn't done.

Well, that was then and this is now. The world has been turned upside down (haven't you noticed?) and things are not as they used to be. We live in a reality world now where truth rings supreme. No, really it does.  No more hiding in the lonely shadows of our dirty little leaking secret. One by one, we can all step forward into the spotlight and tell our truths. "My name is Marianne and I leak." "Hi there, I'm Ellen and I am a leaker." "I'm Shirley and I too am a leaker." "My name is Carol Louise and I'm here to support my friends who pee their pants."

Okay, I'm not ready to go public just yet. I'm telling you but I know you can keep a secret. I'm going to wait until more leakers expose themselves. Wait! This just in from Good Morning America.

BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING OVERNIGHT! BREAKING NOW!  Kris Jenner (leading actress and matriarch extraordinaire of The Kardasians Show) pees her pants.

Okay, that's encouraging. A famous celebrity exposes her incontinence and dirty underwear on television for millions to see and for no monetary gain or fame or to satisfy an insatiable appetite for attention. No, really. She just wants to show support for her fellow leakers.  That's so altruistic of her, but I'm still not ready to come out of the bathroom.

BREAKING NEWS! BREAKING OVERNIGHT! BREAKING NOW! The Today Show is reporting that Lisa Rinna (voluptuous lip model and former Dancing With the Stars alumni)  is wearing Depends at a Hollywood red carpet event. The caption under this breaking news reads "Making Incontinence Sexy." Her husband runs his finger across her behind and says "I can't feel a thing," to which Lisa responds by seductively running her tongue across her big wet lips and giving him a provocative grin, "I know, I know. Check out the boo-tay."

Um.....another incontinent celebrity comes forward. It's tempting but I'm still not ready to get up off this toilet, step forward and announce to the world that I too am a lea...

What? Now? Someone is on the phone for me? Tell them I'm in the bathroom, kinda busy right now writing this blog.

Tiger who? Woods? He thinks I'm what? He wants me to do what?

Okay, everything I said above about my leaking secret...never mind.

My Favorite Family Photos

The following are some of my favorite family photos.

My mother's 90th birthday party. 

(On my copy of this picture I have written captions for each

person. For example, "I'm so pretty, oh so pretty," and, "I could

be home right now watching reruns of The Bachelor,")

At the annual gun club meeting, the ladies decided, three to

two, to stop hunting buffalo. Lorene (left) was the swing vote.

Lynnette was elated when her mother discovered 

she had enough material to make her a dress, too.

Louise couldn't decide--star or angel or star or angel or star or angel

or star or angel--so Orville made the decision for her: STAR DAMMIT!

I asked for one thing for Christmas, Mom.
One thing. An accordion. That's all I asked for.
Not a stupid white blanket. I'll stand here
with it on for your stupid picture but I'm
not gonna smile. No! I will not shush.

All Things Big and Small

Oprah, my life coach and spiritual guide for all things big and small that matter on earth and beyond, told me once that by the time I reach the age of fifty, I should 1) be mentally and emotionally stable, 2) have eliminated negative baggage, 3) know who I am, 4) like who I am, 5) be gentle with myself, 6) not sweat the small stuff, and 7) I forgot the seventh thing. Bleep my bleepin' memory;  I bleepin' hate my bleepin' self. 

It wasn't long after my relationship with Oprah began when she introduced me to Dr. Oz, my medical advisor for all bodily malfunctions big and small that matter on earth and beyond. This genius knows everything about how my body works, and he said that by the time I reach sixty I should 1) stop having children, 2) fart at least fourteen times a day, 3) stop kissing my dog's butt, 4) lick a salt block twice a day, and 5) eat green acai berry coffee beans to bust my fat apps, or something like that. Oh, I don't know now. Sixty was a long time ago and my memory's not so good anymore.

It was Oprah who guided me through the pre, peri, actual, and post menopausal mental anguish that I didn't suffer but could have. My friends did so I was able to pass on to them Oprah's immortal words of wisdom during their darkest moments like 1) keep your feet on the ground, girlfriend; just wear nice shoes, 2) think of yourself as a queen; I do, 3) imagine Heaven as one big baked potato just sittin' there with butter and sour cream waiting for ya, 4) don't think of yourself as a deprived ghetto girl; that's my gig, and, and, and... . Oh, shoot! I forgot the fifth thing but I'm feeling so good right now just thinking about shoes, Heaven, and that baked potato.

Did I mention how amazing my doctor is? He's a wizard when it comes to the care and maintenance of the human body. He has all the answers to every question, and on the rare occasion when he's stumped, there's always Google. But his expertise doesn't stop with physiology. Dr. Oz knows all about psychology, spiritualism, and marketing as well. Have a phobia for germs? Call the automated hotline 1-888-555-DROZ. Answer: Lick a toilet seat. Didn't think it would be that simple, did you? I told you he was amazing. Want to get in touch with dearly departed Aunt Mable? That's an easy one for the doc, too. #TALKINGDEAD. Is there anything this miracle man can't do? Well, there is one thing: he can't market any products even though he's an expert in the field of selling things.  Dr. Oz says he doesn't market products and I believe him. Why would he lie, even under oath before the Senate Subcommitte on Consumer Protection leading an investigation into deceptive marketing practices that raise health and safety concerns? Claire McCaskill, chairwoman of the Senate Committee said, "I don't get why you need to say this stuff when you know it's not true. When you have this amazing megaphone, why should you cheapen your show? ... With power comes a great deal of responsibility." Well, that was not very nice, Claire. Now look what you've gone and done; you've hurt the doctor's feelings. Are those tears?

Since it was Oprah who first introduced me to Dr. Oz, I thought maybe she could help him not sweat this small thing--okay, it's a big thing but Oprah can fix anything, and if she is stumped, there's always Google.

WHERE'S OPRAH? DR. OZ NEEDS HER.

What? Google told you she's where? Because of a nervous what? Excuse me, it must be my hearing, but I just thought you said Oprah, my life coach and spiritual guide for all things big and small in the world and beyond, had a nervous breakdown.

Uh...okay. About everything I just said above...never mind.

A Visit with Grandma

Illustrations copyrighted by Carol Mayer 11/5/14

Growing Old is Not for the Weak

Growing old is not for the weak," my aunt used to say before she passed at eighty-five. I would usually hear the faint-of-heart speech after each one of her half dozen trips to the emergency room that oftentimes resulted in an extended-stay at a rehabilitation center. I witnessed Aunt Gracie's extreme challenges with aging and I heard her warnings, but I never gave either one any thought because I was preoccupied with chasing my tail, I was feeling good, and I had just enough arrogance to think I would circumvent completely the not so pleasant part of aging.  I'll just skip on down the road to where it simply ends. Bye Bye now, adios folks, been nice knowing y'all, so long suckers. No pain, no suffering, no visits to the ER and definitely no extended stays at the Medicare hotels, where it is double-occupancy rooms only, the food is to die for, literally, and the residents' mantra is "Heelllllpppp!" No way. Not for me. No thanks. You go on ahead without me. I'm gonna have to pass. Ain't goin' there. Nope.

"Growing old is not for the weak growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak," was the loop that was going through my head as I lay flat on my back yesterday morning while the room was spinning around me. (Age-related vertigo, my doctor calls it...old age.) As I crawled on all fours into the bathroom to give up the prior night's meal, a whisper from the toilet bowl, "Growing old is not for the faint of heart.""I hear you," I whispered back, "now shut up!" Whisper was all I could offer because the night before I had lost my voice after screaming for fifteen minutes straight from pain level 10 cramps in both legs at the same time. 

"Growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak" the loop continued a few hours later as Tom stood over me with two Hydrocodones for pain and a glass of water. Seems the elusive stone in my gall bladder (modern technology can't locate it) has come for a visit again and it has something to tell me. Let's hear what it has to say, shall we?

"Growing old is not for the weak growing old is not for the weak, growing old is not for the weak." 

"Oh, shoot! I know that." I said. "Tell me something I don't know."

"Okay," the stone said.  "You ain't seen nothing yet, honey."

************************************************

The Weak

Whimp, alarmist, baby, chicken, invertebrate, mouse, faint of heart,

quitter, shirker, scaredy-cat, gutless, lily liver, yellow belly

                                         -Google 

I'm going with "yellow belly." It has a nice ring to it.

Yep! I'm scared.

Pile a'Poo

There are those among us seniors who say that as we age and accumulate a lifetime of experiences, we should learn a valuable lesson: things are not always as they seem. Some will even boast and say that they learned this lesson long ago, thereby avoiding embarrassment, loss of credibility, diagnosis of instability, and banishment from the village. Even though banishment rarely happens anymore, I've been told that it feels like it when everyone leaves your village and you are left standing alone contemplating the error of your thinking.

It's not the error in thinking that causes the havoc and chaos that often times follow, these self-proclaimed wise old people will say. It's the hysteria that accompanies the misunderstanding that causes the floor under you--and those around you--to shake, rattle and roll. Calm, stability and the voice of reason are no where to be found, but they've left a note on the kitchen counter, "When you get your facts right and the hysteria subsides, give us a call."

As I age and accumulate a lifetime of experiences myself, I've found that 99% of the time things are exactly as they seem. I'm not concerned about that 1% I get wrong. I don't need to process, analyze, scrutinize the events in my life before I react to them. I trust my gut feeling. I'm a quick draw kinda gal who shoots from the waist, and I'm rarely wrong.

Will you excuse me for a moment? Maggie Mae is sniffing at something on the floor.

Whatcha sniffing, Sweetheart?

 OH NO! OH NO! OH NO!

NOT IN THE HOUSE, MAGGIE MAE!

TOM, COME HERE AND SEE

WHAT "YOUR" DOG HAS DONE!

What do you mean by "calm down" and I should

take a closer look before I react.  I'm looking

right at it, Tom. It's round like poo, it's brown

like poo, no doubt about it; it's poo.

I think you should stick "your"

dog's nose in that, Tom. What?

No! I will not settle down until you

get that pile a'poo outta here!  

Oh...never mind

Where did everyone go?

 Oh, look, there's a note on the kitchen counter.

Mutiny in my Mouth

It can be embarrassing at times. My lips are moving, my tongue is waging, words are coming out of my mouth, but I have no idea what I'm saying.

I blame the increasing episodes of words gone amuck on the plaque, tangles and gooey stuff blocking the information highways in my brain. My thoughts, along with accompanying words, are speeding along in the fast lane;  they know exactly where they're going; they've been down these roads thousands of times before. Then, with no warning, everything comes to a screeching halt.  Could it be a chunk of plaque in the road? Or a glob of goo? Or a twisted gaggle of tangles? It doesn't really matter what has caused the roadblock; all thinking has stopped. But the words just keep on going.

Apparently, with all of the road deconstruction going on in my head, my words have decided to veer off on to the shoulder, speed on past the slowdown and go it alone. Who needs to be chaperoned by thoughts? Not my words. After spending decades in captivity being told what to say and when to say it, they are taking advantage of the blockades in my sixty-nine-year-old brain. They can express themselves now in ways only imagined before. They invent words when the right ones are stuck in a synapse traffic jam. "I heard that The Jerry Sprinkle Show is looking for couples who don't use perphylapstix."  See what I mean? I would never say something like that because I never watch The Jerry Sprinkle Show; I prefer Maury Polvichsky instead.

My words will tell you that there's a memory problem with their host--"I can't remember if I've told you this already, but..." and then they will repeat the same story you've heard a dozen times.  What you don't know is my words like to hear themselves talk so they say the same thing over and over and over again. Have I mentioned that my words like to repeat themselves? They will say the same thing over and over and over again. They'll tell you it's a memory problem. Don't believe them. They just like to hear themselves talk. Have I mentioned that?

Without my permission, my words add much more information to a story than is necessary. "I asked the lady--the one on the register closest to the front door, not the one by the bakery--where the silk milk--chocolate flavored, not vanilla--was and she said it was on aisle 16, but when I went to aisle 16, it wasn't there, so I went back to the clerk--this time the one by the bakery--and I asked where the silk milk was--chocolate, not vanilla--and she told me the very same thing that the lady at the register closest to the front door did, so thinking I had overlooked the silk milk--chocolate, not vanilla--I once again went back to aisle 16 and... ."

OH MY GOODNESS! MAKE IT STOP!

I can't. My words have a mind of their own; they don't need mine. My inability to control them has emboldened them, and they will stop at nothing to say what they want. They will not be encumbered by brakes in the brain. Because of this mutiny in my mouth--made up words, repeating, rambling, repeating, and lies--I don't think you should hold me responsible for anything I might say in the future.

Why are you looking at me that way?

What do you mean "the chocolate brownies are all gone"? I have not gone anywhere near those brownies on top of the refrigerator today. Do we have brownies? I didn't know we had brownies. Are they all gone?

What do you mean you can see chocolate under my fingernails and on my teeth? I have been digging in the dirt, planting pornsettas, and my teeth are black because I haven't brushed them yet today.

What do you mean you can still see a brownie in my mouth? That's no brownie, honey. That's mutiny.