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.

The Lady at Lowes Doesn't Like Me

When Jason was five I bought a home on Old Mill Court in a subdivision on the southwest side of Indy that was built in a weekend.  Tiny thousand-square-foot houses were sprouting up overnight in a cornfield off Mills and Mann Roads that my ex-husband J.J. used to farm.  With just twelve feet separating the homes on our cozy little cul-de-sac, being a considerate neighbor was key; it was also important to not tick off your neighbors.  I see that now in retrospect.

Ticking off my neighbors (and people in general) was not something I set out to do.  It was a side-effect of my self-absorbed cluelessness.  For example, when it was hot, I wore a bikini to cut the grass.  It never occurred to me that would upset all of the married women on the court.  It also never crossed my mind that I should not have blown all the grass clippings into the street and my neighbors' yards. And, when Jason spent Halloweens with his father, I would turn out all the lights in the house, and put "NO TRESPASSING" signs* all over my yard.  In my defense, I was a first-time homeowner.  I didn't know better.  Eventually, I figured it out but by then it was too late.

You know how sometimes when you meet someone new, you instantly don't like them?  No?  That's never happened to you?  Really?  Well,  it's never happened to me either.  I like everyone, especially you.  Who wouldn't like you? I know how wonderful you can be when you try really hard. Sometimes, though, it happens to me in reverse.  For some reason that I have never been able to understand, I am, on occasion, disliked immediately.  This happens before I've had a chance to show people how wonderful I have the potential to be.

Just the other day, while shopping at our new Super Wal Mart in Franklin, my cell phone rang while I was in line checking out.  Not wanting to be rude to the person calling me, I took the call and since I was concerned my caller couldn't hear me, I raised my voice ten decibels.  "HELLO.  OH, HI CINDY!  YES I DID SEE THE BACHELOR LAST NIGHT! OMG! IT WAS UNBELIEVABLE!  CAN YOU BELIEVE SHE DID THAT? WHAT?  SORRY, CINDY! YOU'RE CUTTING OUT.  I'LL CALL YOU LATER!  OKAY! BYE."  

As I was leaving Wal Mart, I thought about how the cashier appeared to dislike me.  Was I imagining it? She didn't even know me.  How could she not like me?  She didn't know how wonderful I have the potential to be. She was nice and chatty to the person who checked out before me, but she was cold, unresponsive, and the smile she showed the previous customer was now gone.

After leaving Wal Mart, I called Cindy back to talk about the latest disgusting behavior on Bridezilla, Toddlers and Tiaras, and The Kardashians.  I was so engrossed in our conversation that I inadvertently ran a red light and pulled out in front of an older couple in a Cadillac while turning left onto Highway 64 on my way to Lowes.  They pulled up beside me, rolled down their window, and yelled mean, hurtful things.  It was obvious they didn't know about my potential.

The lady at Lowes doesn't like me. When she encounters me at the checkout, I always say the same thing, "What?  How could it be that much?  Could you check to see if there has been a mistake?"  Every time she checks, the receipt is correct, but I went in to buy only one box of nails and a few other miscellaneous items,  and the bill is always over $50.  How could that be?

I'm sitting in the drive-thru line at McDonalds and the girl behind Window #1 doesn't like me.  I don't get it.  I'm a nice person.  I'm busy.  I have things to do.  McDonalds has WiFi, which means I can check my emails and write my blog while ordering lunch.  Ever heard of multi-tasking?  My computer is in my lap leaning against the steering wheel, and I am rummaging through the ash tray for all the quarters I can find to pay the bill.  All I need is $.57 more and the only coins left are pennies.  One, two, three, four...just fifty-three pennies to go and I'll be out of her hair.  If only she knew how wonderful I have the potential to be.

five, six, seven, just fifty more pennies to go.  Ping... Oh, hold on, I have a text message.

*Okay,  I didn't really put the signs in the yard.  I used yellow "Do Not Cross" tape.

The Astons

Tom and I were watching Good Morning America earlier today and were horrified by the destruction created by Sandy, a hurricane that hit the east coast yesterday affecting over sixty million people.  The widespread damage from water, wind, and fire is incomprehensible, but it's still early and the devastating effects of this natural disaster will grow exponentially in the following hours, days and weeks to come.  We're sad for those who lost their lives as well as those who are left behind to clean up the mess and pick up the pieces from their broken lives, yet with all the terrible stories there is one family that was interviewed this morning by ABC News that I can't get out of my mind.

The Astons (a family of four) were staying in a "posh" section of Manhattan when the police evacuated several blocks around their hotel because a crane one hundred stories up was dangling precariously, thus putting everyone in its vicinity in danger.  Once they were settled in their new "posh" accommodations, ABC came calling and the father (sitting with his wife and two middle school-aged children) told his terrible story. He had to walk in the rain ten blocks with two children---at this point his wife interjected with "AND LUGGAGE"--to a new location. 

Oh, those poor Astons.

Doubt

I'm not back.  I'm just taking shelter from the cold snap we're having here in western North Carolina, and since I'm inside I figure I might as well do a little blogging.

To tell you the truth (I lie most of the time so this is a rare moment) I've lost my passion to write.  I don't know about other writers, but I have a problem with "doubt."  I don't have any illusions about being the next Bombeck or Steinbeck.  I don't need to be great or on the best sellers' list.  I'd be happy with good.  But bad is not an option, and sometimes my doubt convinces me that I'm delusional for thinking I might have a talent for writing.  The one thing I love to do is being held hostage by my lack of confidence.

So here I sit with eager fingers and a blank screen waiting for words, but nothing is there.

Is it time yet?

Is it time yet?  Time to switch clothes in my closet from hot to cold?  Time to have the furnace serviced?  Time to comply with daylight savings and fall back to "why does it get so damn dark so damn early?" Time for me to put away my gardening paraphernalia as well as my chop saw and Dewalt drill used to build my garden cottage?  Time to make mo clocks for instance? Or start blogging again?

Nah!  It's not time yet. Hand me that hammer, would ya please.

Growing Old Without Grace

It's June 24th, three days into summer, and my garden and clocks (I'm a whimsical and funky clockmaker--my clocks, not me) are beckoning me to leave my computer behind for a while and tend to other things. 

I've put the final touches on my new book "Growing Old Without Grace" (a compilation of posts from this blog) and in a few weeks it will be available at Amazon.com.

Have a great summer.

The Fountain of Youth

We've been hearing for some time that forty is the new thirty and fifty is the new forty,  but that is no longer true.  Now, in the second decade of the twenty-first century, forty is the new twenty, fifty is the new thirty, and if you can do simple math you can extrapolate from there all the way up to ninety where the twenty-year subtraction ends.  Ninety is ninety.  Sorry Mother.  

Never before in the history of mankind has this age-reducing phenomenon occurred.  What a drastic change from only a few decades ago when forty was considered old.  Women wore their hair short with tight salt and pepper curls hugging the scalp.  Have a few cavities?  No problem.  Just yank those suckers out and get yourself a nice white set of false teeth.   Can't see close up anymore?  How about these exceptionally ugly glasses with a line across the middle?  Are you stressed?  Have another cigarette with your Valium, Honey, and go sit out in the sun for a few hours.  But don't be late for dinner because we're having your favorite:  good old fashioned country-fried chicken with mashed potatoes and gravy, macaroni and cheese, green beans cooked in bacon grease,  all the white bread you can stuff in your mouth, and Grandma's apple pie ala mode.  What?  Can't get up from the table after all that food?  No problem.  Just crawl on over to the couch and take a nap.  We'll wake you up when it's time for bed.

We can stop looking for the fountain of youth.  It's been found.  The discovery has been a joint effort by many interested parties:

Baby Boomers.  Since the 1960's, baby boomers have refused to accept business as usual, and they also subscribe to the Second Law of Thermodynamics: Without proper care and maintenance, all things fall apart.

Plastic surgeons.  These people have no interest in monetary gain.  They just love, love, love making people look pretty.  Oh, and they like big boobs, too.  It's a thing with them.  I don't know why.  But it has nothing to do with money, though. No, really.  It doesn't.

Banks/credit card companies.  These companies derive pleasure from loaning money to people who want to look young and beautiful.  It's not about the money, so don't even go there.  They just don't want old, ugly customers.  It's that simple. 

Nutritionists/Exercise gurus.  These people are sadists and that's all I'm going to say about them.

Aging Movie Stars.  These highly trained experts on anti-aging don’t want to get paid for their expertise on anti-aging.  They’re stinking rich already.  They just want to share their beauty secrets with you.  No, really.  It’s true.
 
Pharmaceutical companies.    Altruistic in nature, always concerned about the welfare of the populace, these companies enjoy playing in their labs making products that can be injected, inserted, consumed, and applied by the masses of people who just want to look twenty years younger than their actual age.

Dr. Oz.  Speaking of looking twenty years younger than your actual age, Dr. Oz has a website for that.  www.RealAge.com.  Yes, if you act now, you can actually shed twenty years and not even get out of your chair.  But wait; there's more.  Dr. Oz has absolutely no interest in money.  He just loves to help people.


Can you tell which one of the two women below is older?

You guessed it.  The one on the right.  That picture was taken on Mother's Day 2012 and my sister Lynnette is fifty-two.  The picture on the left is our grandmother and it was taken on Mother's Day 1942; she was fifty.

Always Consider the Heart

 (Originally written June 26, 2010)

"Do you think these clothes just magically pick themselves up off the floor and walk to the closet, young lady? What do I look like? Your personal maid?"

Oh, no! I was turning into my mother, and no one at 11490 Trails End was happy about that.

It was the summer of 1978, and I was renting a quaint little cottage on the banks of White River in Fishers, Indiana, when I suggested to my parents that my sister, Lynnette, move in with me. She was going to school to become an artist, accountant, or arborist.  She hadn't made up her mind yet and her eenie meenie miny moeing was creating tension at home. The plan was for me to help their eighteen-year-old daughter catch that elusive tiger by the tail and focus on one specific career.

She went through all the A's and then the B's before settling on an occupation in the C's. Dad was hoping she would go as far as the D's and become a doctor, and Mother had her heart set on the letter M, as in Married with Children. But Lynnette wasn't listening to her parents, and it was becoming quite clear that this headstrong Taurus, no matter where she lived, would follow her own agenda.

"I guess you haven't met Mr. Sponge and Mrs. Dawn yet," I said one day when she walked into the kitchen and caught me cursing at a sink full of dirty dishes. "Do you think that these dishes will magically wash themselves and then climb back up into the cabinets? What do I look like? Your personal maid?"

Oh, my! Not only had I become my mother, but I had borrowed the record that she used to play for me, and I was now playing it for my sister. I was supposed to be a positive influence and a role model, but instead I was a nag and a not-so-nice nag at that.

What made nagging at my sister difficult were those big innocent eyes that appeared to say, "What did I do, Sissy? I'm sorry. I'll do better. I promise." Errrrrrr! How can you be mad at Bambi? Oh, trust me, I managed to find a way.

"How nice! A dark brown ring around the tub? Was Bambi taking a bath today? What am I now, the baby doe's personal maid?"

One day, while I was being particularly rough on my sister, it hit me. Did she mean to track mud on the carpet and burn a hole in my favorite blouse? Did she leave the knee-high pile of dirty clothes in the hallway just for spite? The dried up macaroni and cheese container stuck between the sofa cushions...was that left there on purpose to aggravate me? When she and her boyfriend backed out of the driveway and ran over my 1962 mint-condition MG Midget, was she testing me? Were her actions malicious and mean-spirited, or was she just simply being eighteen and, duh, clueless?

It was the uncontrollable sobbing that finally got to me. Was I being too hard on my little sister? Should I have taken a more gentle approach? Did she need more time to mature into a responsible adult? Did I need to give her some slack? It does make perfect sense that before we get angry and spew hurtful words, we should always consider the heart. My sister was a sweet girl with an innocent heart; she was not guilty of malfeasance, only immaturity. But, even with this realization and new-found clarity, I still could not stop crying. So I moved out.

Whatever

"Just to let you know, Mom, tomorrow I'm turning eighteen, and I'm going to get a tattoo and pierce my ear, and there's nothing you can do about it because I'll be emancipated," Jason barked as he shuffled out the front door wearing bright orange hair, low-slung baggy pants, a wrinkled T-shirt, and a filthy Fighting Cocks baseball hat.

"That's nice, Jason.  Since you'll be on your own now, here's an invoice for your half of the mortgage, utilities, and groceries.  Oh, and see this car insurance bill?  That one is all yours, sweetheart!" I said, but he was already in his buddy's car with the radio's base punishing anyone within 100 yards.

I knew early on that raising Jason was not going to be easy.  He made that perfectly clear on Day One.  "Nope!  I'm not sucking on that thing.  Are you kidding me? No way! I'll starve first!" Then on Day Three he stopped breathing and the doctors said he might not make it.  But he did make it, and J.J. and I took him home on Day Seven.  On Day Nine, his lungs filled up with fluid and the doctor said it could be pneumonia, but it wasn't.   On Day Ten, the combination of stress, anxiety, fear, worry, and finally relief caught up with me, and Jason and I could be heard crying in unison from the old white farm house on South Morgantown Road.

On Day One Thousand Ninety Five, my son and I found ourselves alone--husbandless/fatherless--in The Stonehedge Apartments in Greenwood.  Jason wasn't really without a father; he just didn't live with him anymore.   It was Jason's apartment; I was the necessary roommate he tolerated because I was the one with the money.  Also, I could cook, clean house, do laundry, pay the bills, reach the ice cream in the freezer, and drive a car, which came in handy when you're only 38" tall and have a mind of a three-year-old.

I could tell you stories about Jason's life from zero to eighteen as a wannabe independent free agent, but I signed a confidentiality agreement when he was ten, during the time he thought he was Michael Jackson.  It's true.  He really did think he was The Gloved One, M.J., Wacko Wacko Jacko, Smelly Applehead Mike.  I have proof; it's in the safe, but unfortunately I can't share it with you, unless, that is, there's a significant amount of money involved.  Then I might be persuaded to snitch.  I have my retirement to consider, you know.

After Jason's stint as the energetic, overactive, hyper King of Pop, he slipped into a slouching, somber, slo-mo "Whatever" stage.  He was still a free agent in his mind, but now he wanted absolutely no attention, interference, or instruction (no picture-taking allowed either) from the outside world, meaning outside himself and his few selected friends.

"What would you like for dinner tonight, Jason?"

"Whatever."

"I need to wash your sheets, Jason.  Could you please clear a path to your bed?"

"Whatever."

 "You do realize that getting D's and F's could keep you from graduating high school, right?"

"Whatever."

On Day Six Thousand Five Hundred and Seventy, Jason pierced his ear.  Remember the father who did not live with his son?  Before the diamond stud saw the setting sun on Jason's emancipation day, Daddy was back home...sitting on the doorstep...waiting for his son.  I'm sorry but I'm bound by the confidentiality agreement to not discuss this any further, but I'm pretty certain that court records are available to the public. 

It's Day Eleven Thousand Three Hundred and Sixty-Two;  Jason is thirty-one now and holds no resemblance to the defiant "whatever" free agent from thirteen years ago.  I had my concerns about his ability to successfully navigate and negotiate his way through some of his not-so-good choices, but my worries were for naught.  At twenty-four he turned a corner and ran smack into maturity, and he has been making his mom proud ever since.

Day Six Thousand Two Hundred and Five