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Watch Me Watch Me

Last week, our downstairs neighbor called the property management office to complain that we were making too much noise.  The property management office called us and left a voicemail informing us there had been a complaint.  I listened to the voicemail twice.  The first time, I just laughed because my partner and I are pretty sedate and stick to our routine of couch-potato-ing (let’s just pretend potato is a verb for now, shall we?) and TV binge-watching most of the time. Every now and then, however, one of us might get a bit pissed off at the world over-exuberant and shout a “fuck you!” colorful phrase or two at the TV or one another, depending on the situation.

Other than that, we are good neighbors.  I wish we had neighbors like us.  We are awesome neighbors, and the ass-wipe downstairs needs to get a rope with which to hang himself a life.

The second time I listened to the voicemail, I just got mad, and I let it stew, as I tend to do when someone is unreasonable with me.  For example, back when we lived in Ohio, I had a personal vendetta against our garbage collector guy because he would never take more than two bags of trash at a time.  I tried on several occasions to test him by leaving three bags out for his collection.  He left one fucking bag on the curb every single time. Consequently, I hated this man I had never actually seen, because he was doing his job too damned well and according to our contract.  I spent way too much time thinking about the whole thing and how much I wanted to give that garbage collector guy a big one-finger salute piece of my mind. 

Thank goodness, I did refrain from going to war with my garbage collector guy.  We have to pick our battles carefully, right?  You never know who will do something next to bring out your murderous alter ego bad side.

Back to mean neighbor guy from downstairs. I did call the property management office and speak to one of the useless dingbats  office clerks regarding my neighbor’s complaints.  Turns out, he was complaining about the TV being too loud and the creaky floors. 

Okay, he had a definite point about the TV. My partner has hearing problems and turns the TV up so loud, it gives me a headache.  I have tried to persuade her to turn the volume down, but she is one stubborn bitch headstrong woman.

As for the creaky floors, there is not much we can do about that.  Walk lighter, maybe?  Buy a hover-board and surf the air-conditioner currents around the apartment?  Learn to fly?  Move?  Although I could totally get into riding a hover-board, none of those options panned out for us at this current time.  Furthermore, I figured the bad neighbor guy from downstairs must not have a fucking clue  any idea that he had pissed off a couple of vindictive bitches.  Either that, or he’s as dumb as a Republican donating to Donald Trump’s campaign.

Either way, I was letting it stew and the pot was getting thicker and stinkier with each passing moment.  I had a mental closet full of retorts, come-backs, insults, excuses, and snarky rhetoric for mean, horrible neighbor guy from downstairs.

And then I came face to face with the source of my agitation. His name was Will.

I was taking the trash out  (why does everything always lead back to the trash?) and I had four bags to carry.  I also have eighteen stairs to descend with said trash and my cane or walker, whichever I’m using.  That particular morning,  I proceeded to throw all four bags down the stairs and was ready to make my descent, when scary, mean, horrible neighbor guy from downstairs appears out of nowhere.  Actually he had come from his apartment, but I do tend to embellish now and then. 

He pointed to my trash and said, “Is that trash?”

No, moron, those are fifty dead cats. They used to be my pets, but I slaughtered every one of them so they wouldn’t make so much fucking noise! 

I actually didn’t say anything, just nodded yes.

“I’ll take them for you,” he offered, in a friendly, good-neighborly tone.  What had he done with my mean neighbor guy?

I finally found some words. “Thank you very much!  My name is Terri.”  He did not look amused or mad. He just started picking up the trash bags.  I couldn’t help but wish he would have been my garbage collector guy back in Ohio

Upon collecting all four bags of trash, he said, “Not a problem. My name is Will.  Have a good day.”  Then he was gone.

There I stood, at the top of my stairs, mentally erasing each one of the nasty names I had made up for my neighbor guy.  Now he was just “neighbor guy, Will”. 

Before you ask, no I did not completely change my mind about my neighbor.  He still called and complained about two older women making too much noise.

My message to my neighbor, as I let the whole noise/trash/stairs thing go:  Mr. Will, neighbor guy, I’m thinking about taking up a new dance.  You might want to put the property management phone number on your speed dial. Muahhhh!






So, I was feeling guilty for not signing up for this year’s NaNoWriMo writing competition. I got over it pretty quickly, however, when I remembered I have all but neglected my blog. 

Then, I got past the guilt feelings for not writing by remembering I haven’t been doing much exercising, reading, cleaning house, or anything requiring much movement or planning.

And I got past those feelings by - you guessed it - taking a nice, long nap in my easy-chair after eating my way through the leftover Halloween candy, today’s Sunday dinner, and the traditional Broncos game-day nachos.

Do you see a pattern here?  A very ugly pattern.

It would appear I have a rare disease known as NaNoWhyMe.  There’s no cure, but there is a mandatory two day quarantine, wherein the afflicted is locked in a small room with only a bed, toilet, wine-box, crackers and Nutella. No writing is allowed, but there is a fully-unabridged dictionary to stave off loneliness.  We writers really only need our words to keep us company, right? I just wish I knew what the hell ‘unabridged’ means in regards to a dictionary. And why haven’t I ever wondered about that before?

So many puzzles.  So little brain activity left with which to solve said puzzles.

And to add insult to injury, the Broncos just had their asses handed to them on a silver platter by the New England Patriots. 

I’m having a bad day. I’m having a NaNoWhyMe kind of day.

The only light that could possibly remain in this day is tonight’s episode of The Walking Dead.

Yes, folks, it takes a bunch of zombies to save me from the Wahhhmbulance.  They call them walkers on the show, in case you weren’t up-to-speed on your TWD protocol.

Those crazy, flesh-eating walkers can make my frown turn upside-down.  It might be the only cure for my NaNoWhyMe curse.

I’ll let you know how it all pans out.  If you don’t hear from me, it just means the disease has progressed past the point of no return, or the walkers have eaten my brains and I can no longer string two sentences together.

NaNoWhyMe.  It’s a thing. Don’t let it infect you. You might want to stock up on antibiotics to keep the wretchedness at bay, but I think binge-watching all seasons of The Walking Dead might be the best way to build up immunity to the dreaded NaNoWhyMe’s.

Good luck, and may the odds be ever in your favor.  Because they sure aren’t working for me.

***By the way, I looked up unabridged and it just means not shortened. Boring definition. But the million dollar question is, does it renew my interest in dictionaries?



Image from Google Images


So they are calling it a rematch

So they are calling it a rematch.

Remember the last Super Bowl?  It was not pretty. Broncos’ fans all over the nation have simply been trying to forget it and move on to this new season.

Ah, but the NFL gods and all those pesky Seahawk fans will not stop talking about that bloody massacre.  It was one of the Broncos’ darkest days.

So shut the fuck up, already, and let’s play some football! 

No more talking about a rematch.  Today’s game is not a rematch. Players have been traded and the teams are not last year’s teams, for crying out loud. Some of those reporters sitting up in that observation booth, wherever it is, take every opportunity to dish doubt and ugliness about my precious Broncos. I think they hide their location to keep rabid Broncos’ fans from going all The Walking Dead on their asses.

Ah, if only I had a cross bow and their GPS.  Just sayin..

Anyhow, I’m over it.

It’s less than an hour before the game.  I just need to don my Broncos jersey, orange comfy socks, dangly earrings, and hat. Then I need to hang my Broncos flag and dust off my John Elway bobble-head doll and rub his tummy for luck.

For luck, I swear! Minds out of the gutter please. I’m not that kind of kinky.

After morphing my home into a Broncos’ shrine, I will order up some food. Not cooking today. It could be a real screamer of a game, and I need to preserve my energy. I’m thinking Sweet and Sour Chicken, some fried rice and egg roll.  Okay, it may not be your normal football cuisine, but I haven’t been normal for decades, so deal with it.  A true fan understands these things.

However.  I feel like I am forgetting something.

Oh wait, the cheerleaders! We cannot forget the Broncos’ Cheerleaders!  Here’s a photo, lest you’ve forgotten about how vital they are to the whole Broncos’ experience. 

You’re welcome.

Three thoughts to leave you with:

  • The Broncos will show up. Unlike last year’s Super Bowl.
  • The Broncos will not be intimidated by the noise of thousands of Seattle Seahawks screaming, “Go Hawks!”  Real original, Seattle. How much are you paying your marketing team to come up with that one?
  • The Broncos will win or lose.   I will have a more definitive answer after the game.  And if I happen to doze off during the game and miss the final score, I am quite sure my dear friend and Hawks fan, Tracy, will be more than happy to enlighten me.

Okay three more things:

In the words of the lovely April, a new Broncos’ fan, “Let’s do the damn thang!”

My cute little sister would say, “Let’s get ‘er done!”

My partner would probably say, as she awakens from her nap during the first quarter of the game, “Is it over yet? Can we rent a movie now?”

I concur on all of the above.  I might add, “I only got 2.5 glasses of wine from that bottle?  WTF?”

Okay enough of this silliness.  Peyton Manning, would just hunker down and shout, “Omaha!”


Game On!!!


**Images from Google Images



Stuff I should probably keep to myself


Here’s the thing.

I haven’t blogged in months, so I’m not sure how this will go.  Oh, I have thought about blogging, even fretted over it, but nary a word have I typed.   


This is September, my favorite month.  I come out of my summer-funk in September. I am like a bear leaving his cave after a long winter’s hibernation. Grumpy. Hungry. And generally not feeling sociable.  So you might want to stay low and out of range, as throwing glass and sharp objects is not out of the question.  Fair warning, people.

I should not look at Face Book first thing in the morning. I really should wait until after breakfast. That way I have my wits about me and am not as tempted to post snarky retorts to all those Republican Obama haters, Bible-thumpers, and nay-sayers.  And while I’m on a rant, Kale sucks, too.  I’m not a fan.  I’ll take a big old helping of collard greens instead, thank you very much.

Oh yea, and what is up with all the selfies.  Seriously?  Is it totally necessary to post a selfie for every freaking minute of your life?  No one is that attractive…well, except for Jennifer Lopez, who doesn’t need to take selfies.  She has people for that. In my next life, I want to come back as JLo’s smart phone.  I might have a short life, but it would so be worth the ride.

At this point, if you have not already abandoned this post, you might be asking yourself, “Is there anything this crazy bitch likes at all on Face Book?” 

I’m thinking. 

Stand by…


I like the kitten, puppy, and baby posts and videos. They take me to my happy place.  Just viewing all that cuteness is almost as effective as medicinal pot, but much less expensive.  Not that I have had any experience with the magic weed, you understand.  Ahem. Let’s move on, shall we?

Going forward, we have a presidential election coming up in 2016, with all that implies.  Face Book will be a-buzz many months before the election, with news, opinions, and factoids.  And, by factoids, I really mean hatred-spewing from people who have no idea about government and how it actually works.  They just want to hop on the bandwagon and post their ignorance.  When it all begins, I will be unfriending and unfollowing the multitudes. I wish to convey my apologies ahead of time.  You all know where I stand with politics.  I don’t have to preach.  Consequently, I don’t want to be the recipient of said preaching. 

But I still love you all.  Just wake me when it’s over.  I promise if the other side wins, I will not be unhappy. I will not bash our new president.  I will, instead, seek counseling.

At the local bar. 

Margarita on the rocks, please, bartender!

Thank god for football. 

Go Broncos!




Don't wake me until September

Yes folks, summer is upon us.  And I’m living the nightmare dream.

Bikinis, cool drinks, BBQ’s, outdoor concerts, swimming pools, the ice cream truck, no school, and the yearly vacation in the trusty family truckster.  Wally World here we come!

That’s what summer means to a lot of people.

But for me?  Not so much.

Summer is to me like winter is to someone living in Minnesota.  I dread it every year, and I swear that it seems longer Every. Single. Year.  Maybe that is because of global warming.  Thanks a lot, all you hairspray abusers from the 80s out there. I’m melting and it’s because of you and your need for big hair.

Having lived in Las Vegas for almost nine years, one would think I would hate summer because of the 110+ temperatures from late May until early September.  Oh wait, that is why I hate summer!  However, I was never very fond of summer, even long before I moved to the desert.  I lived in Ohio before Vegas, and although the summer was not as long, it still kicked my ass with the heat and humidity. It really brought out the worst side of me. I was a grumpy bitch. I fretted and I mumbled. I was dripping sweat all the time. I even perspired while getting out of the shower.  It was not pretty, people. My apologies for any visuals you may have conjured up that you will never be able to un-see.  Consider it a gift.

Second only to the heat, mosquitos and creepy-crawly critters make me want to wrap myself up in a box and mail it to Alaska.  I’m not proud to be a squeamish fraidy-cat. However, “Damn the conservationists!  The world would do just fine with a lot less spiders and snakes.”  They are all just sneaky little spawn of Satan! 

My third reason for hating summer would be my poor hands.  All summer long, I get burned touching the car door handle. You’d think I would just stop that behavior, but it’s not easy.  I never seem to remember to bring along anything to put between my hands and that gaud-awful freakishly hot vehicle.  It’s just not right. The car industry needs to invent a cooling mechanism for said handles that can be remotely controlled or even triggered to immediately cool down after reaching a certain temperature.  I wonder if anyone has thought of that. I could invent it and go on Shark Tank and be mocked, humiliated and insulted by a panel of rich assholes.  What an adventure that would be!

But I digress, as I’ve been guilty of so many times in the past. Forgive me. I didn’t have my oatmeal this morning. You might want to keep your distance today.  I could blow any minute.

My fourth and final reason for hating summer is the dance I call The Thermostat Shuffle.  You may not be familiar with the name, but I’ll bet you’ve experienced the dance.  It requires two participants with opposing preferences for room temperature. The way it works is Dancer #1 does the sneaky slide over to the thermostat, hoping not to be noticed by Dancer #2. It is just too freaking cold in the room, and she has to make her move before morphing into a human Popsicle. She changes the thermostat setting with one smooth flick of the wrist, and then glides away, ever so graceful and pleased with herself.

Shortly thereafter, Dancer #2 begins fanning her face because of the sudden lack of coolness in the room. With stealth-like precision, she leaps from the couch, does a double-looped turn, and sashays on over to the thermostat like a sexy jewel-thief about to lift the Hope Diamond.  Yes, folks, she’s done this dance before.  She’s got skills.  She slides the thermostat needle silently upwards with a perfectly manicured fingernail. (Wouldn’t want to leave any fingerprints)  She is, after all, a professional.

As the room continues to cool, Dancer #1 takes notice and is mildly amused, knowing Dancer #2 is only flirting with her. It’s all about the dance, of course.  Dancer #1 decides a few more forceful moves might be in order.  So she boogies on over to Dancer #2, who is obviously enjoying her nice cool air, and shake–shake-shakes a finger in her partner’s face.

“It’s too Cold in here, honey”  says Dancer #1, with a sweet but determined tone.

“No No, it’s too Hot in here, honey” says her partner, turned adversary, turned pissed-off, turned determined to win, whatever she has to do.

“We’ll just see about that, HONEY” says Dancer #1, face getting red, pulse racing.

“Okay, bring it on, HONEY” retorts her beloved Dancer #2, matching her volume, neighbors-be-damned.

Dancer #2 rises from the couch to meet her partner, toe-to-toe, eye-to-eye, stubborn streak to stubborn streak.

Then, as if a gun had gone off to signify the start of a horse race, both dancers jumped the couch and sprinted to the thermostat. 

I get there first. Ha!

Oh wait, I forgot to tell you…I’m Dancer #2. 

I protect the thermostat setting with my life. I even gloat a little by dancing a little jig and humming a little tune.

My partner, Dancer #1, love of my life, just smiles.

I hate it when she does that.

She walks away, knowing full well what we both know.

She’ll be back when I’m not looking, damn it all.

And the dance will begin all over again.


So you’re probably wondering if there is anything at all I like about summer.  I sat down and gave it some thought.  I think better sitting down.  Especially with a glass of wine in my hand.  So I sat down and had a glass of wine while I searched my brain for something I might like about summer.  And then it hit me like a gallon jug of Boone’s Farm Tickled Pink!

In fact, I came up with two things!

Wine coolers. And watermelon. Watermelon Wine Coolers! 

Bring it, Summer!  I got this.






 *Images from Google Images


Mother's Day Rerun Post: Oh Momma!

Reposting a silly Mother's Day tribute from last year.  You're welcome...

Another Mothers’ Day is upon us. Some of us are scrambling to find that perfect gift that will surprise and delight Mom. Others are just hoping to select something for Mom that doesn’t trigger her sarcastic/sadistic/soooo-crazy side.  Good luck with those gift selections, people.   My advice?  Don’t waste too much time fretting over your selection.  You will not get it right.  Just face it and prepare for the impending storm.  Your time would be better spent stocking up on sandbags (to fill and block all entrances to your house. This works until Mom realizes she can drive a bulldozer, and she can rent one for cheap) and garlic (to ward off evil mommy-is-possessed spirits and counteract any spells she may have cast).

You can’t win, so retreat.  Don’t worry about waving the white flag, because Mom has built-in radar and will find you. You can run but you can’t hide. Mom is coming after her Mothers’ Day gift and you’d better be ready.  Hide your wife/husband/partner because Mom will blame everything on them, and you want to avoid a family violence 9-1-1 call on Mothers’ Day, if at all possible. Put all the kids on the front lines front porch to hopefully avert Mom’s attention while you make your escape.  Mom’s a sucker for her grandkids. They are like kryptonite. She has no defense.  She will turn into a mushy, gushy Nana right before your eyes. 

Sometimes resorting to such low-class measures is the only thing that will save you. Just do it. And don’t’ look back.

And just when you think you’ve experienced enough maternal madness for one year, you remember you have a Mother-in-Law.   MIL for short, and code for Monster If Loaded…whatever you do, don’t buy her any alcohol.  She has had plans to get rid of you for years now and selecting the wrong gift could be just the catalyst she needs to execute. 

You don’t want to piss MIL off.  MIL has skills. MIL has secrets of which you are not privy. MIL has given birth to your husband/wife/partner and there’s not a damned thing you can do about that. 

MIL will feign acceptance, warmth, and wisdom when you first meet her, but don’t let her cute-little-oldladyness fool you.  You took her baby away from her.  She may forgive but she will never forget.  When selecting a gift for this kind of MIL, walk softly and carry a credit card with a huge limit.

MIL can be bought.  What?  You think you’re the only one who can’t leave Kohl’s without buying another handbag? 


MIL will leap several aisles in a single bound in order to pry a coveted handbag from another woman’s bleeding hands.  She can be brutal.  How did you think your husband/wife/partner got their stubborn streak?

You have no idea what you’re dealing with.  Sleeping with one eye open wouldn’t be a bad idea around this time of year.

Just sayin…   Forewarned is forearmed.

Happy Mother’s Day! If you need me, I’ll be in my bunker bedroom with my blankie. Just slide my Mother’s Day gift under the door and go away.






**Images from Google Images


Technologically speaking. Ahem.

Times have been lean for the past few years in my household. I haven’t made any significant purchases in so long; my shopping gene has withered up and turned to dust, much like other parts of my body, which shall remain nameless.

We don’t have flat screen TV.  The screen is flat, yes, but the rest of the TV is heavier than my couch.  When the guy delivered it over 8.5 years ago, he had to climb 18 stairs and then place the TV up onto a little cubby-hole in the wall. He was not a happy delivery man. The look he gave me upon making his exit remained etched in my memory.  I would have felt sorry for him if not for his steely glance and the dirty boot prints he left on my carpet.  Instead, I wished for him an even heavier burden upon his next task.  Ha! That Sony TV is still working fine and it shall remain our main source of entertainment until it dies.  Then, and only then, will I shop for a real flat-screen television.

My current computer is a Samsung laptop sold to me at a deep discount by my younger son after my desktop HP computer suffered an untimely demise. The clunky old thing just up and quit on me, due to some unfortunate viral mania, most likely brought on by surfing in unknown web-ly waters.  At least I think that’s why it died. I tried everything I thought I knew to troubleshoot said device, but it all but ignored my efforts.  It did manage a few creeky-sputtery sounds just before the end, though, as if trying to forge a little sympathy. It may have succeeded in drawing a tear or two from me but for the loss of several important documents and pictures. 

Three and a half years later, my laptop (affectionately named Mr. Samsung) is beginning to show signs of age.  Norton Utilities, my chosen security and virus protection, comes up with detections of infected areas daily.  I think Mr. Samsung is getting sick.  He even gives off an odor akin to an antiseptic hospital ward.  Okay maybe that’s my imagination.  However, I’m quite certain he is about to go belly-up and will join a long list of electronics that have gone to that cloudy graveyard in the sky.

And what is up with the Cloud?  Having been a computer geek since they were invented, I understand that when something is sent to the Cloud, it is sent to a server somewhere, and can be retrieved with only a few key strokes and/or clicks.  Explaining that to my partner, however, is a whole other matter. I have found myself pointing up to the sky and repeatedly saying “Cloud”.  Of course, that doesn’t actually help, but rather invokes quizzical looks and questions such as, “How does it get up there?” and “Does it climb power lines or what?” thus forcing me to table said discussion until I’ve had at least one more glass of wine.

The one electronic device I have not denied myself, however, is the smart phone. For some reason, I must always have the latest and the best. That being said, I could count on one hand how many calls I actually receive in a week. So why must I have a smart phone? The answer is quite simple, really.  Once I tried my first free smart phone from Verizon, I was hooked.  I was forever locked into being able to get my email, Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, banking, and Words with Friends all on my phone. And don’t even get me started on Selfies.  There was no turning back.  I was connected and it felt good.

I actually tried to revert back to a plain flip-phone a couple years ago to save money, but that lasted all of two weeks.  By that time, I was already hooked on texting, and flip-phones were not text-friendly.  Oh maybe those tweenagers can text ninety miles per hour on those little phones, but they use a short-cut vocabulary only understood amongst themselves.  As a writer, I draw the line at such nonsense!  I can make exception for LOL and LMAO, etc., but my brain is not programmed to abbreviate every word down to two letters…or god-forbid, substituting numbers for letters!  That’s just not part of my DNA.  I have to have my smart phone so I can text whole wonderful words.  It’s a part of me…an extension, if you will.  Also, how would I survive if I couldn’t check the score of a Denver Broncos game while sitting in a movie theater?  Granted, I get a few nasty stares and stray remarks, but small price to pay for instant gratification knowledge, don’t you think?

In my little world, I have yet to experience all the latest and greatest technological advancements, such as HD, Blu-Ray, Xbox, PS whatever number they are on now, or the Wii, if that’s still a thing.  And now that my grandkids have grown up to that gaming age, I shudder to think of how bored they would be at my house without all those diversions. 

I would, however, welcome the chance to find out.  I may not be able to find my way through the World of Warcraft or even get to the second level of Super Mario Brothers, but I can bake a pretty yummy cake shaped like R2D2 while listening to some Rolling Stones and kicking some Words with Friends ass on my smart phone. 

Just sayin…

 Okay I did not bake this.I don't have time. I'm playing on my phone.


Age discrimination is alive and well

Four years of blogging has taught me many things. It has shown me that I have a talent for spinning tales, making people laugh, and sometimes warming the hearts of my readers. Of the hundreds of posts I’ve written, only a handful has been of a serious nature.  Humor is my vessel for reaching others.  I’m not a grand-stander or a preacher. I don’t pass judgment on others. I don’t believe that I should pray for every move I make in life, but I don’t begrudge those who do.  I believe in working hard for what I need and want, and I am truly grateful for the privilege of being a Mom, Grandma, Aunt, Sister, Daughter, Best Friend, and Partner. I am also proud to be an employee with an outstanding work ethic.

That being said, today I am pretty steamed about something. 

Age Discrimination is alive and well in this country. If a person hits sixty years of age and is unemployed or under-employed, she had better have a nest egg, or else she is in for a rude awakening. It’s a sad fact, and some will deny it, but companies don’t want the older work force as its leaders.  Oh sure, we can answer phones, work at Mickey D’s, and even be a greeter at Wal-Mart if we’re really lucky. But, look closely at who is running all those establishments, and the majority of the time, you’ll find the leaders to be well below sixty or even fifty years of age.  

What really burns my cheeks is the fact that the older age demographic has a wealth of knowledge and experience to bring to the work force. We’ve been working 30 or 40 years and have experienced and adapted to constantly changing technology.  We have been leaders and managers, and our skills could be invaluable in all levels of a business/corporation, not just the reception desk or the mailroom.  We have a strong work ethic. We come to work every day, on time, and give our best effort toward the mission of our employer.

 Many of us are ex-military.  It was okay for us to defend our country back when we were young. But, now that we are older, we are not seen as leaders and/or innovators.  Employers don’t want us to represent or be an icon for their companies. 

And why?  Because no one wants to get old.  Plain and simple.  As we progress through our lives, our hard work and accomplishments help our families to grow and prosper.  But when we reach that magic age-ceiling, America’s idea is for us to be sitting in our rocker on the porch, waiting for the kids and grandkids to visit so we can bake them a pie. 

It is sad, really. Corporate America is missing out on valuable resources by not promoting us when we are the most qualified.  No one wants to see sweet little old Granny sitting in on a staff meeting or being a project manager.  However, Granny just might be the secret weapon they need. 

Society needs to sober up.  America is aging and living longer.  Older folks have a lot to offer the work force.  We are sitting on advanced degrees, experience (both work and worldly), and the ability to make a difference, as well as to pass on a history of discovery. 

My message to all employers would be:   When you are interviewing for a new manager or promoting from within, don’t skip a resume just because he/she is of a certain age.  Ask yourself, “How can this person add value to my organization?”  You might be very surprised if you just take the time to dig a little deeper and get to know this older applicant. 

You might even find a gold mine!