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Entries in aging (5)


OMG Two more weeks!


Hello friends!  Just two more weeks until:

  • I turn 60.  Oh gosh, that’s a lot to absorb, in and of itself. 


That’s not my big news.

Just two more weeks until:

  • Dark Pretense is born!

Stop the presses!  Film at eleven! 

The book promised way back in the spring has finally happened and will be available on Amazon, both in the Kindle version and in paperback. 


Why not celebrate MY birthday, by surfing on over and scooping up a copy of my new book?

But not until September 6th

I will include a link on this blog once the book is actually available for purchase.


(Hold on to your knickers for this part!)

IF you buy a copy of the paperback, just email me and I will (snail) mail you a sticker with a hand-written personal message and my autograph that you can cherish forever and put in your book.

I know right!  You must be sitting on the edge of your chairs. 

This is big, people.


Stay tuned for details for the online launch party at my author face book site,   Check out my page and Like me.  Because I like to be liked.  And stuff.

So that’s my news. 

Two more weeks until:

  • I join the geriatric demographic.  I hope they are ready for me. I’m still a youngun at heart.
  • I present my second book to the world. My baby. My passion. I’m giddy…

Pretty freaking awesome, when you think about it!!


My day off, I can ramble if I want to

Pop culture is getting away from me. Technology is whizzing over my head like a stealth bomber. Heck, I don’t even know if a stealth bomber is still a thing.

I do know we have a new Pope. But I don’t care as much as I probably should. Where does such news get me, anyhow?  Nowhere!  I need to know stuff that will help me, not the multitudes. I am happy we have a new Pope, though, and I would kneel but my knees are shot. 

In other news...

When did Angelica Huston get so damned old?  She was a total babe in the 1991 movie called The Addams Family.  Now she’s on the TV show called Smash, and showing some mileage. In other words, the tread on her tires is less than a quarter inch these days. Bless her heart (a phrase used often by Southerners for insults on many levels. You can say anything you want about a person, as long as you follow it up by ‘Bless her heart’) 

I try not to think about getting old, and I’m even able to trick myself into believing I’m still all that until I see pictures of my favorite actors and celebrities who are aging right before my eyes. Seriously, if they look that bad aging, then how must I look to the world?  I think I’ll pretend I’m Henry David Thoreau and escape to a rustic cabin in the woods to write a book that will someday be studied in high school English classes. That way, the world can kiss my butt because I will no longer have to feel ashamed or even envy when I don’t have the latest smart phone or iPad. Sounds like a plan, right?  Only problem is, I’m no Henry David Thoreau.

Bless my heart.

Social media is beginning to get on my nerves. It took me several months to become a devoted and accomplished  I can tweet with the best of them. However, I still don’t understand why people tweet their bowel movements. Perhaps they think if they add the appropriate hash tag, it’s all good. Such a tweet might read:  Finally pooped after four days in pain #ohmygod #ohthejoy #enemasareourfriends #donthatemebecauseIpooped

Well you get the gist….

I’m a Twitter Ninja.  I have yet to be desperate enough to tweet about poop, but I make no promises for the future. 


Don’t even get me started on Face book. I finally got used to the change in the home screen, and now I’m hearing there will be another change in the near future. Thanks Face book. You just contributed to my future anxiety and behavior, where I watch Honey Boo Boo reruns and over-indulge in cheap wine.

I would actually like to see one change made in Face book.  I would like to see all those posts that try to guilt me into reposting done away with.  For example, a popular one is:  “I love God. If you love God, repost this. 99% of you will not repost. You don’t love God if you don’t repost. Shame on you…..”  Blah blah blah. And so on and so forth.  You’ve seen them.

If you’ve posted any of the above, my message to you is:  I don’t like being told what to do. Does that make me hate God?  No, but the jury’s still out on my feelings for you.

Okay, that response may be a little harsh.  I love everyone. Really.

Can I get an Amen?

Another annoyance I’m seeing on Face book is the surge of what I call “Fishing for Likes.”  I get these all day long.  The latest one was a kid holding up a sign that read, “My Dad told me if I get a Million Likes, he will quit smoking.”

Yea, sure he will, kid. Don’t hold your breath. (I actually did click on Like for this one)

I’m thinking of making my own sign that reads, “Jennifer told me she would rock my world if I can get a Million Likes.”  

A girl can dream right?




 *Images from Google images.



Research, wrinkles, lyrics and stuff


When I was about twelve years old, I remember singing along to the Beatles’ When I’m 64.  In case you have been deprived of this golden oldie, I’ve posted said song just below.  Have a listen.  I’ll wait.


Catchy tune, right?  Back in my younger days, it didn’t mean much more than a cute little ditty of which lyrics I could actually understand. That’s a tall order with some songs!  I make my case by reminding you of still another golden oldie, Blinded by the Light.  Have another listen.  Then let me know what you hear.

I don’t know about you, but all I could hear in that song was Douche.   Oh, there were a few other words that came through, but Douche stood out.  I’ve always sung along with that song, happily chirping the Douche word and thinking not much of it.  Until today.  I decided to look up those lyrics.  Turned out, the word in question was Deuce.  From what I could glean off the internet (which is always correct!) it is some kind of car.  What.The.Fuck?  Why not just say car? Or Chevy? Or Prius?  Oh wait, Prius wasn’t invented back then. But still…

Inquiring minds need to know these things.  Especially my constantly-in-disarray, ever-rambling brain. I can’t explain it, but I seem to be doomed to research. Everything.  It’s a bit of a curse.  I think my English professor may have put a jinx on me after I corrected him one-too-many times in front of the whole class.  I should have kept my mouth shut about his damned over-usage of the comma.

So now I research. Everything. That’s how I made it through grad school. Not because I was smart or anything.  I just researched my ass off.  People wanted me on their project teams because I was a research ninja.  True story.

But I digress.  Another curse.  I was born with that one. My Mom must have zapped it on me while I was still in the womb. She never liked me.  My therapist once told me everything was entirely my Mom’s fault. I really hope my sons never go to a therapist.  Any therapist’s go-to advice seems to be…Always the mother’s fault.

So, later this year I will forever leave the 50s and venture into the 60s, and quite frankly, it scares the shit out of me.  How did I ever get to be 59 years old?  I think of my past and certain events in my life in terms of decades now.  Four decades ago, I married my first husband. Three decades ago I had my second son.  Two and a half decades ago, I came out. Two decades ago I was in very bad car accident. Or would that be very bad Douche accident? My apologies for any bleeding-eye visuals out there, but I could not resist.

So what happened one decade ago, you may be asking if you are still awake. Well, I think I may have started losing my memory because I cannot think of one significant thing about a decade ago.  I don’t know how I feel about that.  I try not to ponder on it for too long, but lately the whole age thingy has crept into my head without an invitation. Kind of like how that bag of Chunky Chocolate Chip Cookies always seem to jump right into my shopping cart.  Not my fault.

I think I may need to call pest control.  Annoying, pesky little thoughts of wrinkles, gray hair, arthritis, incontinence, and being forevermore dubbed A Senior.  Again I say What.The.Fuck?

What does life have in-store for me during my sixties?  Will I write a best seller? Will I finally get to tour London or go on a cruise?  Will I stop shaving my legs and begin wearing high-water jeans and sweatshirts with big flower appliqués?  Will I go from Poise extra lights to the moderate, heavy-moisture-capturing size? Will I finally join AARP after being eligible for ten years already and throwing away thousands of Sign Me Up Because I’m a Fossil mailers?

Only time will tell. They say time flies. I say I will take time any way I can get it. Preferably celebrating my Sexy Senior Citizen status with family, friends, good health, laughter, and plenty of wine.




Moments of clarity

You know the moment of which I speak. That moment when you realize something is quite true about yourself…something you never thought would be true.

Perhaps your moment comes when your teenage daughter finally sits you down and explains that your choice of fashion is embarrassing her in front of her friends. Face it Mom, you’re headed for Mom jeans. Or, please Mom…just cover up some of that drooping cleavage. Or, thigh-high boots…Mom…just, no. Please, no!


And guys, you eventually reach that moment when the “comb over” just doesn’t work anymore. It’s time to consider other options and unfortunately, none of them are attractive. It’s a good thing you still have that six-pack of beer, right?  It might be time to trade that Speedo in for some of these:


I wish I weren’t so observant, especially of myself. Sometimes I’d just like to turn that ability off, if you know what I mean. I used to be very competitive. I would compare myself to others, and unfairly so. Instead of focusing on the good stuff, I would get all crazy about things of which I had no control. I always wanted to be Cher, way back then. My moment of clarity came when I dressed up like Cher once for a Halloween party. I was in my early forties.  This bitch someone at the party asked me if I was “Morticia’s mother.”  What the fuck?

OK so maybe I asked for that abuse. It wasn’t the last time I embarrassed myself, either. Seriously, being a medium-height, slightly overweight, intelligent and witty brunette was never good enough for me. I always wished I was the cheerleader, the blond, the class-president, the athlete, the chief bitch in charge, the valedictorian, the center of attention, and the Mom of the Year. Second was never good enough for me. And yet, first rarely came for me.

So I’ve been stuck for most of my life in that void between first and “not” first. You know that place. It wouldn’t matter if it were second, third or last. It was still “not” first.

If any of this sounds familiar, and you suffer from any of the weirdness I’ve described above, you need to get a grip, people. Life is a wastin’.

Another moment of clarity came last night when I went to bed and was trying to sleep. There were young punks, stupid kids, assholes, delinquents, jerks, idiots still lots of people in the neighborhood, setting off firecrackers, and they kept setting them off until the midnight deadline.  I was throwing an old-lady temper tantrum because of this annoyance. Oh, no one knew it but me, but I lay there and cussed all those young whippersnappers out for having a life and trying to enjoy themselves on our nation's 236th birthday. How dare they!

Yeah, big moment of clarity. I was getting old. I didn’t want to shoot off firecrackers and I didn’t want to stay up late. Consequently, I didn’t want anyone else to, either.

That’s really not true.  No matter how badly I behaved, and I did behave badly, the truth is, I realized I had become a grumpy old biddy of sorts, at least in my mind, even though I had yet to show it on the surface.

You know what I am talking about…The old man shouting, “Get off my lawn!” syndrome. Oh my God.

Someone get me some youth serum.

Or I’ll whack you with my cane.

No, really, I didn’t mean that!

Well, I kinda did.

Thinking back over the years of all the things I’ve had to give up due to those moments of clarity, makes me want to climb into my bottle of cheap wine and continue the ferment.

For example, giving up bikinis after my first C-Section.

And giving up competitive tennis after my knees gave up on me.

Giving up on mini-skirts because my thighs got dimples, and not because minis went out of style.

Giving up on winning that beauty contest. I just couldn’t find the perfect tiara is all. I could have ruled the runway.

Giving up on being an athlete. Knees, back, weight. Excuses. Excuses. Laziness. And the fact that I really sucked at most sports.

World domination. There was actually a moment of hope there when Hillary was running for President. All she needed to do was appoint me for her Vice and we could have made beautiful political music together. So I blame that one on her and the voters. Their loss.

All kidding aside, even though you know that’s tough for me, moments of clarity happen for all of us. They keep us in check. They remind us of the fact that life is a constant change. What we need to do is learn how to embrace the change and not let it cripple our passion or enthusiasm for living.

That’s what I’m going to do.

As soon as I chase those damn kids off my lawn!



Images from Google Images






I'm Just Having an Old Day



Today I’m linking up with the lovely Lisa from Grandmas Briefs, for Grand Social.  I’m actually linking an old post from last year, one describing a bit of an "old" day I was having.  Hope you enjoy my silliness!


Ever have one of those days? Ever find yourself smack in the middle of a shitty day?  Or a depressing day, perhaps?   Or you might be having a sick day, or a tired day, or a melancholy day.  Or, maybe you could luck-out and have an other-end-of-the-spectrum day, where the freaking sun shines all the time and people walk around spreading good cheer and handing out flowers.  I call those Smiley Face or Pollyanna days, and they make me want to gag.  Especially today.   I’m not exactly sure where my day fit on the proverbial spectrum, but all indications are that I appeared to be experiencing an Old Day.

Old Day began with me waking to my usual arthritic stiffness especially in my left leg (is that anything like a woody, only for Old people?)   I had to ease out of bed so as not to cause any unexpected ear-piercing crackling of the bones.  Then I scuffled to the bathroom to brush my tooth and insert my contact lenses and the rest of my teeth and put on my wig.   After washing my face, I noticed my morning beard had grown exponentially during the night, so I began the plucking process.  It would appear that the older I get, the more facial hair I am blessed with.  Is this somehow my punishment for making fun of my aunt’s beard when I was growing up?  I’m sorry, but it was so freaking funny back then.  And yet now....funny?....not so much.

After freshening up, I gathered my morning pills and gulped them down with a pot of coffee.  It struck me odd Old that I would have morning pills, because that meant that I must also have evening pills.  When did I start taking pills in shifts?   I can’t even remember, which is another Old feature, if I recall.   I had my breakfast of oatmeal, orange juice and coffee, then went to my closet to select my outfit for the day.  Today was Saturday and I had no plans, so the decision on what to wear was pretty easy.  After a brief inventory of my fashionable couture comfortable sweats and platform shoes, I settled on staying in my pajamas.  That was easy.  That part of being Old is not so bad.

After breakfast, I had to do my stretches and exercises in the living room.  Those are to keep my arthritis from turning my body to stone.  I laid down on the floor and turned on my iPod, rocking to some Rolling Stones while I stretched. Visions of that sexy Mick Jagger ran through my head.  I took a break and checked my pulse.  Yep, still alive.  Then I stood up to do some squats and toe-touches.   All finished, I took my blood pressure, changed clothes, and then headed out for a brisk walk around the apartment complex almost a half mile if I double-back twice.  That pooped me out, so I had to doze a little in my lounger before lunch.

After lunch I decided to do some writing, and all I could think of were stories about grandpas and enemas.  Is that sick?   I had no attention span at all so I suspended the writing for a little sketching.  When my sketch started resembling that of a bowl of All-Bran with prunes, I decided it was time to give up on the creative aspects of my day.     I turned on the TV, and nothing seemed worth watching except for Paula Dean and her southern cooking show.  I had to turn off the TV when I became overcome with desire to taste whatever Paula had to offer….ya’ll.   That’s just wrong.    Paula’s not even my type.

So the day’s been a complete OLD bust and even supper had cobwebs.  Joan was yawning just looking at me so I tried entertaining her with a story that began, “There was an old woman from….” and went something like, “…..she removed her dentures, hearing aid, wig and then went right into her lap dance.  Her lover was mesmerized.”  Joan was not amused. Or mesmerizedFail.

So this evening, I have already consumed two glasses of White Zinfandel and my evening pills.  I’m sitting here in my lounger, with my heating pad nestled demurely in the small of my back and turned up to 10 hot hot.  I’m wearing casual but stylish evening attire the same pajamas I had on this morning, and my bright orange Denver Broncos socks to keep my footsies toasty warm.  Every now and then I look over at Joan, who’s looking Hot in her jammies and floppy houseshoes, and give her “The LookI won’t even try to explain this.  Sometimes “The Look” gets me a welcomed glance and a little flirtation, but tonight all it gets me is an annoyed eye roll.  I could swear she flipped me off and called me an Old Coot, but she completely denies it. I don’t know how she could resist my sultry glances and passionate pleas  begging, but she does.

Right now, I look up at the clock and see it’s already 6:30 pm, just a couple more hours until bedtime.  I suppose I will post this craziness and finish the wine, then read a little.   Maybe I can find something steamy to read in this month’s Reader’s Digest.  If not, I think my new copy of Arthritis Self-Management may just be the perfect way to top off my OLD DAY.

Goodnight all you young whippersnappers. If you have kids, please keep them off my lawn.  Thank you.

(Images by Google Images)