Life can be a little confusing once you're past the half-century mark. At 50-something, I'm no longer "middle-aged" unless I plan to live to the ripe old age of 150. I'm too young for senior citizen discounts, but AARP mails membership applications to me every month.
I'm caught in between - like being 11 years old again. A tween, but with stiff joints, failing eyesight, and thinning hair.
Antioxidants, probiotics, free radicals - it's warfare out there! Low carbs, high fiber, gluten free, and whatever the hell fructose is, makes eating right a daily challenge.
I arm myself with age defying facial creams, hair color that promises full coverage of stubborn grays, and multi-vitamins named silver. Sadly, it's been years since I have been "carded" when ordering wine with dinner. My daughter's classmate even thought I was her grandma at a school meeting.
Ironically, my age has worked against me. Though I lobbied my internist and insurance company, both told me I was too young to get the shingles shot. Excuse me? It only works if you're age 60 and over? I've had shingles since I was in my mid-20s! This much needed medication won't work on me now, but hot diggity dang, in six short years it will kick ass on these nasty break outs.
I recently discovered underwear designed to eliminate muffin tops. I foolishly thought the only way to eliminate unsightly muffin tops was to stop eating muffins. Duh! I was wrong! A wide lace waistband and strategically positioned elastic prove to be the engineering marvel us thick waisted women need. And it was on sale, so I bought a half-dozen. Granny panties are on hold...for now.
Tuesday, May 19, 2015
Wednesday, November 26, 2014
Bah Bah Bah...The Mobile Funny Farm is not for the sheepish
As much as I hate the long commute home, having my kids with me can make it one hell of a ride.
On the way home today, my Alex declared, "I can't bah."
When your 18 year old son makes this startling admission, it is cause for concern. So I reply as any caring, nurturing mother would.
"What the hell do you mean? You can't what?"
"I can't bah! Like a sheep."
Always looking for opportunities to upstage her older brother, Mika starts bleating like a nanny goat on steroids in the back seat,
Alex answers with his heartfelt, vibrato-less Bah! Bah!
By this time, I'm laughing so hard, my commuting brethren in the next lane must have heard my hysterical cackling. That and Mika bleating proudly in the back seat and my Alex going "Bah! Bah!" in the passenger seat next to me.
It was a Funny Farm on wheels, people. Forget about driving me crazy. I'm already there.
On the way home today, my Alex declared, "I can't bah."
When your 18 year old son makes this startling admission, it is cause for concern. So I reply as any caring, nurturing mother would.
"What the hell do you mean? You can't what?"
"I can't bah! Like a sheep."
Always looking for opportunities to upstage her older brother, Mika starts bleating like a nanny goat on steroids in the back seat,
Alex answers with his heartfelt, vibrato-less Bah! Bah!
By this time, I'm laughing so hard, my commuting brethren in the next lane must have heard my hysterical cackling. That and Mika bleating proudly in the back seat and my Alex going "Bah! Bah!" in the passenger seat next to me.
It was a Funny Farm on wheels, people. Forget about driving me crazy. I'm already there.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Mojo is a no-go, but I love him anyway
I recently watched the show "Cats 101" on Animal Planet. I learned the American short hair cat was brought to the U.S. from England because of its great hunting skills. Rats were dispatched quickly and efficiently on those old sailing ships by these master mousers, whose legacy lives on in today's domestic cat.
I looked over at my cat, who was sound asleep and snoring next to me. As a hunter, Mojo is a big disappointment.
In the beginning, my Mojo was the largest and fiercest kitten in the litter. Feisty and curious, he'd knock over his smaller siblings to get a glimpse at whatever was going on. He'd race through an open door to get inside the house he was forbidden to enter. His mama's owner said the family was thinking of keeping this furry ball of energy. The even named him Brutus. I changed his name to Mojo and took him home that day.
How this tiny tiger grew up to be an over-sized scaredy cat is often debated in this family.
"After his balls got cut off, (aka neutered) he lost his edge," one kid would opine. "And you over-fed him. That's why he's so fat!" the other kid would add.
"Not fat, big boned!" I'd retort. But I would have to agree Neutered Mojo was way more mellow than Mojo Uncut.
Mojo is an indoor cat and seems fearful of the icky critters that find their way in the house. He has never caught a single gecko. He watches roaches and ants from a safe distance. When the kitchen was invaded by a couple of mice, he would not step one paw into that room. Sadly, the only mouse Mojo every attacked was tethered to my laptop.
My step-cat Ricki was the complete opposite of Mojo and my hubby often reminds me of HIS cat's hunting prowess. Ricki, he brags, would kill centipedes...CENTIPEDES...the ones with poisonous fangs! Ricki would catch geckos and toy with them before the inevitable kill. And when we lived close to the mountains, Ricki would roam the great outdoors and gift us with chewed up rat carcasses.
Tonight a juicy gecko is lurking somewhere in my bedroom. This means a sleepless night worrying the darn thing will fall on me from the ceiling or crawl across my legs. Where is Mojo? My Mojo is lying on my bed with a dead roach stuck in his belly fur. A larger and equally lifeless roach is in his litter box. A part of me dared to hope my Mojo's hunting skills finally kicked in and he killed both roaches like American short-hair cats have done for centuries. But my hubby, with his Vulcan logic, quickly brought me back to reality.
"I think they both died of natural causes," he said plainly.
Sad, but true. And the gecko will probably die of old age.
I looked over at my cat, who was sound asleep and snoring next to me. As a hunter, Mojo is a big disappointment.
In the beginning, my Mojo was the largest and fiercest kitten in the litter. Feisty and curious, he'd knock over his smaller siblings to get a glimpse at whatever was going on. He'd race through an open door to get inside the house he was forbidden to enter. His mama's owner said the family was thinking of keeping this furry ball of energy. The even named him Brutus. I changed his name to Mojo and took him home that day.
How this tiny tiger grew up to be an over-sized scaredy cat is often debated in this family.
"After his balls got cut off, (aka neutered) he lost his edge," one kid would opine. "And you over-fed him. That's why he's so fat!" the other kid would add.
"Not fat, big boned!" I'd retort. But I would have to agree Neutered Mojo was way more mellow than Mojo Uncut.
Mojo is an indoor cat and seems fearful of the icky critters that find their way in the house. He has never caught a single gecko. He watches roaches and ants from a safe distance. When the kitchen was invaded by a couple of mice, he would not step one paw into that room. Sadly, the only mouse Mojo every attacked was tethered to my laptop.
My step-cat Ricki was the complete opposite of Mojo and my hubby often reminds me of HIS cat's hunting prowess. Ricki, he brags, would kill centipedes...CENTIPEDES...the ones with poisonous fangs! Ricki would catch geckos and toy with them before the inevitable kill. And when we lived close to the mountains, Ricki would roam the great outdoors and gift us with chewed up rat carcasses.
Tonight a juicy gecko is lurking somewhere in my bedroom. This means a sleepless night worrying the darn thing will fall on me from the ceiling or crawl across my legs. Where is Mojo? My Mojo is lying on my bed with a dead roach stuck in his belly fur. A larger and equally lifeless roach is in his litter box. A part of me dared to hope my Mojo's hunting skills finally kicked in and he killed both roaches like American short-hair cats have done for centuries. But my hubby, with his Vulcan logic, quickly brought me back to reality.
"I think they both died of natural causes," he said plainly.
Sad, but true. And the gecko will probably die of old age.
 |
| The roar of the great Mojo! Actually, he just woke from a nap. |
 |
| Looking for attention...and a snack. |
 |
| Mojo impersonating a meat loaf. |
Tuesday, June 21, 2011
Are You Smarter Than a Smart Phone?
In one of my less than lucid moments, I decided to join the 21st Century and get a smart phone. Granted, my hubby had been raving about his Android phone for months and after awhile, I started to see its appeal. Plus Mobi had a great deal on an Android phone and a very affordable data plan. My Chinese sensibilities could not resist such a deal.
My 15 year old Alex scoffed at my getting a smart phone.
"Mom is not technologically advanced," he complained. "The smart phone will outsmart her."
He was just pissy because I wouldn't indulge a 2-for1 smart phone deal for him. His Momma is not so dumb.
The fact that I could update my Facebook status and Twitter to my heart's content on my smart phone was just mind boggling. I went app-sh*t crazy downloading everything from the requisite Angry Birds game to Chewbacca ring tones to a pirate themed car locator called Caaar Matey. I was so engrossed in app acquisitions that I failed to learn how to answer a call when my phone roared like a Wookie.
Of course, Alex was highly amused.
"The smart phone outsmarted Mom again!" he would gleefully proclaim whenever I missed a call.
This boy is SO going to be using his hand-me-down cell phone until he's 21. And forget about a data plan.
But like any technology, the smart phone was not infallible.
One evening as I was chilling in my Inner Sanctuary ( aka the bathroom) I heard urgent footsteps rushing toward the room. It was my loving spouse, Bill.
"What's wrong? You need help?" Bill asked, very worried.
"Uh, no," came my confused reply through the bathroom door. "I've been potty-solo for over 40 years now. I think I got the hang of it."
"Well, I got a text message from you just now that says, 'Help me!'"
"I don't even have my phone in here with me!"
"I'm looking at the text message. It's got today's date on it. It's from you." Bill said emphatically. In his world, his smart phone would not deceive him. I knew better than to continue the argument.
Later that evening we discovered the "Help me!" message was indeed sent from my phone to Bill's phone - two weeks earlier. I had parked my car with a trunk full of stuff that wasn't going to walk into the house on its own. Instead of hollering for help, I used my newly acquired technology to send the message to my Bill. For some reason, the message wandered around in cyberspace before landing in Bill's smart phone.
That proved to me that smart phones are not always smart. And yes, I am ultimately smarter than a smart phone. Well, I would be if I can just figure out how to pick up an incoming call.
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Conversations Through The Bathroom Door
It never fails. As soon as I enter the inner sanctuary known as my bathroom, I am interrupted by one or both kids plus the cat. They could ignore me all day, but as soon as that bathroom door closes and I am busy, they have urgent needs that must be met.
"Mom?" the daughter asks through the door.
No answer from me.
"Mom!" the voice rises.
If I ignore her, she might go away. No such luck.
"Mom! Why don't you answer me? I know you're in there!"
Such a keen, analytical mind.
If I give in and answer, her urgent need is usually benign, "Can I turn on the TV?" or "I'm hungry, and there's nothing to eat." Sometimes the daughter just feels like drawing pictures, shoving them under the door, and demanding a critique of her art. I wonder if Picasso's mom had the same problem.
If my son wants to get attention, his latest mode of communication is "screamo". For the uninitiated, the sound of screamo can best be described as the sound a mountain lion would make if it sat on a nail. Although screamo is a method of post-Gothic rock singing (and I use the word singing loosely) that's how my son communicates in non-musical situations.
The bathroom door closes. I start to relax. Suddenly:
Son: "YEEEEEAAAOOWWW!" Followed by a deep, guttural intonation of, "MUM! CAN I TURN ON THE COMPUTER?"
Me: Sure, after you get that nail of the mountain lion's ass.
Son: "YEEEEEAAAOOWWW!"
Me: Good job. Now set it free and turn on the computer.
Of course, my own mountain lion (a.k.a. my lazy cat) has his way of communicating through the bathroom door. Five minutes after I close the door, I hear, "THUMP! SCRAAAAATCH! MEOW?" Since my bathroom is also the cat's "room" I have to let him in. Sometimes he's looking for stray kibble. Other times, nature calls and it's a visit to the litter box. Then there are times he just wants to hang out with me. Or get away from the kids. Either way, I end up with a 25 pound cat sitting next to the toilet, staring at me with big green eyes.
I seriously need a sound-proof bathroom. A Class-5 Vault Door would be nice, too. They'd still find a way, though. They always do.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Holiday overload can be pretty flocking annoying
Every year ladies who channel Martha (as in Stewart, as in annoyingly creative with ribbon and fine linen) get that wild eye look right after Thanksgiving. They know that once the turkey is history and the pumpkin pie has settled on their hips and thighs, it’s time to Deck the Halls with all manner of holiday fancy. These gals of the gift wrap get all shades of excited with a strategically placed snowman or welcoming Santa. The blinking lights, the sparkling garland, and let’s not even touch those glass balls.
Before you peg me a Scrooge, let’s remember that Christmas is about Christ. I can take a few of the annoying accoutrements that come with the season, but I draw the line at taking Christ out of Christmas and substituting Winter Wonderland scenes as the main attraction.
So it was with great trepidation that I faced the whirlwind of what is the Office Holiday Decorating Team. Armed with shiny fabric and wire ribbons and enough hanging balls to rival a NFL locker room, these Divas of Decor unleash a torrent of holiday tchotkes in and around my work area. It’s like the Home Department of a Ross Store exploded in our lobby.
Someone puts on a Christmas CD to set the mood. When Dean Martin starts singing, “Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!” I think, “In Hawaii? Yeah right Dino, when pigs fly!”
The Christmas tree is adorned with tasteful and elegant ribbons and color coordinated ornaments. (The handmade ornaments staff created over the years have mysteriously disappeared.) The simple red felt tree skirt has been replaced with a gold crushed velvet wrap. There is ominous talk of placing a large Santa right outside my CUBE. “Target practice!” I muse in my retaliation scenario. And I swear if those lights strung on my CUBE walls start blinking, I will have a seizure and die.
One of the ladies microwaves a gingerbread cookie and the smell wafts into the lobby. The Decorating Team stops, sniffs the air, and sighs – so deeply satisfied by the complete holiday sensory experience.
So for the next few weeks I am surrounded by glitter, tiny glowing lights, fake snow, and an abundance of holiday swag. I think I can probably handle this, but if someone pops their head in my CUBE one more time and says, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” my retort will be, “Who you calling a ho?” Tis the season, after all.
Before you peg me a Scrooge, let’s remember that Christmas is about Christ. I can take a few of the annoying accoutrements that come with the season, but I draw the line at taking Christ out of Christmas and substituting Winter Wonderland scenes as the main attraction.
So it was with great trepidation that I faced the whirlwind of what is the Office Holiday Decorating Team. Armed with shiny fabric and wire ribbons and enough hanging balls to rival a NFL locker room, these Divas of Decor unleash a torrent of holiday tchotkes in and around my work area. It’s like the Home Department of a Ross Store exploded in our lobby.
Someone puts on a Christmas CD to set the mood. When Dean Martin starts singing, “Let it Snow! Let it Snow! Let it Snow!” I think, “In Hawaii? Yeah right Dino, when pigs fly!”
The Christmas tree is adorned with tasteful and elegant ribbons and color coordinated ornaments. (The handmade ornaments staff created over the years have mysteriously disappeared.) The simple red felt tree skirt has been replaced with a gold crushed velvet wrap. There is ominous talk of placing a large Santa right outside my CUBE. “Target practice!” I muse in my retaliation scenario. And I swear if those lights strung on my CUBE walls start blinking, I will have a seizure and die.
One of the ladies microwaves a gingerbread cookie and the smell wafts into the lobby. The Decorating Team stops, sniffs the air, and sighs – so deeply satisfied by the complete holiday sensory experience.
So for the next few weeks I am surrounded by glitter, tiny glowing lights, fake snow, and an abundance of holiday swag. I think I can probably handle this, but if someone pops their head in my CUBE one more time and says, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” my retort will be, “Who you calling a ho?” Tis the season, after all.
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