Where Was I?

file0001903436088 (1)I don’t think it’s dementia, I don’t think it’s ADD, and I don’t think I’m alone. It’s just life. We’re busy with a looooonnnng list of to-do’s (if not on paper, then banging around in our heads). Add in human nature (avoidance) and social media, and you’ve got the perfect setting for an hour of disjointed distractions.

Here’s a sample of such an hour in my life. As you can see, it always starts with the best of intentions.

  1. Coffee and Facebook. Need to wake up and see who needs prayers and whose kids are most successful. Then I’ll write.
  2. Realize I could use my time more effectively if I started a load of laundry.DSCN7331
  3. Find I’m low on Spray and Wash, look through the cabinets to find the refill jug and discover some lavender sachets I forgot I had. I need to put them in my closet.
  4. See my overstuffed closet and acknowledge I can’t fit into most of the clothes anymore, so decide to donate to charity. Pull out half the clothes, stacking them on my bed. Remember I’m not alone.
  5. Go through everyone else’s closets, creating piles of clothes throughout the house. Accept it’s a bigger load than I thought. Decide to see which charity is doing curbside pickup in the next week.
  6. Get back on the laptop, stopping to recharge coffee, and start the search for charities.
  7. Spend twenty minutes watching videos from various charitable organizations,
    going from one clip to another. Choose to ignore that Heifer International probably doesn’t want my 1980’s clothes and keep watching because they do such meaningful work.Cow
  8. Keep clicking from clip to clip. End up on Angelina Jolie. Then Brad and Angelina. Then the latest Hollywood breakups. Then the greatest Hollywood couples of all time.

My stomach growls, reminding me I need to eat. I get up, breaking my Google fog and look around. It’s been more than an hour, my house is covered with piles of dirty clothes and clothes to be donated, I haven’t started writing, and I suddenly feel a need to nap. On the upside, it looks like Paul Newman and Joanne Woodward had a strong marriage.paul-newman-and-joanne-woodward-young

Photo Credits: Signs by wedhatted; Laundry by pippalou; Cow by anusharaji; Paul and Joanne from silvervelvetsky.wordpress.com
Advertisements

Getting Old Is A “Beep”

Clock by CrassLast night, as I was hugging my son goodnight, he shared, “You’re skin used to be softer.” Love you too, darling! But he’s not alone. A while back, my daughter walked in after I’d stepped out of the shower, catching an eye-full of my backside. Her comment, “Oh, Momma.” And it wasn’t a, “Oh, Momma, we need to start walking.” No, this was more like, “Oh, Momma, I’m so sorry you lost your leg in the war.”

When my husband turned fifty, I made a horror film for him. (Camp Reformation – went straight to DVD). At the end, the killer is revealed. She wears a sweatshirt marked “50.” When her twin (the non-evil one) asks her why she’s murdered all the teenage campers, the psycho explains, “Because getting old is a bitch!”Camp Reformation

Oh, I thought that was a great line at the time (I was forty-two.) Turns out…not so funny. Truth never is.

Yes, from an emotional standpoint, aging is a wonderful thing. You’ve lived through enough experiences to know that life is cyclical, that there are tough patches, but they will pass. You begin to understand what’s worth arguing about or accepting and moving on. You look at supposedly mundane activities – the family sitting around the table, eating spaghetti and not arguing – and realize it’s a special moment.

But the physical side is harsh. As my daughter made VERY clear, hineys do not age like fine wine. Now, when my peers talk about their implants, they’re referring to dental work, which is probably for the best. Let’s face it, at a certain point, breast augmentations are a little ridiculous. I mean if you take an old, sagging pillow case filled with flour, then add a grapefruit, is it really going to look any better?

Fortunately, I’ve been blessed with a wonderful husband that eases the pain of this downhill journey. Maybe he’s delusional or just a very smart man, but he Spectaclesstill tells me I have a great body. Of course, there’s also the fact that he’s legally blind without his glasses. Doesn’t really matter. As long as those babies come off before I put on the Barry White, I can put JLo to shame.

“Spectacles” courtesy of Kenn W. Kiser. Clock photo by crass,

Oh, Momma . . . It’s The Mammo

Twenty years ago, my preventive healthcare consisted of one annual exam. An awkward moment with the OB/GYN, then a “Thank you. See you next year.”

But times change, as have my body and medical recommendations. My preventive healthcare is now a part-time job. I feel as if I schedule more appointments than Lindsey Lohan’s parole officer. (I know, I know. That was hateful, but I couldn’t resist).

Health checks are the right thing to do for EVERYONE!!! But with cancer on both sides of my family tree and having been a teenager in the ’80s when we weren’t concerned with SPF and thought baby oil was the ultimate suntan lotion, I am particularly adamant about getting my recommended check-ups.

There’s the mole check, colonoscopy, ultrasound (unfortunately, not the belly kind), pap smear, and blood work – with which I somehow end up with the sweet girl who’s completing her internship. And last, but not least, the always-pleasant mammogram.

Last week, I had the grand slam (not at Denny’s, unfortunately). I’m talking pap, ultrasound, blood and mammo. My doctor runs a one-stop shop. It really isn’t that big of a deal, but oh, Momma, it’s a good thing you have a year to forget about the mammogram.

I think it’s my vain concern for my breasts that bothers me the most. With age, gravity, and three years of nursing, the only thing perky on this woman is my personality. Then to have the printing press stretch them out even more . . . well, I fear the girls will be at my waistline after three more of these exams.

But I’m not going to kid you, it’s uncomfortable. This stranger (thank God, a woman) is manipulating my breasts more than my husband has in twenty years of marriage. And she wants me to move the rest of my body in some strange positions. Direct quote: “Stick your bottom out, bring your stomach in.” What is this, a Playboy photo shoot?

And all the while, you try and pretend that this is just a normal day in the jungle, chatting away about nothing in particular. “Last month, we took the kids to … Son of a B—-!” Yeah. There is the pain. But it’s just momentary.

And let’s face it. Nothing hurts as much as the weigh-in.

On a serious note, I can’t stress enough the importance of these exams. This momentary discomfort is well worth it, if you can reduce your chances of having to battle cancer.

I Wish We All Could Be California Girls

My family just got back from our annual trek to Carlsbad, California – a quaint, little, beach community just north of San Diego. Each year, I’m blown away by the power of the ocean, the glorious weather, and the people. The beautiful people.

And I don’t mean beauty from within. Oh, everyone is friendly, and I’m sure they’re lovely souls, but I’m talking the exterior package. As in, “Wow! Barbie really does live.” And the guys . . . let’s just say I’m captivated by the sport of surfing.

But this year, as the week progressed, I realized a strange phenomenon, like in that movie, “The Stepford Wives.” There are no ugly people in this town.

This place is the epitome of Darwin’s Theory. If you’re ugly, you don’t work in Carlsbad. And if you don’t work, you can’t afford to live there, which means the only available mates are the beautiful ones. Hence, the stunning population.

Last week at the beach, I settled in, humbly accepting my status as a foreigner. Even if I hadn’t been the only one wearing a sweatshirt or using the blue and white-striped beach towel issued by the hotel, my thighs – a side effect of the lazy-ass syndrome from which I suffer – would’ve given it away.

I checked my kids, making sure their heads were above water and no fins were circling, then began my people watching, gathering proof for my theory. I didn’t have to look far. Right in front of me were two girls and a guy, probably twenty or so. Locals, for sure. If their bodies hadn’t given it away, the faded sheet they lay upon ended all doubt.

The girls were on their stomachs, tiny bikinis barely covering their firm, cellulite-free bottoms. Just as I was beginning to question my sexual orientation, the guy stood up. Oooh, sweet Daddy. Nope, I’m definitely straight. Broad, defined shoulders, six-pack abs, and . . . hello! You get the idea. I had to bite my lip to keep from gasping. (Wait, that’s the “Fifty Shades” girl.).

I must have made some noise, because they all looked up. Embarrassed, I waved my arms and motioned for the kids to head in. After all, we’d eaten lunch an hour earlier.It was time for ice cream.

So I’ll never live in California. Oh, well. I’ve been told I have a great personality.