The Eye of the Beholder....

They say that beauty is in the eye of the beholder.   I know that is true, but I’m here to tell you the standard changes considerably as we get older.

Sitting around the pool in Ponce Inlet, Florida I realized just how different retirement age is from teen age.    Not just the aches and pains and number of prescriptions, but the standard for how we look. 

I’m a people watcher, and I always feel that I fade into the background as I observe the rest of the parade going by.  Today the hot Florida temps heat suntan lotion on sun browned skin, filling the air with a smell reminiscent of hot macaroons fresh from the oven.  By this stage in life no one is worrying about sun damage or skin cancer.    A dozen or so seniors, I’d say ages seventy five and up, congregate in  lounge chairs to talk about television shows, paperback books they have exchanged, and where the best discount dinners can be found at the four o’clock hour.   They laugh and chide one another for being old.   One man laughs as he relates his story about running a red light earlier in the day.  It seems he has just returned from the emergency room after wiping out a pickup truck and his own SUV.  I eavesdrop on the friendly banter and piece together their stories.

When we are young we are often so self-conscious  we cannot enjoy being young.  When we get old we leave all that behind us and just enjoy “being”.  This group, in swimwear, walks around the pool, greeting and meeting and enjoying the moment.  I look at them and read the stories of their lives  written in the scars on their bodies.  Here a heart surgery….there a guy in a blue hat  who has had back surgery.  That guy over there in the lounge chair speaks through an electronic voice box and inhales a filterless cigarette through the stoma in his throat.  It is obvious his wife has had both knees replaced.  Burgundy colored patches on the back of the legs of a pretty white haired lady make me wonder what terrible trauma might have created them. 

 It occurs to me this segment of the population that I am slipping into should have its own flag……”The Scars and Stripes”.     These are the veterans of the war between the sexes….the war of industry….the battle of the bulge and the ongoing fight for survival.  Surely they deserve a flag, if not their own anthem!

Arriving at an advanced age even relatively intact, completely unselfconscious and more or less mobile, that’s what it’s all about I guess.  I have a few years, but not many, before I join them.   Maybe while I’m here I’ll just sit by the pool and work on some lyrics for the “Scars and Stripes Forever”.

Bulges, scars and sun spots be damned……Life is Good.

 

He's Lookin' at me!!!!!

This year we spent a month in Florida soaking up the sunshine and walking on the beach.  It’s a wonderful break from the mid-Ohio winter.   My husband does the research, comes up with a place, and off we go.  My contribution to the whole process is getting into the car, my only requirement that we are on the beach.

We like to take our time, and this year’s leisurely pace included a couple of days in Savannah on the way down.   I loved the history of the city, and we had a place right on the river.   We stayed in old warehouse that had been converted into an elegant bed and breakfast.  It was surrounded by cobble stone paths made from the ballast stones of long ago ships and huge live oak trees dripping with Spanish moss.

Arriving in Florida we located the condo and got busy unloading our belongings, not an easy task given the fact that I pack three times more stuff than we actually will ever use.   Once inside I set about stocking the kitchen, putting away clothes and denuding the living room of 99% of the plastic and silk flowers, ferns and vines that graced every table and hung all over the place.   Although the place has a professional cleaning service I still clean surfaces, remote controls etc. before we settle in.   The floors, a beautiful beige stone tile, got a quick dust mopping.  As clean as the place is, the three second rule that applies at home does not apply to anything dropped on the floor at the condo…that’s just the way it is.

Finally I was “bustled out”, and I sank onto the couch with a bottle of water.   As I looked around the room I had the strange feeling of being watched.    That’s odd because  Larry was outside exploring the pool and the beach.   What in the world….???  And then I realize… it’s the coffee table.  

You understand going in that a rented condo has been decorated in someone else’s taste.   It is often a private owners home six months out of the year, and a rental the rest of the time.  Some are tastefully bland, some brightly colored and energetic, often with sea shell touches and ocean scape art.    But this is the first time I’ve been “watched” by a coffee table.   I investigated the thick oval glass top resting on a blue grey “wave”.    Then I realized there was,  not just one, but two dolphins emerging from the wave, both with their watchful dolphin eyes trained right on me.   I moved to the other end of the couch, the beady eyes in their laughing faces moved, too.  I got up and walked around this thing, and the eyes continued to follow me just like the spooky eyes in a painting in a horror movie.   What in the world were they thinking, and I wonder if that monstrosity will fit into the closet that now holds all those plastic plants?    

Renting a condo feels less like being on vacation and more like trying on someone else’s life.   I think it’s because you stock the kitchen, continue to do laundry and make beds just like at home.   But one thing I can't do at home, and one of my greatest pleasures,  is to get up in the morning to walk on the beach.  I love listening to the ocean and the gulls, watching the sun come up.   Living with the beach in your backyard for a month it’s easy to fall into these pleasurable habits and feel as much at home as if you’ve lived here for years.   I have no defenses against things I really enjoy, and it’s such a privilege to possess this little piece of heaven even for a short time.

You know….in spite of the fact that we’ve been sleeping in someone else’s bed and I have the feeling that I’m being stalked by a coffee table…..Life is Good.

 

Full contact parenting......

It is hard for me to understand, but easy for me to believe, that some parents have completely lost control of their children.  Or, as an old friend of mine would say, it seems to me the inmates really are running the asylum.

Like most women my entertainment tends to include a lot of shopping and eating out.   I’ve decided no matter where you are, from Walmart to Saks, from McDonalds to an expensive bistro, it’s not a shopping trip or a meal till there’s a screaming child. 

I’ve been out of the parenting bullseye for a good many years, but I am not speaking from a lapse of memory when I say that my kids never behaved like some I’ve seen in public places lately.   And if and when they did act up I removed them from the scene of the crime…..with no hesitation.

Over the last few weeks I have been an unwilling audience to a couple of conversations between teen age girls and their mothers.   One I heard from the aisle next to mine because it got so loud.  An apologetic sounding mother was asking her daughter what she had done with the six hundred dollars she had borrowed.  The girl, just fifteen, insisted it was none of mom’s business.    The woman continued to beg her daughter for an answer.  After several minutes of being pressured the girl literally screamed, “You really wanna know where the money went?  I got an abortion….now are you satisfied you dumb $#&%”   This pair stayed glued to the spot as they shrieked additional personal details about their lives, but I fled the store, mortified for both of them. 

The second encounter took place in a dressing room beside mine some days later.  Mother and daughter were debating about how much material is required for something to qualify as a bathing suit.   I never saw the daughter, but from the sound of her (unpleasant and disrespectful) voice I’d say it was a twelve year old and her Mom.  Their exchange sounded something like this:    Mom:  “That is entirely too small.  You might as well be naked!”    Daughter:  “You don’t care about the suit!   You’re just jealous because you’re a fat old cow!”    I finished dressing as the argument escalated into more insults and the daughter’s exclamation, “I hate you.  You are just too stupid to know anything.”   Mom and I exited our rooms at the same time.  She carried an armload of expensive bathing suits and looked as if this was standard operating procedure, shaking her head and saying, “Kids!”   What I wanted to say to her( but did not) was:  “You would be able to hold the winter Olympics in Hell before I bought a bathing suit for that little monster."

A few months back my husband and I went into a local restaurant for dinner.  We were seated with a family of four in the booth behind us.  This family group consisted of two adults, a teenage boy, and a young boy of three or four.    The boy kept kicking him heels into the booth, being loud and just generally obnoxious.  Eventually his displeasure with everything served to him grew to a scream.   The father kept calmly and repeatedly telling him “You’re not going to ruin my meal.”   It did not seem to occur to him that the ear splitting shrieks were ruining meals for everyone else in the place.   He continued to eat and the boy grew louder and more hysterical, finally reaching a brain piercing crescendo.

We asked to be moved to the other side of the restaurant, but it made no difference because you could hear this child for a full city block.   The family members continued to eat and ignore him.  The waitress tried to placate him with crackers, and eventually the restaurant manager went to the table with a balloon and a cookie.    The screams continued, and then alternated with gagging noises.  The teenager had enough sense to be embarrassed and begged his parents to leave; they refused and  did nothing, apparently assuming the manager was visiting every table with treats.   Every eye in the place was on this booth.

Eventually they either finished their food or decided the restaurant full of hostages had suffered enough. They got up to leave with the screaming child, who then threw himself on the floor.   Dad scooped him up and paid the bill with the flailing boy gripped under one arm.   As they all started out the door the entire restaurant broke out in applause, and a collective sigh of relief went up as the door closed behind them.  Personally I was just hoping they wouldn’t decide to return for an encore.

It is easy to jump to the conclusion that these three children I speak of are the offspring of rude and incompetent parents.  I’m not so sure that is true.  Our society has deteriorated with the enforcement of being “politically correct” and the fear that has been instilled in parents about what constitutes child abuse.   The old adage “children should be seen and not heard” has given way to the belief that you and everyone in close proximity must put up with the whims and temper tantrums of a child.   The age of “time out” is alive and well as some parents live in fear of their own children.  

Don’t get me wrong, I do not advocate wantonly beating children.  I do, however, believe there is a time and a place to make a stand and take control.   If your kids have figured out embarrassing you in public will help them get their way, you are dead meat.  If you allow your child to terrorize an entire establishment with their behavior, you’re not teaching them a thing. 

Although I’ve thought from time to time that I was born in the wrong age, I’ve come to realize the good Lord knew what he was doing when he allowed me to raise my children in the seventies and eighties.   I know there is a very good chance I’d be sending my children birthday and Christmas wishes from my jail cell if I were raising kids today.

        I’m happy to listen to the conversations and think, “Oh…better thee than me!”    Life is Good.

Valentine's Day is for amateurs

I hate to repeat myself, but I can’t help but preface some things with “I know it’s my age showing”.   This post is a classic example.   It’s Valentine’s Day…the holiday for lovers.   Well…..I think it’s the holiday for beginners.

There is nothing more intoxicating than falling in love.   That first blush is usually full of gifts, I love you calls during the day, and romantic getaways.   It’s a time of flowers and candy and surprises; all in all a wonderful time for a new couple.

But we live in the real world, and it is inevitable, even if the bond holds up,   that things change.  The demands of a life together can soak up the limited budget of money and time.   Enjoying time together often goes from romantic evenings out to evenings on the couch, comparing notes about a stressful workday and sharing a bag of microwave popcorn.   Little gifts go from gift wrapped boxes, to clearing a loved-ones  windows before they use the car, or opening a car door to tuck your loved on inside.   

 All of that may sound like a disagreeable change, but in reality it isn’t.   Love is a shape –shifter, make no mistake.    The hand you took tentatively on a first date is now the hand you hold on to in the grocery store and at the doctor’s office.  Love’s face is the one crinkled with concern in a hospital waiting room, the one flooded with relief when the news is good.    Love’s first voice may be “you’re hot!” and then become “put your hand on his head, honey,   I think he’s cooler now”.   Gifts may not be in heart shaped boxes on a retail created holiday, but heart felt exchanges of many kinds on any given day.

That brings me to my point:   Valentine’s Day is for beginners.   It is a pair of romantic training wheels needed when first you discover one another.  I’m not saying it’s  a bad thing, but it is certainly a contrived thing.   This is not a suggestion you ignore the celebration with your significant other, but that we all keep it in perspective as we look at our  relationship's “big picture”.

       I know firsthand that love never changes…..and it is the most valuable thing you will ever have.

                                 Happy Valentine’s Day…..Life is Good  

Did I say something???

Is it just me, or do you have someone in your life that you are fond of, that you wouldn’t hurt for the world, but who exhausts you??  It might be a friend, a relative, a co-worker.   This is my story, but the identity has been changed to protect the innocent….namely me.

I have this person in my life; I will say it’s a female and call her “Jan” because I don’t know anyone by that name.  This is a kind and honest person whom I have known for a long time.  “Jan” only has one fault, and because it is her only fault I forget when I don’t see her for a while that she has it.   Thirty minutes into a visit with her the thought crosses my mind, “AAAAAARRRRRRGGGGGGHH”.

Jan is an “overtalker”, and if that isn’t a word it should be.    My definition of an overtalker is a person who chimes in right in the middle of your sentence because she/he simply cannot wait till you are finished to make an addition or correction to the conversation.  Here’s an example:

ME:  “Jan, how did the trip to Saskatchewan turn out?  The la…” JAN: “It was wonderful!  The weather was gorgeous the whole time and I wore my new red dress.   Remember when we were shopping and I bought that rest dress?”     By now I’ve stopped talking and I sit with a forced smile on my face, the memory of this annoying habit of hers comes roaring back into my brain and I want to go home. 

It’s not just me she does this to; she talks over her husband, her kids, her mother….even waitresses and sales clerks.  If she runs into someone who refuses to give up the battle for conversational superiority, she just continues to talk until they run out of steam.   Her voice becomes louder and louder as she attempts to gain control.   It is an awful habit, and it’s a contest she never loses.

I can see when I visit that Jan’s family has adjusted to this habit and they just phase out.   It is impossible to carry on a conversation with her for any length of time unless you speak in short hand.  You need only give her a couple of words to go on and she’s off and running.  

ME:  “You know, I saw Carolyn and….” JAN: “I think her hair looked so much better the other way.   This really ages her…......etc. etc. etc.”    She can carry on the rest of the conversation completely on her own.  I automatically edit anything I start to say because I know she’ll grab my first three words like a dog with a meaty bone and run off with it.  It is maddening, and I haven’t a clue how to tell her that the ways she communicates is actually anti-communication. 

I know what you’re thinking, most of us do this from time to time; I’ve interrupted people I know.   But this isn’t just the occasional interruption, this is an over powering verbal assault that has kept me from actually communicating with her. She really doesn’t hear anything you might want to discuss in depth, because she is always talking while you’re talking and completely hijacking the conversation.  

You might wonder (I know I have) why I don’t just tell her this makes me crazy.  I think it is one part cowardice, one part caring and two parts habit.   We have known one another for so long I can’t imagine not knowing what is going on in her life and she in mine.   Foolishly I have waited for someone else to tell her, but it would have started a dialogue that she would have “overtalked” any way.

So, to keep my sanity and our friendship, I keep our in person visits to the very occasional and I’ve found a solution.   Because I value her as a person I’ve decided this is the perfect Facebook friend.   I know popular opinion is that personal contact is on the decline because of technology, but I actually think the reverse is true.   “Jan” and I share more of our thoughts and daily lives with each other now than we ever have sitting across the table from one another.     Email and IM’s have become the communication medium for us, and it works great.   Now, for the very first time I can finish my thought, she can add her comments, and we’re both happy!  Instead of burdening the relationship with honesty and likely terminating the friendship, we’ve become cyber friends with a flourishing, albeit long distance, relationship.   Sweet. 

By the way…Just in case you wonder whether she might feel badly about the fact that we don’t get together very often, the answer is no.  I’m pretty sure some habit of my own must have been driving her crazy too, because she seems just as happy with this arrangement as I am.

                                           Technology is great……and Life is Good.

No response is the best response......

Ahhhhhhh………Super Bowl.   It’s become the second biggest gorging experience (Thanksgiving being the first) for Americans.  Now that this one is in the history books, we have another half time show to chew over and fuss about.

Evidently MIA, a rapper, flipped the bird to America as she toiled and worked to earn her well-deserved sheckles yesterday.  It was not enough that this person was PAID to be a part of the biggest voyeur event of the year, but she decided to make a lasting impression by passing on her personal (?)….political (?)….religious (?) opinion with a hand gesture that is reserved for the most contempt one can express. 

I’ve not seen the picture of this “star”; I don’t have a clue what she looks like or what her “art form” may be.   I couldn’t pick her out of a line up, although my bet would be she’s been in one before.  I am, however, entitled to express my opinion just as she has taken her chance to express hers….and here it is:

     If no one ever bought another of your albums because they  took your gesture seriously and understood that it meant “I’ve got mine, you idiot, because you are dumb enough to pour your money into my greedy coffers while I laugh at you all the way to the bank”…..and if the American public decided to demand a standard of talent and behavior from  performers that was far above what you can provide….you would be working in a McDonalds drive through and the only thing anyone would ever hear from you again would be, “would you like fries with that?”.  

Until Americans raise their standards these thugs who seem to fill the television screen and the tabloid papers will continue to take the money and run.  With no moral code, no standard for talent and no regard for how this poison affects our children we can only expect more of the same.    Shame on us.

                               If you don’t watch this nonsense on TV…….Life is Good.

Been there...done that...got the T-shirt.

Today I was talking with an old friend about our childhoods.   We grew up in the same neighborhood and didn’t know each other well, although we were acquainted.   It’s amazing all these years later to realize you can watch someone’s life and not have any idea what’s going on.  Sharing some especially scary stories about home remedies, we decided we might just have some “I survived my childhood even though my parents tried to kill me off” t-shirts made.  It made me wonder what the slogan on my own children’s t-shirts might be.

When I had my first child, my son, I read Mother-to-Be Magazine for parenting tips, I rubbed Mother’s Friend lotion all over my tummy to prevent stretch marks, and I painted the nursery and furniture in preparation for this baby’s arrival.   As it turned out the magazine was full of nonsense…..I have a stretch mark that runs from groin to Adam’s apple …..And I now know that I gave every piece of nursery furniture a good coat of lead based paint before he was born.   In short, I was ill prepared and ill-informed about having one child, let alone three.   T-shirt:  “My Mom raised me in a nursery full of lead based paint and all I got was this lousy t-shirt”.

My second child, a beautiful blonde daughter, was born with a wry neck and a leg that had been tucked under her as she grew.  In those days they put special shoes with a big metal bar between them on the baby to straighten the leg.   The wry neck had to be stretched and pulled several times a day, a duty that sent my dad and husband scrambling for newspapers to hide behind until I was finished.    My sweet baby would scream and fuss, but I did what had to be done to strengthen her neck muscles.    As she got older the metal bar and shoes were clunky and heavy and it was sad to watch her struggle to turn over….but she mastered it!   What a torturous beginning for such a beautiful little girl… and Mom was the bad guy!  T –shirt:  “I’m with Meany à “

Last, but not least, another little girl arrived.  She was in a hurry to get into the world, so she could only wait eight months.   She was a colorful baby….first she turned yellow (jaundice) and then she turned beet red as she screamed for the first three months of her young life.   Her formula didn’t agree with her, three formulas didn’t agree with her, goats milk was a last-ditch try.  Finally the doctor threw in the towel and we started her on regular milk; she grew blessedly content.   The first baby didn’t eat, drink, or touch anything that was not sterilized.   The second baby was subjected to less sterilization and a little more mayhem.  By the time this third baby arrived she was raised under the three second rule….anything that was on the ground less than three seconds could be popped directly into her mouth.   No more boiling water on the dropped binkie no grabbing a fallen cookie.   This little girl had an immune system that can only be created by the consumption of potting soil and carpet fuzz.  T-shirt:  “I was the third child and lived to tell about it”.

One thing we all have in common, no matter how good or bad, we all had a childhood.  My parents loved me, and they did the very best they knew how to do as they raised me.  I think my children are the finest people I have ever known, and they may very well have gotten to be that way in spite of me instead of because of me.   All I know is that I love them, and I enjoy thinking back to the time they were all underfoot.  If I had a t-shirt made it would read:  “Life is Good”.  

An import by any other name........

Driving around is a time when my mind wanders, not that it is a function that is totally confined to the time I’m driving around.   I hate to admit it but as I sit at red light it often happens that when a car catches my eye, it’s a foreign car.   Part of the reason could be because I instantly recognize the Chevy and Ford emblems and I don’t make a mental note, but some of it is just because there are some very nice looking foreign cars.

It’s certainly no state secret that one of the biggest blows to our economy has been the lack of American car sales.  How do we combat the influx of foreign cars and get Americans to buy American?   I have a suggestion!  It certainly falls into the “every little bit helps” category, but here it is:   We simply do not allow foreign manufacturers to use American words and cities on their foreign cars.  We put a stop to the “familiarization” of the cars and trucks they sell here.

Here’s a big “for instance”.   One car that continually catches my eye is the Kia, Soul.   A funny looking, square little car that intrigues me.  Would I even look twice if it were named the Kia, Seoul???    Hyundai is also really hitting it hard with the, Santa Fe, Tucson, and Vera Cruz.   Would those cars be as attractive if they were named after the Korean cities from which they sprang?  Think about it, do you think you’d be as anxious to drive a Hyundai Daegu….or a Busan?.....maybe an Incheon?

Toyota is now the number one selling “American car”……..(insert primal scream here).  That means the Avalon, the Sienna, Tacoma and Sequoia must be very well received by American car buyers.   Think how that might change if you had to drive a Toyota Hiroshima…..or the Tokyo….or the Yokahama.  

Imagine this scenario.   A group of retired guys meet at McDonalds every morning for coffee….cup after cup of coffee.  Sitting around for hours they chew the fat about the only thing older guys have left to talk about…cars and trucks.

“I decided to trade in the old van and get something new.   I’ve been looking at a Toyota Hiroshima.  What do you guys think?” says one guy.   His comment is met with dead silence.   No man is going to admit he’s been looking at a “Hiroshima”, let alone drive one!   That’s just not gonna happen.

I must plead total ignorance about world commerce. For instance,  I can’t really say that our American made cars sold on foreign soil aren’t still named things like the “Ford Focus”, but I’m betting we don’t sell our cars in Japan under the name of Ford-Sushi…..just a wild guess there on my part.

I know it’s just a little thing, but it just might help; let’s call a spade a spade and an import an import.  Next time you’re stuck at a traffic light give it some thought….but don’t ever forget Life is Good.

How many teeth do you really need??

The day started quietly enough.   I went to work, knowing I had to leave about nine thirty for a dental cleaning appointment….which I did.   That’s when everything went wrong.

Walking into the dental office I was greeted by a young lady who checked all my information and had me sit down to wait.  (Yes…I am Diana Coon….no my information hasn’t changed….ID?, sure…..yes, these are my teeth)

Eventually whisked off for x-rays, I exchanged pleasantries with the chirpy dental assistant who admired my necklace and listened as I explained its origin.   Then off to the chair.

After putting on my nice paper bib she summoned another gal to help with “numbers”.   I vaguely remember this from earlier visits.   Dental hygienist, “two, two, three, four, two, two,”   Person behind my head, “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes”.

Poking, prodding, gouging…..and then, “Oh, dear,” from the hygienist.  “I’m sorry I have to tell you this, but you’re a five,” she said.  The girl behind my head “hummed” her agreement.

So….the girl behind my head must be the” judge”?  Like most women I’d always aspired to be a 10, but fell far short of that.   But really…at my age and advanced stage of decay being a five isn’t an insult.   I’d have said a four a few years ago, but five?    I’ll take five………..

I was snapped back to reality as my x-rays flashed on the TV screen that has taken the place of the little swirly sink in today’s modern dental office.  Looking at the skeletal picture, dialogue from television forensic shows played in my brain.  The chirpy hygienist pointed out a spot on the skeleton’s teeth, explaining it was infection that needed to be treated immediately.   To wait might mean loose teeth, or lost teeth, or some of this other horrible stuff in the glossy flier (featuring the teeth of the cast of Deliverance)  she stuck under my nose.   Ugh!! 

“What do we do about this, I asked?”

“Oh I hate to tell you this…..but I need to use my deep digging hydro sonic water thingy.  (cha-ching!)  Then I put antibiotic in there, (cha-ching)  and you get a super duper, industrial strength tooth paste and rotating brush that you use fourteen times a day,” I think she said.

“Crap,” you know that was me.

So, as luck would have it, her next appointment had cancelled and she had plenty of time to use her deep digging hydro sonic water thingy on me.  Seems my luck had changed.  (That is a deeply sarcastic remark, in case you misinterpreted it)

The deep digging hydro sonic water thingy is only used after painting your gums with some icky stuff that makes you numb and drooley.  I’m not trying to bore you with all these dental terms, but that’s what it is.  It also shoots a stream of water that the chirpy hygienist assured me would be taken away by the sucking hose she hung in the corner of my drooping mouth.   She obviously has not had the deep digging hydro sonic water thingy treatment, because I nearly drowned.

The whole procedure was not painful, or if it was it was masked by the icky stuff that makes you numb.  It is, however, the dental equivalent of water boarding.  Three times I got choked and had to stop, sit up, and fight to regain my breath.   They must not teach you the artful interpretation of gurgling noises in today’s dental school.   If they would only take the doggoned TV screen away and put the swirly sink back some of this could be eliminated!  Eventually I signaled and grunted to the chirpy hygienist that I would like the TV to be turned off.  Personally, I find annoying to have aggressive people with six pack abs trying to sell me an electronic belly stimulator when I am fighting for my life.

Eventually it was over, and the chirpy hygienist proceeded to show me how to floss, brush, turn on the new toothbrush, turn off the new toothbrush, mix the swishy stuff,  floss with the new dental floss, and a few other things that didn’t register either.

Did I forget to mention that this “uh-oh” pocket of infection is attacking a tooth that supports a bridge in my mouth that cost only slightly less than the Brooklyn Bridge to replace?   I thought so.    That’s something to look forward to, now isn’t it?   But first we must get this infection cleared up before it attacks my heart, my mind and other parts of my anatomy that are too personal to write about here.

And so, today dawned with my freshly lacerated gums aching, and me bumbling around, trying to remember what she told me about how to turn this on, off and what the speeds mean.   I now know firsthand that high speed will put tooth paste on the bathroom ceiling if you don’t shove it into your mouth before you hit the green button.   Live and learn……or read the instruction booklet.

Fixing that pocket of infection that was pointed out to me on the little TV screen, and replacing the bridge that has to be redone to accomplish the final work?……about four thousand dollars.    Having teeth that are mine….priceless.

And now to all my friends:   The canisters will be going out next week to area retailers.   Please give generously when you see the big white cans with my picture on them.   I appreciate your help…..Life Is Good

The Coffee Connection

There was a time in my not too distant past when I secretly chuckled at the sight of people standing in line at Starbucks.     After all, who in their right mind would pay four bucks for a cup of coffee?

 And then there is that intimidating language barrier.   I’ve only recently learned what a “barista” is……and I still haven’t figured out what “latte” actually means.   Is that the foamy top or does that refer to the lighter color when you add milk??    And all that really only scratches the surface.  What about espressos, cappuccinos and macchiatos…oh my!!  If you stand in line, trying to decipher all this stuff, with a crowd in back of you there is definitely going to be a riot.  I had decided I was just too lazy to become a coffee snob, so it was Maxwell House for me.

And then came Keurig.  It started innocently enough as a Christmas gift from our kids.   I figured it wouldn’t be my favorite appliance, but what the heck.   Little did I know this thing produced the crack cocaine of coffee, and I would be totally hooked.

It’s been a year since I said goodbye to Maxwell House.  No….I don’t stand in line, but I buy the little “pods” of coffee that hold the brown elixir I have become so addicted to by the case now.   Oh yes, by the case.

Last week we were having breakfast in a restaurant and my husband and I both turned down coffee refills.  Nothing tastes right any more unless it’s been squeezed and steamed and swooshed through the silver Keurig machine that sits on my countertop at home.   The first person out of bed in the morning at our house is responsible for turning on the pot.   If I’m still in bed I wait till I hear the pot makes it moaning “ooooh oooow” sound informing me it is now possible to get a good cup of coffee should I decide to get out of my nice warm bed.   The coffee is so good it gets me moving every time.

You might think I’m getting a commission from Keurig….I assure you I am not.  I am not happy with myself because this feels a lot like some strange addiction, and that goes against my grain.   I get that small tug of worry when I see the bottom of the box of coffee pods looking up at me….and that seems to be happening a lot more often.   I thought we’d drink less coffee, making it a cup at a time it would seem logical, right?   Wrong!!    It’s a trick.

So….I have gotten over my smug “who’d stand in line for a cup of coffee at four bucks a pop” attitude.  I realize I have a problem.  I am hooked on Green Mountain, Nantucket Blend coffee from my wheezy, cranky, Keurig coffee machine.  It’s not something that makes me proud, but there it is….but before you judge me try a cup yourself.  And then get used to carrying a thermos, buying coffee by the case instead of the can….and feeling like a dope.   It’s that good.   And life is good…….

A far away winter.....

We have been fortunate so far this year, the weather has held out beautifully.   The small amount of snow we've  had hasn't been much to deal with, and many days the sun has been out, making it a great time to walk and enjoy the outdoors.  Walking in the chilly sunshine makes my mind wander....

Sitting in a nice warm house it's easy to forget that not so long ago the world was not quite as comfortable.  The bite in the air takes me back to a childhood that was not temperature perfect.

Growing up, our house had one large register in the living room wall, and that was it.  Close the door to the bedroom and you might just wake up with frosty eyebrows.   When the furnace kicked on we would soak up as much heat as possible, almost always cuddled under a throw to watch TV.  The room would not have passed muster with Martha Stewart, because it was arranged around that heat vent all winter long.  Each evening after school I'd arrive home to the smell of something cooking, the front window steamed and frosted inside from top to bottom.  Mom would give me heck for scratching my name in the icy crust.

My grandparents homes were much the same.   One house had a big floor register that served as whole house heat, the other had a coal stove in the living room that always sported a tea kettle full of water on top of the red hot fire box.  The further you got from the stove or register, the colder the house became, and long sleeved flannel shirts were the order of the day.   Beds were layered with hand made quilts and blankets, their weight bearing down and holding you in one position all night. 

Visiting at my Great Grandfathers house was also a chilly event.  Everyone congregated in the "front room", which was heated by a fireplace.   With the door to that room closed, everyone gathered around the fireplace....taking turns standing first facing, and then backed into, the blazing fire.  I'd stand there till my skin burned, then flip around to cook the other side.  Life back then was less about comfort and more about being together....not a bad thing.

Summer was just the reverse.  There was a window fan in my parents bedroom that roared like a Boeing 747 all summer.  Assorted smaller table top fans stirred the humid air around in the rest of the house.   No air conditioning meant tossing and turning all night with a fan aimed directly at you, providing little more than white noise to block out the street sounds coming through the open windows.  Hot weather was a steady assembly line of ice cube trays and Kool Aid mixes.

Ah, but the long, hot, summer  was also time of "fine art".  Each year the local funeral home in Mom's home town would put a new picture on the fans they passed out to mourners.  It was something I looked forward to, seeing what beautiful picture would be on the summer funeral fan.  I'm sure DaVinci would have been proud to see his work imprinted on cardboard squares, stapled to the "tongue depressor" handle and used to stir humid air across the ruddy cheeks of the locals.  It never occurred to me that someone actually had to die to supply me with this small entertainment.

It didn't happen often, but occasionally the ice cream man came around our neighborhood in the north end of Mansfield.   Not the colorful, music spewing truck that tours neighborhoods today....this was the Bloodgoods Ice Cream Company.  They paid boys to ride bicycles with coolers of ice cream mounted on the front.   These "ice cream rickshaws" went all over town, a row of bells mounted over the cooler, jingling frantically as the boys peddled in the hot summer sun.  Definitely not a job that was in danger of being outsourced.

So here we are today,  hot house flowers darting from air conditioned car to climate controlled building and back again.  Like vampires avoiding the sunlight, we spend our days slathered in greasy sun block, wearing hats the size of hoop skirts and shirts that promise SPF 60 protection.  Venture out in anything less and someone is bound to look at you, cluck their tongue and murmur "melanoma".

Those were gentler days, and a great time to grow up.  We thought the sun was good for you and winter was supposed to be cold.  For both seasons our clothes came from Montgomery Ward, and no one knew anything about Gucci or Coach or Vuitton.  We did know that "Fruit of the Loom" went in the back, and if the label was on the outside of your shirt you had it on inside out.   Simple.

         Yes....I remember being cold.   And I remember being hot.   And I remember being happy.

                  Funny how taking a walk on a cold winter day can bring back memories.....

                                                                   Life is Good.
 

Name that Tune......

                                I have come to the realization that I am growing old. 

You might think by this point in my life I’d have come to terms with that, but until recently I truly had not.   Every morning I face a woman in the mirror who returns my watery stare.   I see her there, day after day, and she doesn’t change much over night, so perhaps I’ve not been paying close enough attention. 

I have slowed down, but not all that much.  I still manage to do most of the things I’ve always done, with the exception of the things I’ve come to realize just aren’t all that important.  When I changed our bed this past weekend I commented to my husband that it was the second time I can remember using pillow cases that were not lightly starched and ironed.  Is that a sign of aging or just better time management?

No….it isn’t the crow’s feet, grey hair or un-ironed bed linens that make me know I am getting old. It is the change in the background music that constantly runs through my head.

That may sound crazy, but it’s true; I’ve always had back ground music in my head.   A convertible with the top down on a bright summer day usually starts “Jumpin’ Jack Flash” by the Rolling Stones playing in my head.   Before I retired I was often stressed and stretched, and “Theme from Miami Vice” streamed through my frontal lobes.  I've always known nothing makes your high heels click faster than walking along to “Let’s Give ‘em Something to Talk About”……see what I mean? 

The change began subtly enough.   “Theme from Miami Vice” was replaced by Carly Simon tunes shorty after I retired.  Then, Vivaldi’s “Four Seasons” (Summer movement, of course) started playing when I was whipping along in the convertible one day.  Barbra Streisand’s rendition of “Evergreen”…..or Josh Groban crooning “You Raise me Up” started showing up a lot.   Then sitting out on the front steps at home one velvety evening I heard Susan Boyle doing “I Dreamed a Dream”.  When I finally went back into the house it was knowing this change in background music represented even bigger changes going on in me.   

Maybe I’m silly to equate the slowing of the music to the slowing of the life force, but I do.  It seems the only logical explanation for the increase in Andrew Lloyd Weber and the lessening of the Rolling Stones on my internal play list.  Just the same, it’s okay because it’s still music, and it’s still my life.  I am really just grateful the music is still playing at all.   Perhaps that’s how I will know I am truly old, when the music ceases.  Or, maybe the music doesn’t stop until we do...which makes me  wonder if my final exit song will be Peggy Lee singing, “Is that all There Is?”

Take time to listen to the music…..Life is good.