Desperate for a new television show

I feel somewhat sad this morning.

I finished watching the final episode of Desperate Housewives on Netflix last night.

First of all, I am slow.  That's ok.  I don't need to be on trend or ahead of the curve.

The housewives have kept me company for more than two years now.  Once the hubby's travel picked up, his leaving town was not quite as bad when I had the housewives to keep me company after the young one went to bed at night.  We all had wine together and I could yell at them when they were being ridiculous and happy when life worked out well for them.  When things went south we could commiserate with another glass of wine and when there was joy and a celebration, we could celebrate with another glass of wine.  And when Bree was on the wagon, I actually felt guilty for drinking in front of her.

It took me a bit of time to find the right photo for this post.  Most of the photos were way sexy glamour shots.  While this was not uncommon on the show, most of the character were far more down to earth than "normal' folks on other television shows.  Often, they appeared on screen in sweat pants.  Sometimes they rocked them, other times not.

Sure, each character was a bit bigger than life.  Yet, I could relate to many of the situations on the show.  Why?  These characters were my age (or close).  These women weren't just being shown as some awesome cool teenager's bitchy, clueless mom.  Or some Wall Street executive's two-dimensional bitchy, clueless wife.  Or a running menopause joke.  Or a running PMS joke.  From kids to kidneys, I could relate.

Each trip for my husband was a poker game and a hit-and-run accident for me and my women buddies.  If I ever wanted to say or do something hurtful and completely regrettable, I knew they would do it for me.  When I wanted to move and hopefully improve my life, they moved with me.  And now they're gone.  Moved from Wisteria lane.  I went through the deaths of their family members and I could turn to this show when I was hurting from the deaths of my parents.

I didn't even know the end was coming.  I never bothered to find out how many seasons there were.  Those last 10 minutes of the final episode caught me by surprised. I found myself doing that backseat driver putting on the brakes movement.  My right foot could find no traction, no brake.  The screen went black and that was that.  I couldn't stop it.  Couldn't create a new season with my own desperation.

So, I've been through season one of Ugly Betty.  Good show, but it can't replace the housewives.  I am on the lookout for a new show.  It can't be a great show, because then my husband will want to watch, also.  So I have to find something good, not much man appeal, not full of phony Kardashians, and loads of episodes.  Any ideas?

Everything's Temporary

Almost two months since I've posted!

I guess one could say I'm temporarily away.

I've been artmaking and housewifeing.

I've been preparing for (and hiding from) some life-changing events.

My dad has been ill for quite a while and is now in and out of nursing homes and hospitals.  Hopefully he can recover enough to move on to an assisted living facility.  I'm thinking his attitude is not positive lately.  I'm not sure how I would feel if I were 85 and had lost my spouse of 60 years and my home of 50 years.

As for homes, when my husband and I moved to State College, PA, 15 years ago, he planted a (mental) flag and declared we would retire and die here.  As I said in my title, "everything's temporary." Announcements to come later.

Hopefully, I will soon post regularly again.  I just have to get back in touch with my old, sarcastic, inner self.  That part of me has been worn down to a nub.  I must nurture it back to life.

Can't we hang the pope hat next to the KKK hood and keep that closet door closed!

It seems that, lately, we are all promoting ourselves to “constitutional lawyer.” We all claim to know exactly what our founding fathers meant when penning the Constitution. The vast majority of who are weighing in on the U.S. Constitution have no formal education or training to do so. But this seems to be stopping nobody.

So, now I’m hopping on the “I’m a constitutional lawyer” bandwagon. Let’s discuss that Freedom of Religion thing. Why? It’s just a little bitty bit of the first amendment to the U. S. Constitution. A mere 16 words applying to religion in this country. Want to see it? Here it goes:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.

I don’t see that it has anything to do with contraception, the good (or not-so-good) folks working down there at the Blue Shield offices, or requiring a European Catholic man to lead our wayward statesmen.

Seems to temporarily-self-appointed-constitutional-lawyer me, that the first amendment states that the government cannot pick one church to rule us all. In law speak that’s the “Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion” part. The second part, “or prohibiting the free exercise thereof” seems to say that if you want to pick a religion to believe in or if you want to just stay home and say your evening prayers you’re welcome to do so.

That’s it!

But it seems as if the Catholic Church has done a bit of over-interpretation.

If we’re all going to be forced to fall in with the Catholic Church, then why the hell did our ancestors come to this country in the first place? Are we going to let all of that hard work (of our ancestors) disintegrate under the iron hand of the Catholic Church?

After centuries of fear of control by other countries, are we now going to let the Pope dictate how our country is run? We are letting a man who is not a citizen of this country rule approximately 68 million of our people. This man is not our elected leader. Do these 68 million Americans think the Pope is a congressman living in a suburb outside of Detroit?

THE LAND OF THE FREE is being eaten by a “holy” man in a ridiculous hat.

Ladies and Gentlemen, no one in this country has the right to tell you not to use contraception. NO ONE. No group, entity, faction, denomination, flock or cluster has the right to tell you not to use contraception.

I’ve been a regular voter for 30 years. Not once have I seen the Pope on any ballot. Never. Nor has anyone else in the country. But way too many of us are voting for him one way or another. Are these people forgetting that their ancestors came to this country to enjoy individual liberty? And now they are going to sign over these liberties and those of their offspring to the Pope?

Freedom of religion means that an individual can believe in God, Jesus Christ, trees, mother nature, aliens, and themselves. Or not. If an individual wants to dedicate his or her life to a church, fine. If they do not wish to use birth control, I will not attempt to take away their freedom to procreate until their eyes bleed, or to abstain until their eyes bleed even more. However, I will NOT stand to have them group together in the millions (or more if we include the rest of the world) and get their business up in my bedroom or my uterus.

The Catholic Church does not have the right to control my reproductive parts. The Catholic Church does not have the right to control the reproductive parts of its members. If the members of the Catholic Church choose to be sheep then I cannot stop them. I do, however, refuse to become part of that flock. I will not be governed by them.

Trudging Toward Old Age?

A couple of weeks ago, my daughter, husband and I went to visit my mother-in-law.

She had selected a newish restaurant for lunch, some kind of chain I think. Sweetwater something? Sweet Grass Grille? I don't recall.

We are seated, and before we receive the menus, I know what is going to happen. Music is playing. Some kind of 80's pop perhaps. It's a bit too loud for a mostly empty room.

Now, we are all just a bit touchy. My father-in-law had very recently died, and the rest of us are trying to go about our business of being a family and supporting each other. My mother-in-law makes a wincing face. My husband knows it's about the music. He gets up to ask the hostess if it can be turned down.

Upon his return he reports: "I told them that this is a restaurant not a disco and they need to turn that music down."

Good God. The man is not yet 50, yet he speaks as if he is waving around a cane. What the hell is he going to be like when he's 60?

Several minutes later, the manager comes over. It is a brisk day in northern Virginia, but he makes it look like it's a sweltering afternoon in Las Vegas. He informs us that the music will be turned down. And changed over to Country. I swear I saw him smirk when he said that. Frankly, I'd rather someone spit into my soup.

I guess this is what the long (or for some of us, not so long) trudge toward decrepitude looks like.

I don't know about my old man, but I'm thinking I might just like a disco.

For about five minutes.

Oh, yes! It's Another Birth Control Tirade

Looks like President Obama has poked the conservative bear. And you know what happens when you poke a bear. They tend to maul you without asking why you were poking them in the first place.

The religion/birth control war seems to be on. The Catholic leaders have got their skirts in a bunch and Midge McConnell is once again doing his impersonation of a pearl-clutching old woman. “Say,” the conservatives screech, “Let’s do whatever we can to take down Obama, even if that means screwing over millions upon millions of women and girls.

Not only does the Catholic Church want to exempt itself from participating in women’s preventive health care, they want control over the women themselves. I can’t accuse the Catholic Church of kidnapping women and making them join the faith against their will. But I can accuse them of misleading their followers. But that is another loooonnnnnnnnnggg story, and I’m here to bitch about the birth control thing and the control of men over the whole damn world. A simple and brief topic, right? Here’s some semi-random thoughts:

A. The Catholic Church in the United States wants freedom of religion. Yet, this “freedom” removes freedoms from their members. The members are to follow the Church’s teachings. This greatly inhibits the members from thinking for themselves. And who runs this church? Google it. Look at the list of male bishops.

B. The human species has not yet evolved to the point that we no longer need organized religion. Most of us seem to want guidance and instruction. Yet, somehow, too many of us have chosen to have our guidance and instruction created and distributed by men. Yes, ladies, while you were huddled down by the river washing clothes and chasing babies and children, the men starting making rules and we’ve stuck by these rules until very recently.

C. Most of the murder and rape in the world is committed by men. I’m willing to bet, without looking up the statistics, that most of the domestic violence in this country is committed by men. Yes, I know in a bar fight, I’m likely to lose to a man, but to go beyond this physical inequality to across-the-board inequality through archaic laws and religious oppression is detrimental to every individual in this country (even men). Yes, I'll let you open the door for me, but I'm NOT going be forced to gestate the offspring from a rapist.

D. Believe it or not, the same man who thinks you need to accept your broken gift from God if you are raped and get pregnant, could possibly be the next president. And furthermore, according to the ever-persistent Santorum, you better not do a damn thing to prevent that pregnancy. So ladies, if you’re walking home from work one evening, you better just be prepared to be raped and give birth. Frankly, you better not be walking by yourself. You know, the more Santorum thinks about it, you best not be out without an escort and a burqa. And what are you doing working outside the home, anyway?

Until recently, I have not been one to promote discrimination. But I’m going to become more discriminating on whom I vote for. Will I in the future base my vote on a candidate’s religion? As my daughter’s Magic 8 Ball states: Outlook good. I will not knowingly support a person or organization that encourages or merely tolerations the oppression of women.

I voted for Senator Casey in Pennsylvania. Now, when it’s time to stand up for the women of the state of Pennsylvania, he turns tail and hides behinds the skirts of his bishop. Shame on you Senator Casey. Shame on any man in this country (and yes, the world, but that’s another post) who is unable to stand up for the rights of over 50% of the citizens of this country.

Oh, and by the way, thank you to the men who are standing up for the women in this country.

My Little World

My favorite periodical came the other day:

Uppercase Magazine -- the coolest design magazine out there. Chock full of graphic design, illustration and art.

The most recent issue has a map theme. Shown in the issue were stunning, intricate maps. I was inspired to make a map of my own surroundings. Not stunning. Not intricate. But I wanted to get my map down in less than 10 minutes. My own scribbly, not to scale impressions.

State College, PA, on one page in less than 10 minutes.

To me, the world of State College is quite the limited place. Oh sure, I no doubt forgot to put on a couple of "important" locations. But you get the idea.

I spend a great deal of time thinking about space. Not outer space, but the space we inhabit in our daily lives. Our homes and towns. I'm thinking that I need to widen my world just a bit. Or move to where the world is a bit wider.

More Rick

My newspaper has been full of photos of Rick Santorum, in his damn sweater vests, with a microphone in front of his mouth. His pompous face spewing forth Rick-speak. His values, his beliefs, his Jesus. He has advice for all of us, doesn't he?

A few days ago, Planned Parenthood sent a missive regarding the future of women's health and a request for some money. They advised me that my financial help would be a positive thing for the health of America's women.

Guess who's advice I heeded.

Not Rick's.

And that check to Planned Parenthood was the first of the year, correctly dated.

If Mr. Santorum wants to keep talking, I'm gonna keep giving.

Isn't it too early in the year to rant? Hell no!

I haven't written here in a while, what with all of those holidays. And then along came Rick Santorum. I can't write when I think about him. I can do very little with Santorum on my mind.

Yesterday, I found it extremely difficult to pee when I was thinking of him. I had to turn my thoughts to puppies and llamas in order to clear my bladder. I'm NOT making this up.

And today I read that Santorum is calling Romney's religion a dangerous cult. Isn't that the pot calling the kettle black. And we know how Santorum likes to use the word "black."

I've got to purge this Republican primary from my mind or else go completely crazy.

In my thinking, government should be there to avoid chaos, collect taxes for infrastructure and generally do what is best for the majority of the people. Why the hell are those vying for the Republican nomination doing everything in their power to create and maintain chaos, avoid taxation and do what is best for themselves, everyone else be damned? What a ridiculous side show!

I'm just seething at the thought that this beady-eyed man thinks he or others like him have any right to get within 50 yards of my vagina or the vaginas of the millions and millions of women and girls in this country and dictate what they do or don't do. I truly wish aliens would abduct Santorum, probe him thoroughly against his will, impregnate him and force him to produce the product of Santorum and alien DNA even if it would likely kill him.

Forget the economy, forget foreign affairs, forget war, forget poverty, forget disease, forget education, let's concentrate completely on homosexuality and everyone's sister's reproductive organs. This is the way to make progress, right?

Carol of the Balls

This time of year, that old Christmas tune "Carol of the Bells" darts through my brain and often out of my lips dozens of times each day.

But after unwrapping my Christmas ornaments yesterday, it is all about the balls.

Is it silly that this ornament above (and its gold and green mates) are my favorite ornaments? I have two trees loaded with animal, bird, and Santa ornaments. Ornate vintage balls from antique shops. Lovely ornament gifts from all over the world. But these are the most important.

Back in the winter of 1950, my parents were newlyweds. Newlyweds with little money. My mother went to the five and dime store and brought several dozen boxes of inexpensive glass balls, a bottle of glue, and 3 bottles of glitter. These balls were the mainstay of their Christmas trees until my sister and I came along. Eventually, we loaded up the tree with our own little misguided Christmas crafts. Every now and then, a ball would come crashing to the ground. It still happens.

When my sister and I went off to college, my mother decided it was time for a color-theme tree. Peach and gold and white it would be. The original red, green and gold ornaments were divided up and remained in boxes until my sister and I had our own homes. I'm not sure how many ornaments survive at my sister's house, but I think I'm down to 12-14. I'm hoping to have enough to pass on to my daughter one of these years.

There are still a few ornaments left to hang, mostly these special balls. I'm dreading that awful little smashing sound that is inevitable each year, but I'm off to hang them up and remember the woman that made them.

Dear Friend,

Gee, how long have we been friends now? Forty two years. That's a long damn time. We've had our childhood differences. I recall the time at the beach when we were in our early 20's and we actually had a fistfight. I can look back at that now and laugh. God, how tacky! But, I must say, I felt a little better afterward.

We can't do that anymore. Or we don't. I guess we could. I'm not sure who would win. Would it be a long fight? Might be. We disagree on soooooooooo many things.

I can't remember our first real disagreement. Not one of those childhood things about who was spit sisters with who first, or who's sister was the meanest. We put more energy into those debates than anything we've discussed since we were 16.

There were those eye-rolling discussions. That time when you were finished with your dinner and a fly landed on your plate. You managed to kill him and slide him around in your remaining sauce and got a free dinner. You did not share this discount with me. I paid full freight. I'm not sure you even tipped. I also recall times when luck came my way and you demanded that I share. I wanted to share, but I also wanted to punish you for that fly incident.

These days, there are so few things we can talk about. Our children are fair game. Although my kid might have an eating issue, or lice, or difficulty learning how to ride a bike, or a tantrum. And I know as soon as I tell you these things, you will not commiserate with me or ask me for more information. The first thing you will tell me is that your kids NEVER had that problem. Shit. Why did I even bring it up. Oh, yeah. Because I wanted to share.

Religion. Good heavens I would never bring that topic up. And I do thank you for never bringing it up with me. I'm surprised that you haven't. Really. I know that you fear that my child (and the rest of us) will go to hell. I should thank you for never bringing it up, but that would be bringing it up, so I'll say nothing.

Politics. I do like to discuss politics. That's just one of my many annoying features. When was the last time I brought it up? Was that the Bush/Gore election? I'm thinking so. I had the audacity to ask who you were thinking about voting for. You told me you would vote for whoever your brother-in-law suggested, seeing that your Daddy was dead and couldn't tell you anymore. I'm sure I had the What-the-fuck look on my face, but since we were talking on the phone you couldn't see it so we managed to stay friends.

I know I haven't been the best of friends myself. When your mother was dying, I was having the time of my life in college and I wasn't there enough for you. I truly feel awful for that.

Why is it that we can't get personal anymore? I do keep a great deal to myself. I don't have many friends (could that be because of the politics?) so the ones I do have, I like to share my feelings with. When I had the nerve to tell you I was depressed because my artist life sucked and my real life sucked and I hated where I lived and I was having a mid-life crisis and I felt I had no future and all of that and your response was a little grunt and the suggestion that I get a job, I really wanted to say screw you that I real friend would want to talk about it. I just shut up and we talked about your job or store coupons or some shit that had nothing to do with me like most of our conversations go.

I remember a couple of years ago, if we went more than a week without talking on the phone we were shocked. We used to take turns calling each other on Fridays. If someone had to do the calling more than twice in a row the other one was called out. If we did skip a week, then the next conversation was a long one. For the past few months, its been me calling. And you sound so put out when I'm on the other end. I know you're busy. We all are, don't you know? I do think you can spare 10 minutes every other week. That's enough time for you to tell me about your recent bargains.

Does it hurt your feelings that I don't ask you to come visit anymore? It shouldn't. You know you are welcome anytime. I just got tired of asking and hearing really crappy excuses. Its really easy for me to pack it all up and drive six hours each way and visit you and my family every couple of months. However, I do think your five year (or is it six?) absence is a little noticeable.

This last visit was a bit hard on me. I am glad you took a few minutes to come see me at my Dad's house. I know my recent trip was boring for you to hear about. That's why I only talked about it for two or three minutes before you changed the subject to your recent trip. But I'd already heard about that twice, so . . .

And when you asked me about me, I'm not sure what you wanted to hear. I gave you a sentence or two about what I had been doing. You grunted. I guess that meant you were listening. And then I got a repeat of everything your children had been doing. I've heard that three times. I don't think you got the message when I was able to recite their comings and goings. But when you asked about me and what's going on in my life, I thought you meant what I was working on. You've told me all of your work trials and tribulations. So when I ventured that sentence or two about my new artwork, I thought I might get a grunt. No, I really did not expect you to ask me to show you something that I've made. I'm not sure that has ever happened. Of course, I did not expect you to say, "Hey, I'll have a look at your website." Why, oh why, did I not expect that sound of crickets. And the blank face. And then the immediate change of subject.

After 42 years, can't you just be honest and say, "I don't give a shit?" I must say, I'm getting close.

Well, I'm assuming no one has read this whole post. But I sure do feel better now. It's out there. It's written down.

And if you have read this far, we should really get together and discuss religion and politics.

If you can test drive a car . . .

then why can't you test drive a skirt?

My daughter and I did a little clothes shopping while we were vacationing in Portland, OR. We have to do our clothes shopping online or far from home, because to shop near our home requires that all of our clothing be blue and white and have "Penn State" silkscreened, stamped, or appliqued on each item.

We stop in a lovely, well-tended boutique. My daughter picks out a slightly-above-the-knee, floaty, jersey skirt and informs me that I must try it on. Apparently, with one eye shut and using my dyslexic eye, I confirm that the price is right. I take two other items and my daughter into the dressing room with me. The clerk brings us a bottle of sparkling water and is the epitome of the perfect fitting room attendant.

The skirt is awesome. Clingy. But not too clingy. Lightweight. A dream floating over my kneecaps. Ahhhhhhh. Somehow completely (in my mind) hiding the middle-age tummy that has become an owner-occupant. The perfect skirt. The skirt of my dreams. And at such a reasonable price. I feel so good purchasing from a local designer and something made in this country (hopefully not some sweatshop on a U.S. "owned" island). We quaff the Perrier and declare I shall purchase the skirt.

I open my good eye and read the price again. Shit! Feeling buoyed by the sparking water, the attentive clerk, and the memory of my happy thighs in the skirt, I decide to purchase it anyway. I mean, it IS perfect. I tried it on and sat in it and swirled in it and bent over in it and nothing bad happened.

Until the first day I wore it. After flying thousands of miles home.

It was a breezy day . . .

I felt confident that I looked AMAZING in my AWESOME skirt. My head was high. My stride was long and sturdy. I felt liberated.

Really liberated.

I thought that the passersby were admiring the new me in my glorious skirt.

It wasn't the skirt they were looking at. No. Every one and all were getting an eyeful of untanned thighs and ancient underwear.

I firmly clutched my skirt all the way back to the car.

The hubby says the skirt looks damn good on me. He makes small guttural animal noises when I wear it. I kind of like that. So now I stride confidently through the house in my skirt, head held high. Aint no wind in the house.

In the future, when I feel the need to purchase a new skirt, I'm going to take a small fan into the dressing room with me. If I'm asked if I would like a sparkling water, I'll decline. Instead I'll ask where the electrical outlet is.

And What Do You Do?

I know I've bitched about mentioned this before, but I do have panic attacks issues when someone asks me:

And what do you do?

I know they are not asking about my hobbies. I know that they probably don't really give a damn.
But they want to ask me what I do for a living. How I make my dough. What mark I am making on the world.

I would rather have an enema on the spot than answer.

"Well, I call myself an artist but I haven't really sold much lately because of that nasty economic downturn. I used to sell a good deal, but not so much lately. I like to work with fabric and collage. I sell on Etsy. I used to sell on Ebay but that stopped working for me . . . no, I'm not in any galleries. I don't think there are any within 200 miles of where I live. Etsy is an internet shopping site. No, its very easy to use. Never heard of it, huh? No, my quilts are not like my grandmother's. I've kind of gotten away from sewing lately and . . . sure, sure, go get another drink."

What should I say?

"Well, for part of the day, I work as an artist. This time is often interspersed with domestic duties. At 2:30 in the afternoon, I become a dog walker. At 3:00 the bus arrives, and I am a mother for the rest of the day. I play games, do more domestic duties, do some dull computer work."

I could say:

"Well, I'm a homemaker with hobbies, and yes, I can hear the blood congeal in your veins as boredom shuts down your bodily functions."

I've either got to have a great job or just clamp my jaws shut and walk away. I want an alternative!

And I know I'm not the only one out there. Read this.

Really. Read it.

God. I wish I could have written that.

Skeeter Season (a repost)

Once again, the hubby and the kid are covered in itchy red bumps. Mosquitoes. Damn things.

And once again, acquaintances are asking if we are going to be camping out this season.

Hell no. And here's why:


Am I the only person in this world who does not like camping? I know I’m the only person in my (limited) circle of friends who does not.

I do like the type of person that is into camping. Campers are usually a somewhat liberal (I’m talking campers here, not survivalists) and laid back sort of people. These are the type of people with whom I’ll discuss politics, religion, education and the environment. I just don’t want to talk camping with them.

Camping discussions crop up frequently, especially at this time of year. Everyone and their brother is preparing to go out and live in the woods and I get to hear all about site selections, propane stoves, tents, tents to go over top of tents in case of rain, sleeping bags, etc. And I am the lone, quiet, voice that wants to scream “I don’t care!” I am not a snob. I am not an elitist. I just don’t want to pitch a tent, crawl in it, and declare myself on vacation.

I’ve got a nice bed at home. At the end of a very short hallway is a bathroom. I don’t have to put on shoes or take a gun to get there. My hubby is on the far side of our king-size bed and a fan is running so I don’t have to hear his breathing, muttering and flailing. My daughter is in the next room; close enough to know if she is sick, but not close enough to hear her muttering and flailing. I’ve got a lamp and a glass of water by my bed. Also a little fuzzy rug. I know if I get up during the night that the little fuzzy rug will not grab me, disembowel me, and leave me for dead.

And what if I want a late night snack? If I open a bag of Cheetos, everyone in the tent will wake up when they hear that rattle of plastic. The outdoor critters will get a whiff and come to investigate. What if that chicken cooked in a 20-pound iron skillet that I lugged to the campsite was still a hair on the rare side? I just might not make it to the outhouse (or hole in the ground) before that dinner tries mightily to make its way outside of me. I can just see myself soiling my camping jammies upon tripping over a log or sleeping bear.

I’ve never been fond of sardines in a can (is this what you eat when you forget the 20-pound iron skillet?), I really don’t want to pack myself into a tent with several others who have not had the ability to fully bathe in days. I don’t want to smell me. I sure don’t want to smell you.

I’m fond of the little things in life – hot water and other plumbing related niceties, sturdy tables that don’t have others’ grease stains and gum wads on them, dry pillows; dry socks, toilet paper, ceramic plates, wine glasses. Of course, there are little things in life that I am NOT fond of, and these things can usually be found at the bottom of a sleeping bag, the bottom of a creek, or flying up my nose.

I might not roll with the Rockefellers or pal around with the Du Ponts, but, like them, I might be just a bit happier in a hotel with a view and a well-stocked mini-bar. To me, a vacation means good food (cooked by someone else) with a candle on a table (sans used gum) and a chandelier over my head, a hot bath, and perhaps a chance to play with a bidet. I want a uniformed man to bring a shower cap to my door if summoned. I want little shampoos, soaps, and gels. And when the vacation is over and its time to go home, I want to leave my rumpled bed items, towels and garbage behind for the staff to deal with.

I’ll sum this post up by saying: Does a bear shit in the woods? Yes. But I don’t.

Aging. Part I (?)

I guess the time has finally come.

I need to seriously think about getting bifuckals. The really old fogies probably call them bifocals, but they are far too polite.

Jeez, I'm already taking blood pressure medication.

And thyroid medication.

I guess the slow march toward death continues. And that seems to aggravate my knees.

Summer? Done!

In this time of instant messaging (or is that old now?), instant coffee (maybe not, since I stand in the Starbucks line for 20 minutes while all the customers ahead of me have lengthy orders that require the complexity and time of spinal surgery), and movie streaming, I can't understand why so much of life has to be planned months in advance.

If I have a medical issue crop up, I should have known about it 6 months ago so I can get an appointment to have this new affliction taken care of. If my child is going to miss a day of school today, I should have had the "educational trip form" filled out two weeks ago. Planning a trip to Spain? Then get the computer language program a year in advance. Wait. I did that. Should have planned two years in advance.

But this summer? Its all done now. Might as well be over. Summer clothes for the kid. All ordered and bad things returned. Yep. Swimsuits are at the ready. Why? They are already on the sale rack. Picked over like succulent road kill. Summer shoes? Done. Sunscreen? Ready. Plenty of beach towels here. I'm sure the store racks are almost emptied of them by now.

Vacation plans? Done. Plane tickets purchased months ago. If a family of three wants to sit together and not spend their life savings, you've got to do it early. Actually, a it's a vacation for me and the young one -- a conference for the hubby. But hey, its somewhere else and that's what matters.

Summer camps? Done. OH YES!!! Registration for summer camps is a full contact sport. Kicking, spitting, hair pulling and throwing checks left and right. I make the hubby do the work. I help pick the camps and then I just stand back. The stress in unbelievable.

I'm going to take a day or two to recover from the planning and buying. Once I'm rested up, I'm going to tackle fall and winter again.

God's Waiting Room

Well, it turns out that recent tests and scans have ruled out a cancerous mass on my adrenal gland, so it looks like something else will kill me first.

That's a line I've heard before. First with my dad when he was diagnosed with prostate cancer 10, no 15 years, um, a hell of a long time ago. With radiation and monitoring and pills and shots, the cancer would be under control for a long time. He was told that he would no doubt die of something else first. He's still among the living, I'm happy to say.

I, on the other hand, have NO idea what is going on with me. I've spent far too much time in labs, waiting, being stuck, driving. Far too much time in doctors' offices, driving, waiting, listening, waiting, paying up, and driving again. And there's the peeing in cups and jars and whatever. I can't imagine having one of those paying jobs and trying to take time off for all of this.

I'm damn tired of it. It looks like I've been narrowed down to a potassium-deficient patient for the time being. I don't know which syndrome can be applied to me yet. That might be determined in my drive, wait, appointment, drive, next week that will take up half a day.

But for heaven's sake, this time I will take a book! Ain't much good reading in God's waiting room. Once I strike up a conversation with the 80+ group, I often live to regret it. Not that that age group has nothing to offer. I'm not saying that. But sometimes you just want the conversation to end, and it doesn't. If I don't have a book, I will do my best to stare at the ceiling and avoid the magazines.

First, there's that germ thing. I'm not much of a germaphobe, but I'm going to fret a bit if I pick up a pre-moistened magazine. The 80+ set still believes its fine to lick their thumbs before turning a page. And the choices! Golf Magazine. No. Arthritis today. Not yet, thanks. And my personal fave -- Civil War Times. What the hell?!? Them times is over, right? At least north of the Mason-Dixon line. For heaven's sake, we need to acknowledge all of our horrible mistakes and move on. Not make a glossy magazine out of the damn war.

And you would think I'd feel young sitting among this group. No. I seem to blend right on in. I somehow went from early middle age and ended up on the Osteoporosis Show. Well, I'm not on the show quite yet. I'm in the green room waiting to be called in. And the green room is full of stale danishes and crappy periodicals.

Ho, Ho, Ho. I Don't Think So.

So, the housewife had to run some errands today. Dog medicine had to be picked up, human medicine had to be picked up, Christmas gifts had to be purchased, and outgoing items had to be dropped off at the post office.

If I had the teeniest drop of Christmas spirit in my when I went out this morning, it has been completely squeezed out of my circulatory system by now.

First, a trek across Siberia. Well, across the Target parking lot. A long way to go for medication I don’t want to take. Perhaps the man had already been in line. I don’t know. He came from out of an aisle and snuck up to the pharmacist’s counter in front of me. Could have been he had every right to do so. My possession of ovaries does not automatically put me in line in front of him. But, if you know you’re going to be asking a lot of questions, why not just hold back and let the little lady go first. She’s going to be getting angry later, so better to just let her have some peace for now. Or not.

It makes me deliriously happy to know that my prescription is going to cost more than 3 times what it did earlier. And no one is going to be able to tell me why. Its up to me to make the choice – pay up or die. So, calmly, I take out my wads of cash and change, and place it into the pharmacy cashier’s hand.

After jostling (jousting) for the shortest big box check out line, I reach the cashier and am given a not too pleasant look for having the nerve to supply my own bag. Makes a little extra work for the cashier. In return, she grabs the receipt, coupons for shit I don’t want on my next trip, green change and the jangly change, and, in a vague attempt to aim everything at once into my outstretched hand, misses by a mile and hurls most everything to the floor. “Oops,” I say as I chase rolling coins. I am able to catch the ones that rolled my way. I have to stare at her to get her to pick up the coins that rolled behind the counter. I try to gather my belongings as they are shoved along by the cashier to make room for the next customer’s purchases.

I think I shall attend the next big box chain board meeting and suggest that next to the register, a catapult should be installed for each cashier to launch receipts, coupons and change in a wide-ranging arc. Better than a piñata, and just as frustrating to the customer.

Outside the store, I attempt to reach my car in the parking lot. While passing through the crosswalk, a man swerves his car around me to save himself the inconvenience of slowing down. For some, it seems, picking skin, bones and purchases off of the front bumper is preferable than lightly applying the brakes.

Where to next? More Christmas shopping? Why yes. At the only other store in town? And would that be another big box chain store? Absolutely. What the hell else is left in town? Why not the little gift stores downtown. Well, they all went out of business. What about that furniture and gift store out by the mall? Well, now that’s a mattress center. What about that awesome music store that would have all kinds of neat things for the hubby? Well, they have downsized and eliminated most of the cool stuff. The other side of the store? Well, that was made into a mattress center? What about that store that was across the street? Well, now that’s a Chick-fil-A. Ok. Ok. What else? Say, what about Pier I. There’s neat stuff there. Like hell. It’s now a medical clinic. What about that cool party store across town. Nope. It’s now a medical clinic. Wait. That independently-owned toy store? Nope, walk-in medical clinic. WTF? Yep. Retail in my neck of the woods means mattresses, chicken sandwiches and medical clinics. How do I wrap up those crappy gifts? Wait! There’s still some retail left in town. Tanning salons! Nail salons! Melanoma? Nail fungus? Plenty of walk-in clinics for that!

Since shopping has been cut short, to be done at home from the computer, there’s just one more errand to run. The post office. Good God, there’s a looooong line. But, it moves quickly. The clerks are patient, calm and friendly. Joy! Postal Joy! Who would have thought?

The little bit of Christmas joy received today was furnished by the Post Office!

A Little Disturbing

Last weekend, the family drove south to visit my mother, known as '"Moppie" to all grandchildren, in the hospital.

All kinds of things are happening to her body. The last 20% of the last remaining kidney decided stop functioning a few weeks ago. This pretty much f*cked up the rest of her body pretty good. Recovery has been slow.

As we were leaving the hospital, my mother requested we go to the drug store across the street to buy her some Depends undergarments. She did not want to ask the nurse for them. She wants to be in control and it upsets her GREATLY not to be. When one is undergoing dialysis 4 hours at a time, one can't just get up and waltz into the bathroom.

My daughter asked what we were going to buy. The hubby just said, "something for Moppie." I'm a bit more forthcoming about such things. I told her they were like pull-ups for grownups, and she needed them because she couldn't move for four hours during dialysis. My daughter, remembering her pull-up days, asked, "Do they have little pictures of Dora the Explorer on them?" I said, no, but maybe they had little pictures of Frank Sinatra on them. After a brief discussion of who Frank Sinatra was, and why old ladies liked him, she stated that having little pictures of Frank Sinatra on one's adult pull-ups would be A LITTLE DISTURBING.

Yes, it would be.

But one has to find a little fun in life among all the bad shit, right? And now I have a disturbing little marketing plan.

Catalog Hangover

Photo from Soft Surroundings Catalog

The 10 billionth Christmas catalog came this afternoon. Oooooooooh. All sorts of products are waiting out there for purchase. But I don't have any room in my home for new purchases. My home is already full of CATALOGs.

For every product you can imagine.

Trees (real and fake)
Socks
Toys
Barometers
Bunion pads
Furniture
Hardware (including floral patterned hammers)
Fungicides
Calendars (without squares to write information in. WTF?!?

and so on.

Those clothing catalogs have got me going though. If I purchase some of these items, I'll have a dang good time during the High Holidays of Consumerism.

I'll be just gorgeous hanging balls on a perfectly symmetrical tree. I'll be just stunning quaffing magnums of champagne (every third woman in this catalog is lifting a glass). If I purchase the above dress, I know I'll look just like this radiant reveler. (In truth, I'll look like a drunk with a faded tire around my neck.) That Soft Surroundings catalog makes the whole season look merry and bright. Just raise a glass, hang some balls, and be a beaming beauty with your purchases.

Champagne and balls not included. Void where prohibited. Frankly, lady (me), just wear that tired old skirt and pilled sweater that you wear every damn year no matter how many catalogs are shoved into your mailbox.

Now, I'm off to find some twine and tie up the 4,000 catalogs and set them out for the recycling truck.

I can't believe its only the middle of November. I've got a catalog hangover already.

Yes, that does make your ass look big

Oh, that hot new trend of wearing shorts over tights!

Not good. Unless you are shaped (or rather, not shaped) like the twiglet shown above.

A weekend in New York City will turn up hundreds upon hundreds of "fashionistas" dressed in these chunky shorts (light) over tights (dark). Hmmmmmmm.

Fashion facts: Light colors make items appear larger. Dark colors make items appear smaller.

Unless you are a runway model, do not attempt this look. Unless you are a practicing anorexic, do not attempt this look. Unless you are under 25 and fall into one of the above categories, do not attempt this look.

Are you over 25? Are you over 95 pounds? Are you under 5'10"?

If you've answered yes to any of the above questions, then yes, your ass looks big in those shorts.