You Can't Floss Your Teeth With A Flashlight

When you go on vacation, it's a bit like playing hide n seek with your possessions. No matter how carefully you pack or unpack, you won't be able to find anything.

Which is why by the end of said vacation one's room looks rather like a tornado has struck. Violently.

Upon arriving home I still can't find my phone charger, when I remember distinctly where I packed it. I guess that's why I can't find it. All in all, that's not bad, when you consider all the things we did bring home. Good Lord! Where did we find all that stuff?

And most of it is dirty.

I thought we'd never get there, the time there was gone in the blink of an eye, and the trip home was loooong.

My cat was deliriously ecstatic to see me. No, really.

Now the two female cats were "Meh. So what. Feed us, okay?"

But the males were anxious, thrilled, and grateful.

My male cat head butted me, scooted as close to me as he could with anxious eyes, slept right by me, and was on top of me every chance he got, purring. He was though he was holding me down so I couldn't leave again.

Husband's male cat was rolling around happy. When Husband went back out to the car to unload, his cat began to carry on in a loud whiny voice at the front door. I guess he thought Husband had left again.

Males are so much more needy, aren't they?

I learned a lot, got to spend a lot of time with my Yankee Cousin (whom you will be hearing from), ate way too much, saw the ocean again (it looks the same), hated what the air did to my hair, and wished I could have walked Charleston with Daughter and Cousin. I tried, but couldn't do it. Alas.

Daughter had a good time, getting to shop and eat good food, and spend time with cousins she hardly knows.    They are all male. She found out what it would have been like to have two brothers close to  her age with whom to share a bathroom.

She's grateful, too!

We all were happy to be back in our beds, in our own house in the mountains.

Dorothy said it all, "There's no place like home."

Old Age Spots and Other Blessings

A few weeks back, I got up, looked in the mirror, and discovered a little spot on the bridge of my nose, right between my eyes. It had not been there the night before.

Because of its sudden appearance, and my childhood spent in the sun browning my pale, pale skin, I thought I best take a little trip to the old dermatologist.

He's been my doctor since I was in my early thirties. I like him a lot. He's bald and has pale blue eyes. He wears his glasses perched on the end of his large beak and he calls me darlin'.

He always looks me over pretty good every time I'm there, I guess no point in wasting a trip to look at one little spot.

Anyway, he mumbled something about the spot being just a normal part of aging. I asked, "So, is this an old age spot?"

"We don't call them that anymore."

"But, is that what it is?"

He grinned. Yes. That's what it was.

He put some kind of light on my face that shows aging of the skin and got pretty excited. He said he couldn't believe my skin and asked the nurse to agree how wondrous it was, that here I am fifty-nine years old and my facial skin appears to be about forty-two years old.

His little nurse was maybe twenty-five and she agreed that was really something, but I could tell by the look on her face she wasn't sure what all the fuss was about.

But I can tell you, I was puffed up! I couldn't wait to get to the waiting room and share this great news with old geezer Husband.

Husband bragged on me, too, of course.

But then it hit me. I was thrilled, I was boastful, that my skin looked forty-two years old.

That would have been a shame, a nightmare, an embarrassment for me, even when I was forty-two years old!

Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

The most dreaded sentence of all has been placed upon my head:

I look good for my age.

Just shoot me now.

You can use that little brown spot right between my eyes for the target.

But you better hurry. There may be so many of them by tomorrow, you won't know where to aim.

A Star is Born

A friend sent me a YouTube video of a children's program of some sort. I guess it was graduation day from Christian kindergarten. There were probably twenty children on stage. Most of them looked bored out of their minds, or were fidgeting with their hair or shoes or picking their nose. Not really in the moment, so to speak.

Then one little boy stepped up to the mic, and with a big grin on his face, began to recite the books of the New Testament. Of course he had a lisp, which made it cuter. "Mafyou, Mawk, Wook and John and he ended with "Jude and Wevuhlashun." With a satisfied look on his face, and before the audience could applaud, the boy took a deep breath and began to wail, "All my exes wiv in Texas."

Of course the audience roared and a very embarrassed mama rushed the stage and took the mic away from him. She was mouthing, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" But she was laughing too.

This boy obviously did not have stage fright. In fact, it was quite clear as to why he had been chosen to recite in the first place.

I've seen the type all my life. Before a play or a recital, everyone is a nervous wreck except for one person who is cool as a cucumber. The one who is the star, usually. Their voice skill is way above everyone else's, or their ability to play an instrument. They can charm the audience in a heartbeat.


It's as if they are born to be on stage.

I can speak publicly now without nerves most of the time. It's fun for me. But singing, I usually get nervous. Sometimes worse than others, and for no reason I can discern.

Shirley Temple, probably the biggest child star in history, was obviously at home behind the camera or in front of crowds. She was a true natural. They said she memorized the whole script the first read through or so, and when adults would forget their lines, she'd whisper them to the actor from off stage.

There are also celebrities who are very comfortable on stage and not comfortable anywhere else.

Their star usually burns brightly and burns out quickly.

I worked with a woman whose daughter showed a lot of singing ability at a very young age. The child was eager to perform, and so the parents put in a lot of money and effort. She made some CD's and appeared on stage with some pretty famous county singers.

Then in high school she decided she was tired of it all and dropped it entirely, leaving her mother addled.

It was probably for the best.

Who wants to be a star, anyway?

You Know You're Getting Old When...

You know you're getting old when  your dreams have as many dead people in them as living. I especially dream about my maternal grandmother for some reason.

My in-laws and my daddy, as well as my other grandparents, show up on occasion, too.

In my dreams they are as alive and well as ever, although people's ages are often mixed up. I may still be a young adult, whereas my great-nephew is a toddler, like he is now. Sometimes I'm still very young and my daughter is the age she is now. I must say it's pretty convenient. I like it when everyone is in their prime in my dreams, no one sickly or old. My own physical handicaps are gone, and I am free to walk and run without pain like I was most my life.

I've also noted that as I've gotten older I relate the person I'm talking about to connect them. "I saw old John Doe the other day. You know, his daddy was Ralph Doe who owned the hardware store till Jane Nobody bought it in the 90's. Yeah."  Pause. Listen to best friend. "Really? I didn't know that! When did Jane's boy marry that sorry trash? And twins to boot! Bless her heart."

You get the picture. I don't see my mother when I look in the mirror. But boy I sure do hear her when I open my mouth.

Best Friend and I are eager to discuss our ailments with one another, too. We relish going into great detail, and both of us have plenty to talk about. We have physical troubles you wouldn't believe, even if I told you.  

But I'll be happy to tell you anyway.

We gripe about fashion trends and how they aren't fit for humans to even wear. How ugly new hairdos are. How gross music is. How hard technology is to  understand. The usual fair of a geezer's conversation, I guess.

Due to a stroke during surgery a few years ago, I wear hearing aids. And I've glasses since I was thirteen. Nevertheless, this makes me appear much older if I talk about them.

At least I don't have false teeth.

Yet.

When I'm around the younger set, I try to be current and not talk about "when I was  your age", although occasionally I do say that, because darn it, when I was their age things were so interesting and important.

And, as  you know, if you are over forty, young people aren't as smart as they used to be. We need to tell them stuff. Right? 

And the day I've  dreaded all my life has arrived. I've always enjoyed staying up late and sleeping late. My staying up late was squashed when I got hurt and so was sleeping late, to an extent.

But I am now finding myself awakening early, not because of pain or discomfort but because of the only other reason I can think of. My age.

Husband is starting to look old. Of course I don't. (ha)

Every month or two I see a sag that wasn't there. And although I weigh the same, it ain't where it  used to be.

Ah, well. They say old age ain't for sissies. So I better buck up and forge ahead.

Have I ever told you about how I got that terrible scar on my right elbow?

Hello? Hello? Anybody out there....

A Girl After My Own Heart

When Daughter was a small child, she began having a lot of stomach problems. It stemmed from too many antibiotics during a severe illness. Her belly hurt when she ate, her belly hurt if she didn't eat. We did all sorts of things trying to make her better.

A doctor finally ordered a scan, wherein she had to fast all morning, then drink some chalky stuff while they took "pictures".

They asked me if I wanted to watch, and of course I said yes. I didn't want her to be alone for even a minute.

So I donned the leaded apron, stood behind a half wall, and watched them position Daughter behind the x-ray machine. They instructed her to drink steadily, which she did.

I watched the liquid trickle down her body as she drank.

And then I noticed something to the left. It looked like a tiny bird, fluttering against her ribcage.

I was looking inside my daughter, at her heart.

I burst into tears. In fact, I am tearing up now, just remembering it.

What a precious, magnificent sight. I wondered, how many mamas get to see their darling's heart, beating inside their chest? Not many, I suppose.

They found out what was wrong with her tummy and it was easily remedied with the right medication.
She was as good as new, and has never had another problem. She doesn't remember it very well, only that she hurt a lot and couldn't eat chocolate.

But it's something I'll never forget.

For who could ever forget seeing your own baby's heart, fluttering, alive and eager?

Typhoid Mary - That's Me!

I have begun to feel a lot like Typhoid Mary.

As you know, I have been on my deathbed. (Okay, okay, but I was really, really, sick.)  Anyway, I gave the illness to Daughter, who hasn't been as severely ill as I, but still had to go to the doctor and has been pretty miserable. We thought Husband had managed to slide by with nothing more than a mild sore throat, but no.

After waking up worse every morning, he finally went to the doctor day before yesterday and got medications and an injection.

Of course today, he feels worse than ever, as this is the way this stuff progresses. He sounds bullfroggie and yesterday he got the hiccups.

He still has them. He even hiccuped in his sleep last night.

I told him I thought they were caused by the injection he received, and of course, Husband thought that was the stupidest idea he'd ever heard.

So, Husband asked Pharmacist, whom he thinks is the smartest man on earth.  Pharmacist told Husband it was a side effect from the injection he'd received.

(Insert dancing bananas here)

It's nice to be right about something.

Husband was told to expect the hiccups to hang around another day or so before they run their course.

So for the near future I have a bullfroggie, hiccuping spouse.

At least now he thinks I'm the smartest person on earth, so step aside Pharmacist.

He probably shouldn't get too close to us anyway.

Facing the Enemy

There are some enemies in one's life that you can ignore, at least for a while.

But if it is a true enemy, it will always come back. Eventually one must come face to face with the enemy and prepare for battle.

I've known for some weeks this was coming. Oh, the enemy has always been there, in the back of my mind. But it hasn't been a worry for me. Not until now.

As time has drawn nearer, my thoughts have been gradually coming back more often to this old enemy.

I remember when we were friends. One I relied on, always made me look good, as friends do, and never let me down.

But then, several years ago, things began to change. A slip there, an ugly look here. I tried to change to accommodate, but it has never been enough. And now there is nothing. Things have gone too far to ever think of having a good relationship ever, ever, again.

Unfortunately, we must be seen together in the future. I suppose I could avoid it, but it would be a real inconvenience for me and those around me. Avoidance would probably make me look as bad as going ahead and dealing with the situation.

So, yesterday, I went to the enemy. I knew exactly where to look, even though it had been several years.

We faced off. I shook my head. With trembling hand I reached out. We touched. Then we grappled and wrestled for control.

The enemy won. I was left in tears, remorseful, and of course, with the inevitable conclusion that I had been right all along. We would never be friends again.

Man, I hate bathing suits.

Soap Sally

I took a shower this afternoon, because the dear person who gives me massages agreed to come to my house to give me a massage, due to my continued illness.

I had not had a shower in, um, wow. Nor had my hair been washed.

Think  Don King.

Soap does wonders for a person.

Made me think back to when I was a child. I had a soap on a rope (raise your hand if you remember those). We had a big old claw foot tub that I had to be lifted into until I was about eight because the sides were so high. So once I was in, I stayed for a while.

I loved bubble bath, too. I remember I had some bubble bath that came in a container that looked like a whale. I played with that thing for years, long after the bubble bath was gone.

Of course, Ivory soap was the best because it floated! I would try to catch it and it would slip out of my hand, just like a fish. It's a wonder my mother let me play with it so much, it seems that sure wasted a lot of soap.

When you are a little kid, taking a bath with a buddy is fun too. Especially if the grown ups leave you alone until the whole bathroom is a lake from all the splashing.

You learn a lot about anatomy, too.

Which, come to think of it, leads to sharing the bath when you are a lot older (and married, of course!)

Of course, that only looks romantic in movies. In reality, unless you have a really biiiig tub, it's just uncomfortable. Ah well, another fantasy bites the dust.

Today, there are so many different brands of soap you could spend all day trying to figure out what you really want. I hate the ones that are gone after two showers because they were mostly lotion. But I don't want to bathe in lye soap either.

So, I usually go by smell. If I like the way it smells, I buy it.

Now shampoo, which is really just soap for hair, I am very picky about. Some of it just treats my hair better than others. Or so I imagine.

I guess I could think of all other kinds of soap too: dish soap, soap for the floors, dog shampoo, cat shampoo, shampoo for lice, carpet shampoo, etc.

But for  now, I'll close with this little story: When Husband was a little boy, if he behaved too badly, or if he got that twinkle in his eye saying he might roam too far from home, he was told he better beware of Soap Sally. She lived in the woods above their house. When she caught little boys, she turned 'em into soap. What fate worse for a little boy, I ask you? There is none!

Smile when you take your bath tonight and think of stories from when you were a child.

Just don't get any soap in  your eyes.

I Have To Admit It's Getting Better

For one hour this morning and a couple of hours this afternoon I was able to do more than: blow nose, whine, double sneeze, hold ribs, cough, whine, eat cough drops, take medication, spray my throat, and of course, whine some more.

I did lots of stuff: I put shirts on the rod when Daughter handed them to me and put some stuff in the drawers. I put bleach in my fountain and clicked the button so it would run all day, hopefully destroying all the little baby mosquitoes in the process that had been stewing for a week in the still water. I sat in a chair and scrubbed the toilet. I glued the spout back on the broken tea pot. I fed the cats. See? I was productive!

I actually felt some anticipation of our upcoming vacation, which I had been unable to do because I have been sick for a DANG WEEK. I haven't been this sick this long since I was fourteen and had the flu.

I pretty much missed Father's Day. I missed Vacation Bible School. I missed my massage, people!

If I am not 80% better by Wednesday, I'm going back to the doctor. Enough is enough.

But for now, I have to admit, it's getting better, a little better all the time....

Memories of My Father

Without a clue, I was awakened with an emotional force telling me that once again the anniversary of my father’s death was hitting me square in the face as always, just before this Country’s celebration of Father’s Day.

            My eyes filled with tears at the loss, but my mind filled with memories of the 34 years I had him as a father.

            He was so proud of the Cherokee blood that was a part of his heritage. His dark good looks were strikingly similar to some Native American ancestor, and it prompted my then soon-to-be husband to comment that my father looked like “the other side of a Buffalo Nickel” upon their first introduction.

            My father chose to be a boy well into his mid-thirties, with pals whose nicknames

included Teb, Yale, Cricket, Lob, Kaiser, Hog, Coon, Hugo, Dub, and Ears. His own nickname was “Lash” after the cowboy actor Lash LaRue. They fished, camped, and hunted together, wildly adventurous, living on the edge with gambling and cockfights.

            Almost always when I think of him, it’s with a book in his hands, looking over the top of it menacingly at my date (how did I ever have another?!), or totally engrossed in the tale, oblivious to his surroundings.

            I see my toddler-self on his shoulders in the middle of the stream while he fishes for trout, or him dashing down the street coatless in the snow, or stopping the car at night on the side of the road for me to hear the far away screams of a mountain lion.

            He never had much money, although he made a good salary. When he saw someone in need, he gave his money away. My mother was brought to tears again and again over it, out of frustration at times, and at times over the kindness of his generosity.

            I remember the look on his face as he burst through the door, snow in his hair, shouting, “Twins!” to my grandfather and me, and neither of us believing my mother had done any such thing, because my father was such a practical joker.

            Ah – Daddy – if your first taste of bad habits had been your last. If instead of walking a mile for those Camels you’d run the other way, my last memories of you wouldn’t be speaking to me with your eyes only, because the respirator had stopped your voice. Of eyes that halted my own rambling speech cold because they said, “Don’t kid yourself, I’m not coming home again. And you know it.” Of my husband sharing later his own conversation with him, Daddy struggling to speak, “Take care of my daughter,” imploring eyes, grasping hands.

            We all make choices in our lives, good and bad. But in the end we have no choice at all.

            We buried him on June 7, 1988. Two years later, on June 7, my daughter, his granddaughter, was born. It doesn’t take much imagination to envision his delight of granddaughters, and I wish I could see it with my eyes as I do with my heart. I grieve the fact that he’s not here to watch her grow, as his father was for me, but she knows about him, and I teach her the pride of her own Cherokee heritage. I watch my child and her sweet daddy together, and I know how precious her memories will be.

            May this Father’s Day bless each of you in some way with precious memories of your own. Ludlow Porch always admonished one to “Call your mama.” But if your father is still of this earth, call your daddy today.

            

Mothers Know Best

I hate when my mother is right. Well, I don't hate when she's right unless I happen to be wrong at the same time about the same thing.

She was sorta right on this. She was ranting and raving about me going to the doctor on Tuesday or I'd just get worse. I argued that if it was viral a doctor visit wouldn't help.

Well, I did get worse. I finally saw a doctor yesterday. I was right about the viral part, except he was concerned I was so ill it was turning into bacterial because of the uh, gunk in my head. So he gave me a liquid to stop coughing and coat the vocal chords, (which were being attacked by the virus) and an antibiotic. Said if anything turned green, start on the antibiotic.

It did. I did.

Yesterday I couldn't speak above a whisper. I told my husband it was an early Father's Day gift.

It is a little after two p.m. and my first foray out of bed today, except when the dryer repairman came and I had to talk to him a bit.

I'm weak as a kitten, grouchy as an old bear, and ugly as a stump.

What time would you like to (cough,sneeze) come visit?

Food is welcome.

That part of me, of course, is working great.

Signed,
 If this keeps up I'll look like a beached whale

Oh My Aching Everything

Kathi logs on to blog page. Clears throat, coughs. Blinks. Whines.

I've been up all night off and on, sick. Fever, coughing, sneezing, my throat feels like someone slipped into my bedroom and slit my throat from ear to ear. My head hurts, too.

Every joint I have is aching and I can hardly hold my head up. In fact, I'm going back to bed.

Husband has been sweet and helped me, gave me salt water to gargle with, ibuprofen to bring down my fever, made me a banana sandwich.

Makes me grateful for him, sad for myself being in such a sorry state when I was supposed to have lunch with a friend.

Oh, and my dryer won't dry. It turns on nicely, but it won't heat up. So we have wet laundry lying about that Daughter has to take to my mother's.

They say stuff comes in threes.

That's two.

Good thing I'm not superstitious.

Where Did Ya'll Go?

It's an interesting thing to watch deer or fox walk into the woods. If you track them carefully, you can see them for a while. But if you so much as glance down, you will lose them, because they blend into the woods so nicely.

More amazing than them, though, are turkeys. It happens every time, whether it's two or twenty-two turkeys. You can watch them, without blinking, walk into the woods and they just disappear, right before your very eyes. It's an amazing thing. They don't blend, people, they disappear.

Husband and I have watched this together, then look at one another, mouths agape. Where the heck did they go? It's like a magician who whisks away the curtain and poof! nobody's there. Except these guys don't even need a curtain.

God is pretty awesome.

Of course, people try to copy this, hence camouflage clothing. This was once for hunters, but now it is a fashion statement.

A few years ago I was going into the bank. A man was coming out, dressed head to toe in camouflage. Not being one to keep my mouth shut, I said to him in a conspiratorial tone as we passed, "I can still see you."

I made the mistake of telling this to my friend, with whom I worked. We were eating lunch and she 'bout spewed her iced tea. She laughed in disbelief that I would say this to a rank stranger.

Then she went and told her husband that night, which was very alarming to me. "What did  he say?" I asked anxiously.

She said he just shook his head.

This man happens to be the head of the  G. B. I.

I asked  her not to share with her husband any more crazy amusing things I said or did, because frankly, I don't think the state can afford to have some guys following me around like I'm a whacko broad or something.

Shut up.

Now I've noticed when I go to baby showers, there are teeny tiny camouflage outfits given as gifts.

We know (okay, we hope) that dear old daddy ain't gonna take his newborn out in the woods and try to show him how to use a rifle to kill a deer.

So what other possible reason would you give a baby camouflage? I mean, if camouflage really works, and you lay the baby down....when grandma comes over to coo over her new baby, and you are about to have to tell  her you can't find said baby, what ya gonna do?

I can tell you who grandma's gonna call. And if she's your mama, you already know what she's gonna do.

To you.

And yesterday I saw a big old camouflage trashcan. You buy it, you bring it home and get it out of your truck, you set it down, you come out later to put your garbage in it and.....well.

What's next? Camouflage homework? Camouflage housework? Cars? Bank Accounts?

How about camouflage fat?

Why hasn't somebody thought of that before?

Going to the Chapel

Well, actually, I'm going to,uh, outside.

Anyway, I'm going to a wedding this evening. It's the fourth wedding I've been to in the last few years that has been held outside. During two of  these I almost froze to death, even though they were both in the time of year one should not have been all that cold outside.

Today, I just hope it doesn't rain.

I've had quite a week, what with Daughter's birthday celebration yesterday and several other less important things. Nothing has been on regular schedule, and that throws me off, being as old as I am and used to routine.

Although, it seems to have thrown off Daughter, too. She is rather hard to get up in the mornings, which is like saying the ocean is rather deep. But she suddenly sprung out of bed like a rocket today, because she realized she had not done the bulletin for church services tomorrow, which she usually takes care of on Wednesdays.

It was nice to see a fire lit.

Back to weddings, I know for me weddings always get me reminiscing about my own. I figure every one there will be doing the same.

A few tears will be shed, a few smiles will be shared. The I do's will be said and then we'll get on to the important stuff: the reception where food will be offered.

I wish the couple well. They are very young, maybe they'll make it to celebrate fifty years or more.

May God bless this union.

Every Year, Like Clock Work

There are some things, that when they happen, are forever etched in one's minds eye. You  may not remember what  happened just before, or even just after. But you never forget that moment.

One of those moments came for me on June 8, 1990 at 6:00 p.m. I was just finishing up in the kitchen when the phone rang. 

It was the director of the adoption agency telling me that "a little baby girl  had been born last night". She didn't have to say anything else. Because I knew, with every fiber of my being, I had just become a mama. 

Oh, there had been inquires before, phone calls asking for information about us, etc. They all seemed exciting, but not real. 

This? This was real.

I remember walking out to the front porch where Husband was sitting on the steps with our Boxers. I told him about the phone call. He turned and looked at me, eyes wide, and said, "This is it, isn't it?"

Yes, yes this was 'it'.

Daughter had been born just before midnight, and we worked, so the agency had waited until we got home to call. I guess she figured it only fair we know at the same time.

Well, any of you out there that is a parent, knows your life changes in that instant, and never changes back.

We don't know what we're getting into. But we do know, once we are into it, there's no going back. There's nothing to compare it to, no fear, no joy, no frustration, no fierce love like it.

I guess that's the way God feels about us.

Happy Birthday, Daughter: I love you more than life.

Commode Commodity

This morning, when I had to walk all the way back up the stairs to go to the bathroom, I started thinking of all the stories I've heard about people growing up with a family of six or eight or whatever and one bathroom.

Of course, if you go one generation back further than that, you get the old outhouse/slop jar stories.

I was raised in town, in a very old house. In fact, the two original front rooms of the house were rented by my great-grandparents before my grandmother was born. And she was born in 1900.

As old houses often are, this one was randomly added on to over the years.

What I suppose was a side porch got closed in, and part of that was partitioned off to make a utility room. My wise grandfather put an old, single bowl kitchen sink (the kind with a built in drainboard) and a commode in there. One wall was solid shelves and the washing machine sat in the corner.

Now this was a wringer washer. One that I was told horror stories over as they let me slide wash clothes and towels through the wringer. Like how my aunt got her long hair caught in the wringer and it pulled part of her scalp off along with her hair. Or how so and so got her fingers hung and it mashed 'em flat, not to mention pulling everything to the bone off where her ring was.

Doesn't this beg the question: why were they letting me, an eight or nine year old, use this demon possessed type of machinery?

Anyway, there were three of us and two commodes, so I never had a 'moment' where my life passed in front of me while waiting on my daddy to get out of the  bathroom.

He stayed in there close to forever, always taking a book or 'The Atlanta Journal' newspaper with him. Good thing we had two commodes, huh.

In my present home, we have a half bath downstairs and a full bath upstairs, so we  never suffer for more than the thirty seconds it takes to fly up the stairs, being as it is the rare moment three people have to go potty at the same time. (Now that I've said that, of course...)

Husband was raised in a house with several siblings and two parents and they shared one bathroom, and as far as I know, no one was hurt seriously over it. But man, I've heard some stories! Especially when the siblings hit the teen years and they are suddenly fascinated with the bathroom.

I remember when my great-grandparents (another set) got their indoor toilet. They closed off the end of the hall and put in a stall shower, a sink and a commode. We were all crowding in there to ooh and aah over it (I must have been four or so). All the appliances were a strange green color, and I thought that was what everyone was so excited about. The funny thing is, I don't remember an outhouse but obviously there was one  prior to that day.

I guess commodes aren't all that important until you need one.

I remember riding the bus to Atlanta when I was a little girl to meet my grandparents who were living there temporarily. Of course the bathroom didn't work on the bus, and by the time I got to the bus station, I was about to bust. My grandmother hurried me into the terminal to the restroom, but unfortunately there was a long line. I was in tears, and knew I was about to wet my Sunday dress. I suddenly saw another lady take her little girl into another bathroom, and with relief, sprinted toward them. My grandmother caught be by the dress tail and said I couldn't use that bathroom, it was for 'coloreds' only.

I remember being furious that they could have their own bathroom to themselves while I had to stand in line.

By then I was crying with confusion and pain, so the ladies in  line let me in front so I could go before I went in my clothes.

And remember the funny about the toddler who used the display commode in a store when mama had her back turned?

Glad that mama wasn't me. But it could have been...

We've had stuff flushed down the commode by our then-toddler, and our cat has dropped his stuffed frog in there.

When Daughter was two and it was time (or past time, depending on your opinion) to potty train, Husband's sister loaned us a little plastic potty that was shaped exactly like a minature commode. Daughter never used it herself, but stayed busy putting all her stuffed animals on it. I guess she was so busy training them, she didn't have time for herself.

Not long after we had this new toy, she came to me and tugged me into the bathroom. Bear was perched on the throne. Daughter said, "It tore up, Mama. It ain't got no zipper to fwush wif." She was pointing to where the flush lever was supposed to be.

One night when Daughter was saying her prayers and thanking God for everything, she remembered to thank Him for the commode.

And you know what? She was right.

Ah Am Tard

I am so tired, I'm tard. As in plumb wore out. Tuckered.

Got the picture?

I have been on the go as much as this old gal can go today, and here it is eight o'clock and I am so ready for bed I can feel the sheets in my mind's, uh, hand.

I've talked to a pet sitter today, which I've never done. I've talked to a spray tan person, which I've never done. I've probably done some other first time stuff, but I'm too pooped to recall them.

I forced myself to walk for a little while this evening, because tomorrow there is no way to work it in. I'm terrified that if I go two days without walking, it'll hurt even worse, and I just don't want to risk it. Do you blame me?

Being extremely tired can be dangerous. Especially if you are trying to drive a car or give someone a hair cut. They might never let you cut their hair again, even after you apologize, apply pressure, and duct tape a bandage to the wound.

It can also cause things to seemingly become extremely funny. When you tell what happened the next day, everyone just sort of moves away from you as you snort and guffaw, you then realize maybe it wasn't quite as funny as you originally thought.

It can make  you sob during a movie where other people may only sniff a little.

It can make you 'maddern far' when other times you might only be slightly annoyed.

You can go to sleep sitting straight up, if  you are tired enough.

Maybe you tell secrets you would have never otherwise shared, or give an honest opinion that would have been better off left unsaid.

I've heard you can even trip going up the stairs to bed.

Which I hope doesn't happen to me.

Again.

Good-night.

How Love Handles Love Handles and Other Add - Ons of Aging

It seems America gets more and more youth oriented every year. People are going to any and all measures to look younger, if at all possible.

Some of them have tried so hard they look like youthful aliens.

The only middle age thing men had cornered the market on was love handles. And now that women buy low slung pants, they too have the gobby inner tube look.

Not me, sister. I tuck all my fat into my pants and zip em up all the way to the waist. That's one fashion statement I ain't a slave to.

For we women, it seems there are more things that sag and bag and wrinkle than on men.

I blame most of this on having and raising children.

My belly was already rather, um, round when I had back surgery. Cutting the major muscles slap in two did not help this situation in the least.

No wonder women's stomachs aren't the same after having a baby. After all, that part of the body is stretched out until it looks as though one has swallowed a beach ball.

Daughter weighed in a little over nine pounds. When I am receiving sympathetic nods as I lament about this to someone while in her presence, she always says, "But I'm adopted."

I hate how smart-mouthed the younger generation has become.

Anywho, we have bosoms that droop, where men do not (well, most men don't). We don't have beards to hide the sagging, crepey skin of the neck. (well, most women don't).

Even skinny women, while still in their twenties, begin the wave of the underarm. Men don't have sagging underarms until they are ninety. If then.

You try raising a kid from infancy to age seventy-five or so, worry about why they are crying, what the fever is about, will they learn to talk/walk/read/do math/leave home/sign up for social security, and see if you don't get a wrinkle or two.

And while we are on the subject, old age spots make lovely additions to any rings. I don't have these yet, but Husband does. I know that's the next thing coming my way.

Youth really is fleeting. Faster than a speeding bullet.

But then we never believe it when we are in the throes of youth. It may  have happened to every other generation. But not this one!  And then one day ya look in the mirror and youth has actually fled.

For a long time, though, we can look around, and someone, somewhere, is older and worse looking than we are. And by the time that is no longer true, one of two things is true.

1. Senility has set in and it no longer matters.

2. We are so tickled to still be up and about we don't give a gnat's rear end what we look like anymore.

Right?

Right??

Sigh.

I was afraid of that.

Good News/Bad News

Headline in a Reader's Digest Article:  SCORPIONS: Crush Cancer

It goes on to say that their venom added to a molecule that glows under a special light helps surgeons when removing cancerous brain tumors. Apparently it only spotlights malignant cells, so that surgeons can remove every single bit of the cancer, leaving all healthy tissue intact.

It is hopeful this will be used successfully to illuminate prostate, breast, colon, and some skin cancers.

I mean, really? The hated, gross, evil-looking, evil-doing invaders of my house are good for something?

Somehow, that makes me mad. Couldn't it be Butterfly spit instead that does this?

I hate scorpions so much, I've always said they were good for  nothing, and have firmly believed it.

Until now.

I hope they  have to kill 'em to get the venom.

They are welcome to the scorpions that invade my house.

But the scientists have to come quickly.

Like live-in-their-car-right-outside- my- house -and -be- at-my-door- in-less-than-thirty-seconds quickly.

A girl has her limits, after all.