THEM BONES, THEM BONES, THEM DRY BONES

I made a visit to the chiropractor yesterday hoping to rid myself of a persistent kink in my lower back. Despite being outwardly out of shape, I went there thinking my framework was good. I practice yoga, I walk for exercise and lately I’ve added swimming, all things that should promote good bone health and alignment.

Alas, my framework is more a leaning Tower of Pizza than a stalwart Statue of Liberty. My feet are somewhat flat, my knees turn out, my hips are lopsided as are my shoulders, I carry my head too far forward and my back is hyper-curved.

It turns out I have writer’s syndrome – my term not chiropractor’s. The pain in my lower back is from slouching in my chair instead of sitting upright with straight spine. The chronic ache in my neck is from winching my head ever closer to the computer screen in a somewhat vulture like stare, and the burning in my shoulder blade is the result of over-developed, tense muscles on my dominant side from muscle fatigue over and improper mousing.

Available from smileyfacecat on Zazzle

Improper mousing?  That sounds like something my cat might do – maybe hunting the little rodents out of season or exceeding his limit?

Oh, and let’s not forget the dehydration. When the doc asked how much water I drink, I told him I use water to make my coffee.  Who’d have known that soft-tissue and joints need plain H20 to keep them plump and healthy, and plenty of it?  Or that swilling cup after cup of the caffeinated elixir of the writing gods was sucking my joint and bones as dry as the Egyptian desert?

I told the doc I’ve been writing, hunched over a typewriter and then computer, for more than twenty-five years. I never had these problems before. The kind young man gently pointed out that the problem is I’ve been around long enough to have been writing for the past twenty-five years, and apparently I’ve developed some pretty bad habits doing it. 

There’s also the consideration that until a few years ago, I wasn’t devoting as much time to my chosen pursuit as I am now. I had children to care for, a day job, other things that kept my behind out of the desk chair, which is apparently contorting me into the Hunchback of Northland Fame.

Wouldn’t you know it? I finally emptied my nest of obligations and feathered it with the accoutrements of my dreams, only to find my spirit is willing but the old bones are too weak to carry me through.

I cursed my old age above the audible pops and cracks as the doc snapped my spine back into a semblance of proper alignment.

“You’re not that old.”  He chuckled when he said it.

Oh yeah? I want to hear him say that when he’s on the bone-cracking table in about fifteen years.

He says it shouldn’t take long to get me straightened out.  I’m doubtful about the chances of keeping me that way.  I’m doing the therapy exercises he recommended and I’m shopping for a better desk chair.

I’m making an effort to be more aware of my posture. I’m even considering hanging a ping-pong ball above my desk that will hit me in the forehead when I start cantilevering my head beyond my shoulders, but I cannot give up the bean.

I cannot replace my hot java, with it’s depth of character and complexity of bitter and bold taste, for a glass of cold, transparent, bland water. Not to worry, the doc told me.  I just have to drink at least as much water as I do coffee.

I’m sure he’s right about it being the solution, because with that much liquid going in has to come out and I won’t be able to stay at my desk long enough in any one sitting for it to cause a problem.

. . . . . . mid 

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BACK IN THE SADDLE

My virtual-world friends David and Veronica, over at GypsyNesters, were featured on Huffington Post lifestyle page today.  I’m thrilled at their success, both in their chosen lifestyle and their growing notoriety.  I'm a firm believer in what they have to say about life after raising children being the next chapter, and not the end of the book.

On a personal level I’m happy because this latest milestone of theirs has prompted me to post on this blog, which, you might note, has not been a frequent habit of mine lately.

I’ve been following the GypstyNesters since about half-way through their first year of travels.  They are living the life I was supposed to; the life I’d been diligently preparing for much as the Nesters did, by eliminating debt, raising kids to be personally responsible, living simply, and paring down.

The details of how my wanderlust life would play out were a bit different than theirs.  My hubby was an over-the-road truck driver.  My plan was to quit my day job the minute the youngest graduated and hit the road as partner to a long haul trucker.  He already knew what living on the road entailed, and I’d gone with him for enough two-week stretches to have a good idea.

With an average of 310 days a year spent on the road, there wouldn’t be much sense in keeping a home with all its associated taxes and upkeep.  No mortgage, no taxes, no maintenance and no money spent on all of those things we fill our home with, not to mention the pastimes we pursue to “get out of the house” (think about that), AND a steady paycheck still coming in, equals saving for a damn comfortable retirement 10 years down the road.

Aside from that, I’ve been stifling the gypsy in my soul for most of my life.  While most teenagers faced with the prospect of having to move away from their high school and friends stamp their feet in whining protest, I needled my parents to pick up stakes and make the move they were holding off on until I’d graduated.

I’ve dreamed of running away with a traveling circus so often that sometimes I start to believe I did.

But fate had another plan for my empty nest years, and that’s why I belong to the portion of the GypsNesters’ audience who are living vicariously through their writing.  Hubby’s health took him off the road and the demands of long hours driving a motor home and setting up camp regularly aren’t advisable.

This leaves us with only one solution; that I must learn how to drive the truck and travel trailer we now own, or the motor home it could be traded for.

I once owned an F150 pickup. It wasn’t pretty – the situation, not the truck.  The truck itself was really quite pretty, all dressed up and everywhere to go, as I like to say – meaning fully loaded and four-wheel drive. 

The unpretty part was my inability to drive the behemoth that dwarfed me behind the wheel, without running over or backing over everything in my path.  You must understand that this comes from a woman who once backed her own Ranger pickup into the family full-size van in her own driveway.

Yes, yes.  I’ve heard all the lectures about inattentive driving and I’m not denying that I deserve them.  The point is, I am who I am and it’s probably not a wise thing to put me behind the wheel of any vehicle that’s too much larger than my beloved VW Bug.  And especially not when the co-passenger (my hubby) has a bad ticker.

Thus, my ineptness behind the wheel, along with my fears for the toll long hours of driving would take on my hubby have all but cut the wings of these empty nest birds.

So, why has reading about my friends' continued adventures on the road got my juices going?  In the words of my beloved, departed mother – it would seem I’ve gotten “a wild hair up my ass again.”

I’ve started looking at Scamp trailers. They look like little marshmallows being towed along behind vehicles of all make and size, but can you imagine how gosh darned cute one would be rolling along behind a VW Bug?  (Don’t talk to me about engine size and towing capacity – where there is a will there is a way).  Talk about a Mickey Mouse rig – I’m sure I’d have no trouble at all maneuvering through any kind of traffic or terrain.

Back when David and Veronica were casting the net for their road warrior conveyance, one of their requirements was that it had to provide enough head room for David.  If you knew my hubby, you’d know that a little Scamp comes up lacking in both the height and girth dimensions.

This isn’t to say the ol’ boy is fat. At 6’2 and hailing from hearty European stock, my husband is a big, big man. Oddly, the Bug is quite roomy enough for him, but a Scamp’s table/bed leaves much to be desired in the stretching out department. The poor man would have to assume the fetal position to sleep.

My plan is to buy an old, worn-out model, gut it out and use it as a cargo trailer to haul our necessities, including one of those blow-up “guest” beds. Wherever we park, we can pop up the screen tent for our “outdoor” room, set up the grill, and put out the lawn chairs.  Coolers will serve double duty – when empty and dry, they will be cargo bins. Once set up, a quick trip to the nearest store and they’ll be filled with ice, food and beverages.

During the day, the empty scamp will be a roomy, walk-in dressing room.  At night, we’ll inflate the bed and have wall to wall sleeping space.  In the event of inclement weather, we can set the lawn chairs and a small table inside for the day.

If I have to say so myself, (and apparently I do, ‘cause hubby isn’t buying it) I think it’s an ingenious plan. So if you are out traveling the by ways of America keep your eyes open.  You might just see us and our Mini-Mouse-House scampering along. Don't forget to wave!

. . . . . . mid

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LET THE SUN SHINE IN

The weather this summer has been less than ideal; far less than ideal.  If it’s not raining for days and nights on end, it's likely that the heat and humidity index is sufficient that I have crossed ironing my summer cotton wardrobe off my list.  I just put a shirt or shorts on all wrinkled and disheveled and after two minutes outdoors, they’re as smooth as permanent press.

It’s bad enough that my summer days have been limited ever since my birth in the land of the north.  Close to the Canadian border, I am lucky to count on June, July and August for temperatures high enough to pack away the Cuddl Duds and expose my sickly white flesh to those essential Vitamin D boosting rays of the sun.

I’ve gone through more than half of all the summers I’m ever going to get. The older I get, the more precious the salad days of sunshine and balmy breezes become to me.  Every single one that I am cheated out of fills me with resentment and an urge to shake my fist and rail at the gods of weather.

So far this summer I have been either cold and wet, or wet and sticky and I can’t get that darn quack, quack, waddle, waddle song out of my head. “We are nippersinkers, we’re in luck, if it rains all week just pretend you’re a duck.”

In fact, I’m so desperate that if I thought doing a sun dance at high noon in the village square, naked except for my rubber rain boots, would guarantee the next thirty days of summer unfold in the low 80s' with a balmy western breeze (make that the last 30 days – one and the same around here),  I’d be shakin’ my tush off. 

Do the butt dance . . .

(_|_)   (_\_)   (_|_)   (_/_)   (_|_)   (_\_)

 . . . doo, doo, doo, doo . . .

Not sure that would have much affect on the weather, but it would certainly give new meaning to the name MAD Goddess around here.

I’ve got places to go, people to see and things to do that don’t accommodate rain dates.  I’ve been in my swimming pool twice this year – and one of those times was to bail the water down after a deluge so my air mattress wouldn’t float over the edge with the over flow.

The only thing this weather is good for is growing mushrooms and mold.  Come to think of it, this jungle climate has me feeling a lot like a moldy mushroom and at this age I could go bad real fast.

Maybe I could just install fluorescent lighting fixtures in my “sun” room, fit them out with tanning bulbs, turn the fan on, haul the deck furniture inside, mix up a pitcher of umbrella drinks and call the girls over for for a little age-preservation therapy.

. . . . . . mid

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The Road to Hades is Paved With Good Intentions

As the day of reckoning approaches I sit, wondering if I dare to commit in writing (one more time) my resolution to lose weight and get in shape.  We all know where the road of good intentions leads and it seems I am doing a bang up job of paving the way there.  But then, I’ve been telling everybody, anybody, who will listen that I am moving to a warmer climate one way or another.

With this annual pondering of cleaner, better living, self-improvement, and getting in shape, I have to ask myself, what shape do I want to be in, really?

I am reminded of my mother – the prototype for Hallmark’s infamous Maxine. I don’t care what the guy who draws her says about Maxine being based on his mother it can’t be true (unless he is a half-brother I never knew about).

I am so convinced that my mother was the inspiration for the sassy, cynical, hilarious spokeswoman for old broads everywhere that I once coerced her into posing for a snapshot. Wearing her bunny slippers, a baseball cap over her mop of snow-white, curlicue hair, and swilling a cup of coffee she was a dead-ringer.  I told her I was going to send it to Hallmark and threaten them with a lawsuit for using her image without permission.

“Make sure you ask for future royalties along with the settlement sum,” she said.  “I plan to live out my days in high style.”

Anyway, Mom had an enviable collection of Maxine merchandise thanks to her smart aleck kids.  After she passed, I kept the bookmark that she’d taped to her bathroom mirror. It extolled the importance of staying in shape, and true to Maxine’s wit, concluded with, “I’ve chosen the shape of an old lady.”

Now that is the kind of wisdom that can only come with age!

Sooner or later in life, you have to admit that there is no wrinkle erasing miracle cream, fat absorbing super food, or flat-abs crunch contraption, at any amount of money, that is going to preserve youthful perfection.  If you have money to spend you may as well spend it on something that’s fun and you enjoy doing.

I am not twenty-six anymore.  I am never going to look like I am 26 again – despite the fact that my doctor seems to think I should still weigh what I did when I was barely full grown.  Heck, I am never going to look like I’m 46 again – nor will I weigh what I did then. I remember complaining about that weight too. I remember my sister telling me that in five years I’d look back and give just about anything to weigh that much less than I do now.  I will always remember that she was right.

There is no perfect size-eight in my future ever again.  Nor a perfect ten, in size or appearance.  I am the size and shape of a healthy woman my age.  And what vegetarian, gym-rat, fashion God says that’s not perfection?

So this year, my only resolution is to think more like the MAD Goddess that I am.  When pondering choices, contemplating my actions and making really big decisions of all kinds, I’ll ask myself, “WWMGS – what would MAD Goddess say?”

Still, a good plan for regular exercise is important at this age.  I think I’ll mosey over to the park and shuffle, (very, very slowly) along the fast lane of the busy jogging path.  I wonder how many of those running fools I can get backed up behind me.  After all, laughter is the best medicine.

Maybe I’ll give up snacking.  Instead, I’ll just eat the whole pan of brownies (a la mode), wash it down with a couple of mugs of Kahlua and coffee and call it a meal. Heck, I’ll even toss in a few chocolate dipped strawberries.  Fresh fruit is good for me.

I also plan on getting a pool membership so I can sit in the whirlpool and sauna on these particularly cold winter days.  Then, I’ll buy my clothes two sizes too big and tell people I’m losing weight.  When they ask me how, I’ll tell them it must be shrinkage.

I’ll take the stairs whenever I can.  Of course, there isn’t a single public building in my little village with more than one story so I don’t foresee that happening too often.

And come summer, I’ll use an expensive moisturizer with sunscreen every day, religiously – just before I go outside to worship the noonday sun.  I figure I may as well get used to the heat now.

. . . . . . mid

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SUNDAY DRIVES - DAY TRIPPING INTO RETIREMENT

 “What are your plans tomorrow,” the hubby asks me as we sit in our double recliner after our earlier-all-the-time evening meal.

I briefly recall the recurring line from a cartoon my youngest child (and I) used to watch, Pinky and the Brain.  “Same thing we do every night, Pinky, plot to take over the world.”

It’s seems the concept isn’t that far from true after we’ve watch too many hours of CNN and Fox news, all the while debating the solutions to all our country’s challenges.  WARNING news was never meant to be broadcast nor watched 24/7.  There should be a surgeon generals warning put on screen every 3o minutes.  WARNING:  Watching this program for long periods of time will alter brain cells, raise blood pressure, contribute to weight gain and intelligence loss and may cause depression, rage or acts of violence in certain individuals!

 I answer his question in my sassy way. “S.O.S.D.D.”  Same old s*#!, different day.

Actually, retirement isn’t all that different from any other phase of life.  You carve out a routine, this time one you are pretty much in control of – as opposed to when you were a kid and your parents made the rules, or when you worked and your boss called the shots.

Still, it’s a routine and like all routines no matter how enjoyable, you get the itch to shake it up once in a while.  Much to my chagrin, we’ve become Sunday (substitute any day of the week here) drivers.  Oh yes, those old people who drive around and gawk at the scenery with no particular destination in mind.

We’re not driving 20 miles below the speed limit – yet.  I don’t think we’re an irritation to the people who rush from home to work, rush to school, rush to get groceries, pay bills and run other errands, rush to pick up or drop  Junior off at  soccer practice, then rush from work back home again.

“Let’s go to Hayward for lunch.”  The hubby suggests the hour plus road trip.

OMG!  That’s what my parents used to do.  My parents were old!  I am not old.  Still, the weather is pleasant and there are some early turning leaves.  It will make be an enjoyable day trip.

So we hop into the VW Bug, I settle back into the heated seated, which I explain to hubby isn’t necessarily because I’m cold, but the warmth soothes my aching bones.  Tune in the oldies station and off we go.

We have to turn the radio up and down alternately – down when we want to converse and be able to hear each other, up when an oldie but goodie comes on and we want to blast the radio and sing along like we did when we were young.

To keep it interesting, sometimes my better half will make a quick turn onto a road of uncharted territory.  I’ve taken to noting the names of cross roads to see if they come out somewhere further down the line – a potential new route for next time.

“What was the name of that road back there,” I asked when I couldn’t quite make out the sign with my cock-eyed, cataract-in-one-eye vision.

‘You mean that field?”

“What are you talking about?  That was a paved road.  You didn’t see that road back there?”

“Yes I saw the road.  Why are you asking me if I saw the road?”  And then he smiles.  “Oh, you thought I said that field, didn’t you?”

“You didn’t?”

“Bradfield.  The name of the road was Bradfield Road.”

“You know, if we’d have planned this little trip ahead of time, I could have made us appointments at that hearing clinic.”

“Avoid what steering gimmick?  I have both hands on the wheel, what are you talking about?”

“Hearing.  I said hearing clinic.”

“Oh, yes.  You should really go have that checked out. I think you're getting deaf.”  He reaches over and turns the radio volume back up. 

At least they’re playing our song. Enjoy (sorry I couldn't get the original version)

 

. . . . . . mid 
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ARE YOU MORE THAN THE SUM OF YOUR OLD AGE COMPLAINTS?

E-hem.  Excuse me a moment while I dust of my soapbox.

As I stand here today, I have a simple request to make – nothing most of you can’t do if you’ll put your mind to it.  Each day, as you hear that endless stream of mind chatter that rattles around in your head, try to remember that not all of your thoughts require a platform – and  if you can’t keep it positive keep it to yourself!

For those of you around my age, you’ve heard this sentiment before, likely from your mother, who instructed you, “If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all.”

It was good advice then, and it’s even better advice now in light of the numerous forms of communication available today, including cyber formats which make it far too simple to give lasting exposure to fleeting thoughts.

Here’s an idea. Once you learn to zip it, maybe you can advance to a higher form of consciousness.  Instead of just remaining silent and continuing to mentally brew your negativi-tea, why not take those thoughts and turn them around?  Like the popular tune encourages us, “Accentuate the positive and eliminate the negative.” 

What if the Higher Power, by whatever name we choose to assign – God, Goddess, Creator, All – is really that within us which aspires to manifest love in all things, that which reaches for the best possible outcome in any situation, that which strives for peace in all encounters?  What if, in the battle between good and evil, the deciding factor is the energy vibrations we send out to the collective?  Are you increasing evil’s number by your negative thoughts, words and actions?  Or are you building the ranks of good, filling the cosmos with positivity to outnumber evil? Ever notice that good and evil are each one letter away from god and devil? 

Heady stuff, MAD Goddess.  Bring it down a notch or two.

Take aging, for instance. I’ve noticed that there are those who grumble endlessy about everything to do with aging and its particular challenges, and those who take it all in stride with a sense of good humor and grace - laughing all the way. I myself am guilty of more than a few snarky remarks about the aging process, but most often I have my tongue firmly in cheek when doing so. 

The problem with complaining and never coming around to find the silver lining is that it’s a complete waste of time. It rarely, if ever, solves the problem and it’s contagious.  We’ve all been caught up  in that group of senior citizens who list their age-related ailments as if comparing war stories, each teller trying to outdo the other with their personal harrowing details of surgeries, replacements, aches, pains and general discomforts.

There are certainly plenty of challenges to aging, but there are rewards as well.  Come on now, you know you’ve heard of them.  More patience for one thing; it’s so much easier to watch your grandchild color on his mother’s walls and chuckle about it than it was when you caught her coloring on your walls.

With advancing maturity comes more self-confidence, less worry, and better understanding of the human condition. Who has time to sweat the small stuff? I think all these qualities fall under the label of wisdom, that proverbial acumen that settles upon us with age.

Surely all of this is worth the price of my stiff joints, failing eyesight, loss of hearing . . . you get the idea. The thing I don’t get about the complainers is, if aging makes you feel unwell, how does grousing about it make you feel any better?

To all the glass-half-empty people out there, regardless of age, have you given any thought to how your verbal downers can possibly lift your spirits? If not, have you at least given thought to how the negative nature of your words infects all those around you, let alone the unnecessary hurt inflicted on those at whom your judgments might be aimed?

It’s been said in many ways, by many people far better than I, but I believe that thoughts become words, words become actions, actions become habits and habits become your life.

So if you must speak, choose the good thoughts before you open your mouth.

. . . . . . mid

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DRIVING MS BLINDASABAT - The saga of aging and cars continues.

I had dinner with two high school chums this past weekend.  We had a blast from the past.  By a huge (wait -  HUGE) stretch of the imagination, you might say we felt like Barbie, Ken and Midge. Of course, you'd have to imagine the threesome age appropriate, not frozen in plastic.  And you'd have to imagine that trips to the soda shop were code for bar hopping.  And you'd have to imagine that those yummy looking ice cream beverages had no less than three shots of rum in them.

Hey, that's what Barbie was all about, right?  A girl using her imagination.

So, this past Saturday Ken cooked for Barbie and I, and we all ate heartily. No skinny model fare for these aging dolls, we partook of roast pork and potatoes in gravy and washed it all down with red wine and beer.  Well, they drank beer. I drank the wine, the whole bottle, by myself.  Beer makes me bloat.

I brought dessert, which we forgot to eat because we were busy finishing off the shrimp appetizers – two kinds.  Of course, if we’d had the leisure of more time I’m sure we would have gotten to my dessert . . . and I to the second bottle of wine.

“What was the rush?” you might wonder. Our chauffeured four door ride arrived on schedule to pick us up.  I mention it was four doors because I totally embarrassed myself earlier in the evening proving that point.

Upon setting out for our friendly tête à tête I opened the front passenger door, pulled the seat lever to allow me into the back seat, the polite thing to do since our driver was Barbie’s hubby, and was quite confused.

The seat didn’t slide forward to allow me access.  How could I possibly maneuver my ample, aging middle aged Midge body through that tiny crack of space between front seat and car frame?  Then it dawned on my slightly sluggish brain that this must be a four-door sedan.

Yes, indeed, there was a back door for the back seat into which I climbed, laughing at my own foible.  Not quite as hard as Barbie was laughing though – that bitch.

I mean, it’s not like she can see any better than myself.  Which is exactly the reason why her accommodating hubby was driving us 25 miles to our dinner destination with another man, and then returning to pick us up at the appointed time.

“You’ll have to drive,” she said to me when we made our plans.  “I have terrible night vision."

“Me?  Drive?  I won’t be able to have any wine.”  It was of course an excuse, and the jig was up the minute I tried to shimmy my ample ass into her backseat from the front door of the car . . . in broad daylight.

Can’t find my car in the parking lots, can’t drive after dark, can’t afford a full time chauffeur.  Good thing our hubbies take such good care of us.  You see, it wasn’t just Barbie’s wedded beau.  My darling spouse made up the second half of the relay, picking me up at end of evening at Barbie’s pad and safely delivering me the rest of the way home.

This is truly sad. Not only do I lose my car in average sized parking lots in the middle of the day, now I can't drive the dang thing after dark.

I think for our anniversary I’m going to buy him a black leather jacket and one of those jaunty chauffeur’s caps. The alternative of course, if for Ken,
 Barbie and Midge to just start having sleep-overs.

. . .. . mid

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3/19/10

Bab's requested this updated photo of her to be posted.  Your wish is my command, dear friend.

And I had to add this one - not sure if it's that little Midgens but the hair color and wrinkles are about right.

Finally, Ken in all his gray haired glory (and his bitch on a leash).