Legalized Overdosing

[Auntie Jo dictated this important reminder to alert her readers  to the possibility of negative reactions to medications. ~ed.]

Auntie Jo never gets serious but I feel compelled to warn people of the chance of legalized overdosing. After a recent compression fracture I was treated with Tylenol-Codeine #3. I lost three weeks of my life due to personal sensitivity to medications. The horrors, paranoia, fear and complete confusion still linger. Please be cautious of every prescribed drug that’s new to you.

One of the few memories of my hallucinations was pleasant. I saw minute dancing figures appearing everywhere, dressed as Medieval Royalty, some dressed in Christmas colors. As tiny as ants, they appeared and disappeared, dancing and shuffling. My favorite was a Venetian doge, slouchy hat and all. I named him Count Vesuvius-Vivaldi. He danced endlessly, tiny wisps of smoke appearing as from a pipe. He kept me company and I miss him.

But in all seriousness, do pay close attention to everything you’re being prescribed.

Sailing Through walmart

( a re-run of an oldie I’ve always liked)

Being rather elderly, I’m always on the lookout for convenience and shortcuts.  With that in mind, I set out one quiet morning recently to do some shopping at WalMart, planning to practice driving one of their motorized carts.  Easier said than done.

I approached the cart confidently and found the process of getting in it was somewhat like boarding a small boat or climbing into a bathtub.  In fact, the phrase “bathtub sailor” came to mind. However, there were neither oars nor rubber duckies at hand so I seated myself securely and looked around for the controls.

I found only a lever to press.  How strange! My feet were pushing frantically on non-existent pedals and I didn’t have a steering wheel!  Accidentally bumping the lever, my vessel was suddenly underway. It crept out of its parking area at a steady one-quarter mile per hour clip, veering sideways as if wanting to head for the exit.

Having no idea how to control it, I passed through the sliding doors and headed for the parking lot, nervously pressing the lever up, down, sideways and probably backwards.  I did a lap around a bright red Kia illegally parked in the crosswalk, missing all four fenders before I was finally able to aim for the doors.

Nerve wracking!  I just got here – I need to shop – get me back into the store!  A lot of lever juggling took place before I made it, hanging on with a death grip.

Finally steering gingerly down Aisle One, I spotted an item from my shopping list, pulled up and realized that, in order to reach it, I had to get out of the cart.  Somehow this defeated the whole purpose of using the cart but I stopped, clambered out, grabbed my purchase and clambered back in. And so it went; every single thing I wanted seemed to be out of reach.

In and out, in and out, an unexpected exercise session right here in WalMart.  Anyway, I carried on, gaining confidence in my boat-like bathtub, or bathtub-like boat, relaxing enough to make several observations.

Down here in my seat I wasn’t seeing people eye to eye, I was looking up into nostrils.  Unbelievable how hairy nostrils can be; I was amazed. It seemed … O-O-O-NO! ICK! Grab a handful of tissues – FAST!  Paper towels would be even better. Look the other way and get out of here. WHEW!

Obviously I’d encountered a Walmartian. You all know what a Walmartian is?  A bottom feeder you’ll never see anywhere else. Colorful and bizarre, they come in quite a variety and are easy to spot. The puzzled looks on the faces of other shoppers are a dead giveaway.

My favorite Walmartian was a pudgy older guy,  apparently on an evening beer run. He was clad rather unconventionally  in a fluffy pink robe and matching slippers, presumably belonging to his significant other. Or maybe it was his; one never knows for sure these days and it did seem to fit him.

There’ve been reports of a lot of plumber’s butts, poorly fitting halters, interesting hair colors and add-ons, studs, tats, thongs (no, not the flip-flops) and other gaudy attire and behavior.  You see these everywhere nowadays, but not always all on the same person.

Anyway, back to my routine of in and out, up and down.  I approached the Bread Aisle, stepped out and reached up to pull a loaf of bread out from under a stack.  The loaf I want is always second or third from the top and I try to snatch it out quickly, but the rest of the loaves invariably bombard me.  Thankfully most bread is soft. I gave myself a black eye once with a loaf of San Francisco Sourdough.

An unexpected benefit of riding along at a lower level; I get to see all the goodies aimed at the kiddie shoppers.  Spaghetti-Os, chocolate cereal, Maxi-Bags of Salty-Greasies and Gummi Bears. I hate Gummi Bears, one bite and they pull my partial right out, but somehow I had this compulsion …..

Rounding the end of one aisle and heading down the next took major maneuvering and concentration, kind of like docking a cruise ship.  Oops, I’m afraid I wiped out several displays before I got the hang of it. But I ask you, talk about poor merchandising, a pyramid of cabernet sauvignon  right on a corner! Foolish!

The crash was kind of exciting but there was no way I could make a fast getaway at one-quarter mile per hour, and I couldn’t pretend it wasn’t me.  My vessel was awash with wine and as I peeked back I glimpsed an old codger slip-sliding along in my wake, skidding on the puddles and broken glass, wearing a goofy grin and inhaling deeply.I was feeling a little buzz myself from the fumes and managed a quick wave at the clean-up crew who showed up with mops and dirty looks.

Taking one last quick peek, I spotted the codger now on the floor, lapping at the puddles.  (I hope he was spitting out the glass.) Another Walmartian, for sure.

I don’t think I harmed anyone on that trip; by now, other shoppers were scattering at my approach.  There was an experience on Aisle Seven between the canned mandarins and the lima beans when I felt a few jolts and a hard rocking and thought I’d foundered.  I didn’t dare look back but I didn’t hear any screams. I decided gasps and curses didn’t count as I dodged a few squishy tomatoes aimed squarely at my back, and I continued on.

Approaching Check-Out I sensed a potential problem with trying to unload, especially as I was bearing down at full speed, towing another loaded cart I’d managed to hook onto.  Unfortunately, a screaming toddler was on board that one, the mother running frantically alongside. She hopped in my cart with me, grabbed the lever and we rolled to a dead stop just short of Check-Out.

The checker had already jumped the counter, prepared to run for safety, but she came back and timidly began to total my purchases, meanwhile eyeing me cautiously.  Parking the cart was no problem; the clean-up crew was there waiting to mop out the rest of the wine. More dirty looks, Sheeesh! what a bunch of grouches!

So now I only have one problem, where in my tiny kitchen do I store all the Spaghetti-Os, chocolate cereal, Maxi-Bags of Salty-Greasies and the Gummi Bears, not to mention three extra loaves of pumpernickel?

At least I’ve had enough exercise for the day and can recommend motorized cart shopping for anyone who needs a good workout.

You Might Be a Hypochondriac if…

( I managed to survive the year I wrote this, decided it was worth a rerun. Looking back on something brings out the funny side)

I’ve had a heckuva year, health-wise. I think I’ve been through most of the ailments known to humankind, some of them twice. I had always believed thinking healthy meant staying healthy.

Mind over matter was my mantra, but somehow my mind didn’t matter as much as it used to, or my matter didn’t mind as much, or I didn’t mind that it didn’t matter as much as when it used to matter so much.  Or something like that.

Anyway, now I’m worried that I’m becoming a hypochondriac, imagining myself sick, dwelling on the dark side of well-being.  I’ve become confused to the point where I finally drew up a checklist just to test my theories

For those of you who are beginning to wonder about yourselves, I’m happy to share my list with you. A simple “yes” or “no” to each possibility might help set your mind at ease, too.

You might be a hypochondriac if you’re on a first name basis with the receptionists at all the Urgent Care clinics in town.

You might be a hypochondriac if you make more than three trips a day to Walgreens to check your blood pressure.

You might be a hypochondriac if you hyperventilate for ten minutes after every sneeze, waiting to see if you’ve caught something.

You might be a hypochondriac if you use hand sanitizer for body lotion.

You might be a hypochondriac if you can knowledgeably debate the pros and cons of Metamucil versus Milk of Magnesia.

You might be a hypochondriac if your favorite online website is mayoclinic.org.

You might be a hypochondriac if a casual “Hi, howya doin’?” gives you a chance to unload a play-by-play from the way your back creaked when you got out of bed, to how many Tums you’ve popped so far today.

You might be a hypochondriac if you sprained your tongue trying to examine your tonsils (at least it felt like a sprain).

You might be a hypochondriac if you’re convinced you have hangnails on all your toes.

You might be a hypochondriac if you can rattle off the ideal numbers for blood pressure, pulse rate, oxygen level, body temp, B.M.I., HDL, LDL and triglycerides faster than you can remember your kids’ birth dates.

If you’ve answered “yes” to three or more of these possibilities, Congratulations!  You’re well on your way to joining me as a very concerned hypochondriac. We must get together and compare our symptoms.

A Day in the Life … with Four Brothers

(a re-run from my memoirs)

August in small town Iowa, the late 1930s.  Hot, humid, still and stifling. Boring, boring, boring.  Three weeks to go before school started, and nothing to do.  What was a houseful of rowdy kids supposed to do? The beaches at the lake were closed because of the annual polio scare, we’d exhausted the meager supply of books at the nearest branch library and the heat was too oppressive for games, either outdoors or in.  Air-conditioning was a dream for the future.

We girls, my sister and I, were kept busy helping Mother with the myriad jobs necessary to maintain a large household. I was 12 or 13 years old and had a few babysitting jobs, but the boys, especially the young teens in the neighborhood needing summer jobs had no hope of finding anything to do.  Able-bodied men with families were having a hard time getting jobs, and there was nothing left for the boys. Even the most menial chores at the gas stations were held by grown men. Paper routes were treasured and handed down to brothers and friends. Most families had their own home grown mowers of lawns and doers of chores. The few proud owners of cars spent weekends lovingly washing and waxing their own pride-and-joy with no need of outside help.

There was one optimistic note; a local entrepreneur was even then in California studying up on the newest phenomenon, Self-Service Grocery Stores, and would soon be opening the first one in the Midwest, right in our neighborhood. However, this plan, which would eventually employ all my brothers in turn, was still in the future. The problem was the here and now, without much to be done about it.

My oldest brother, Bob, about 14 or so, was a strong, handsome kid, chafing over the idle boring days. He solved the problem for himself in the time-honored way. He ran away from home, declaring to one and all his intentions of heading for Texas to become a cowboy.  In actuality he never got further from home than his buddy’s backyard across town, with bulletins being secretly phoned back and forth between the mothers, so no one was very worried. We’d harbored a few backyard refugees ourselves. The novelty would wear off and the truant would find his way home in a few days, dirty and homesick.

My second brother, Phil, a sturdy, quiet 10 year old, was young enough that the hot boring summer wasn’t bothering him.  He was a boy with a mission, yearning to become a farmer. He’d been begging to raise rabbits for months. The chance of this happening was very remote but just in case, he was getting ready. Week after week he trudged back and forth between a nearby vacant lot and the derelict old garage on the back of our property, sort of flying under the radar, pulling his rusty little RADIO FLYER filled with long bunches of dried grass he’d harvested.  Not only would this grass provide food for his rabbits, but also bedding, and he was going to be ready, piling mounds of dry hay in every corner of the garage.

Our third brother, Dean, was about 5, our blue-eyed pet with blond curly hair. He was just old enough to play around the immediate neighborhood alone or with his friends without constant watching, or so it was thought. His speciality was charming everyone, meanwhile supposedly keeping himself busy and out of trouble.

Our youngest brother, the toddler with the big boy name, Gordon, was at an age where he required almost constant attention; however, he was an easy boy to entertain, sweet and eager to learn.  Books made him happy, hot chocolate and long naps made him happy, and Carole and I took turns keeping him safe. Four brothers, four personalities.

The days dragged on, everyone in limbo as though waiting for something to happen, anything to liven up a boring time.  And so the old saying, ‘be careful what you wish for’, was suddenly proven true.

The cries, “Fire!”  “Fire!” rang out sharply, startling and frightening everyone.  Our old garage was in full flame, blazing and crackling before anyone realized what was happening.  The dried hay was perfect tinder. It was fully engulfed by the time a fire truck arrived, and nearby neighbors began hosing down their own properties.  A police car roared up, siren blaring. The entire area was a whirling scene of flames, smoke, noise and confusion; little kids on bikes and stray dogs adding to the furor.

Suddenly a voice screamed out over the din,  “Dean! Where is Dean?” The blue-eyed charmer was nowhere to be found! By now our Dad was home, and parents, neighbors, firemen and the policeman ransacked the house from the rafters to the coal-bin in the basement with no trace of him.  The dread of the obvious sent everyone into a panic when it was learned he’d last been seen playing near the garage. The smouldering ruins were still too white hot to be searched. I was pulled from babysitting duty to help with the hunt, leaving my young sister with the toddler and strict orders to keep him safe inside, away from the action. I can still remember the deep, heavy fear I felt as I searched.

Finally someone noticed a few boards out of place around the crawl space under the front porch.  A very frightened, filthy little boy was pulled out, terrified that he was Really Going To Get It This Time.  Our parents were far too relieved and grateful to dream of punishment, even when he confessed his crime, admitting to playing in the garage with matches.

It took hours for the excitement to die down. The fire truck finally drove off, the neighbors returned home  and the police car patrolled past all evening. Our family hadn’t known such excitement since our Aunt Dorothy’s picture appeared on the front page of the local paper, nursing one of the casualties after John Dillinger shot up the First National Bank.

But the payoff came the next day when our runaway strolled nonchalantly down the street, pretending a cool indifference as he returned home from his escapade.  The look on his face when he saw the burned out garage and listened to our excited stories was priceless. He stood stock still in the middle of the street, mouth hanging open, totally unable to react.  He had run away out of sheer boredom and the only excitement of the summer happened the day he was gone.

Four brothers; Phil’s dream of raising rabbits had gone up in smoke, Dean was cured of playing with matches, Gordon, the only one unaffected by the drama,  went on with his business of growing up, and Bob, restless, ambitious Bob, well, he never ran away from home again.

Nutty Ideas for Ninety-Year-Olds

(I wrote this almost 3 years ago, time to re-post)

As I approached my 90th birthday,  I sensed that family and friends were watching me surreptitiously, speculatively.  I could feel their eyes on me when they thought my attention was diverted. I was not only uncomfortable with this scrutiny, but also a little unnerved.  Why the sudden interest?

Did they think I was going to morph into something entirely different when I reached that milestone?  Maybe collapse into a dusty heap with one last gasp? Perhaps I’d grow back down, as my daughter used to believe; start wearing pigtails and hair bows again?

My brother finally blurted out the question I sensed was on everyone’s mind.  “So, what are you going to do on your 90th birthday, Sis? What’s on your bucket list?  Going skydiving or anything exciting?”

SKYDIVING?  MOI?? Was he out of his mind or did he think I was?  I wouldn’t go skydiving if Brad Pitt were piloting the plane and I was being strapped in with George Clooney for the descent! (Well, let me think about that one for a sec, that’s pretty tempting,) but NO, NO.  Why would a natural born coward like me leave this perfectly safe, solid earth to leap out into empty space?

IT  WILL  NOT HAPPEN

Neither will I go zip-lining, even if a friend, 88 years old at the time, did that very thing not too long ago, with pictures to prove it.  She’s a far braver person than I.

Hot-Air Ballooning?  No, again, No. No. No. I heard of two Mid-Western balloonists who decided to try their sport around Albuquerque, a noted ballooning site.  Being unfamiliar with New Mexico’s winds and downdrafts, their balloon landed with a tremendous jolt that resulted in their walking away with four broken ankles.  Wait, I’d better rephrase that, they were hauled off with four broken ankles. I could only wonder which one drove back to the Midwest.

Kayaking, NEVER.  Bungee Jumping, NEVER.  Snowboarding, NEVER. Hang gliding, Skin Diving, Roller Coasters, Marathons,  not in my wildest dreams. My bucket list is nearly complete and what’s left can be accomplished from the comfy depths of my easy chair while I’m still of reasonably sound mind.  That’s providing I haven’t already done everything, forgotten it, and decided to start over.

So what have I planned for my 90th birthday?  I want to spend the day contacting every friend and family member I can reach, or remember.  I’ll be giving hugs to everyone who smiles at me. I’ll assure my dear ones of my deep love for them.  I’ll set aside time to reminisce about the many who’ve passed on ahead. sending happy thoughts their way. I’ll have to pose for a few pictures but I’ve scarcely looked into a mirror all day.  It’s far too late to be making comparisons.

I’ll listen to good music and leaf through favorite books.  I’ll enjoy good food and if this should include birthday cake, I’ll have seconds, especially if it’s chocolate.  I’ll try to blow out all the candles but will no doubt need help from two small great-grandchildren who might be hanging around, staring at me, awed by my wrinkles and the number of candles on the cake.

Maybe I’ll give some thought to which decade I might like to revisit, if that would be possible.  We can skip the 1930s. Being a true child of the Depression,there’s nothing about the ‘30s I want to remember.  The 1940s may have been the most eventful for me personally. Going from the trauma of a major war while still wearing snoods and saddle shoes, to peacetime parenting in one decade was quite a change.  The ‘50s and ‘60s were busy and exciting, the ‘70s and ‘80s flew by, and by the 1990s and 2000s, I was aging but trying not to notice. Secretly, I was afraid I’d slipped past my sell-by date and no one had let me know.

So, I suddenly find myself at the age of 90, ready for the big slide into my dotage, with people expecting me to leap out of airplanes and risk my delicate self in screwy stunts. As if!  Who knows what the next decade will bring? Maybe it will be the best yet.

I’ll finish off a long, happy day with a hearty gin and tonic (extra lime), and count my many blessings.  And Oh yes, I’ll spare a thought for all those other 90 year olds out there risking life and limb skydiving, zip-lining, skateboarding or whatever thrills them, while I prop my feet up and relax.

I’m grateful for being me and I plan to drink a toast to my 100th birthday, coming up fast.  A decade can be gone before you know it.

Breaking News

(I wrote this some months ago. Looks like it’ll be happening sooner than we expected.)

Dreams really do come true! If we can believe the constant barrage of news alerts, bulletins and breathlessly excited broadcasters, one of our most tiresome chores, grocery shopping, will soon be a thing of the past.

“BREAKING NEWS: AMAZON BUYS WHOLE FOODS CHAIN”

“BREAKING NEWS: AMAZON ANNOUNCES HOME DELIVERY OF PURCHASES SOON TO BE TESTED”

“BREAKING NEWS: Androids tested for use in packing grocery orders. Response favorable”

It just gets better and better! I can see the day coming when I kick back in my easy chair, pick up a WHOLE FOODS flyer, make my selection and punch my order into a smartphone. A disembodied voice answers and I’m in business.

AMAZON will soon have functioning androids programmed to receive orders, fill them, call up the next drone in an assembly line and dispatch it, all from centralized warehouses. My address will be entered into the drone’s data banks and it takes off.

Moments later my phone will ring and I step outside just as the drone lands gently at my feet. Or better still, it’s programmed to pass through an open door, settle on a kitchen counter and begin unpacking! Too good to be true? It may happen sooner than you think.

Or not!   What happens if the ‘droid that packed your order hadn’t been properly assembled in the first place, had a screw loose or some other little detail that threw off the entire operation? In a worst case scenario it might never have been fine tuned and it’s jerky movements caused it to do something outrageous; maybe nudge an entire case of JIM BEAM Kentucky Bourbon onto the floor for one horrible example. The breakage and resulting fumes would send the entire assembly line into chaos.

Now ‘Droids can’t possibly be affected by alcohol, that’s a no-brainer, unless an error in programming had resulted in accidentally including a “scent” sensor into their makeup, rather than a “send” sensor.

Drone after drone would take off in a cloud of Kentucky Bourbon fumes more than a little tipsy. My very first order might arrive with

A BANG! A CLUNK!  A SPLASH! And A SPLAT!

I’d dash out my front door to investigate the awful racket and find myself skidding down slimy steps and sliding across a definitely slick sidewalk. A horrified look around confirms my worst fears. My first AMAZON order has gone from groceries to garbage in one alcoholic spree. A distinct odor of JIM BEAM rises up and I stare in dismay. It’s raining groceries!

A carton of eggs drops with a crunch at my feet. Now, I enjoy omelets as much as anyone but a 12 egg omelet? And that would be only if I could get the shells strained out. An 8 pack of toilet paper unrolls as it descends, draping the magnolia tree faster than a crowd of rowdy teens on Homecoming Night. TIDE laundry detergent powders my lawn. Onions are rolling  everywhere, their smell fighting with the reek of the bourbon.

Fido bounds happily away with my rib eyes, and Fluffy snatches a salmon steak right out from under my nose. CHEERIOS add an alarming crunch to every move I make. The salad greens are tossing themselves as they float down in a leafy blur. A carton of chocolate milk lands squarely on top of my head, turning me from a platinum blonde to a brunette in seconds.

Fido bounces back for my sausage links, having safely buried the ribeyes under a lilac bush. A 6 pack of BUD LITE drops with a hard  THWACK! and all 6 cans burst open, spraying the TIDE covered lawn, thereby creating a foamy effect around my ankles and bubbling up among the onions.

WELL! I want you to know I’ve just created my own Breaking News Headlines:

“DRUNKEN ‘DROID  DOWNS GROCERY DRONE!”

adding my own spin to the story; “Irate housewife sues to bring D.U.I. charges against entire AMAZON Corporation.”

Medical Terminology

Do you ever get the feeling that your health and well being have been taken over by a never ending series of  ISTS and OLOGISTS? You need medical care? No one goes to a plain old doctor anymore. This is the age of specialists and specialized specialists.  You don’t call the eye guy as your sight dims. Neither do you go to an opthamologist. You go to see a retinologist at the opthamologist’s clinic.

Your back aches?  You consult a rheumatologist at the orthopedist’s clinic.  The ENT Doc is now known as an Oto rhino laryngologist. You have a runny nose, you phone in for some nose drops.  A chirpy young voice answers, “You have reached the offices of your friendly OTORHINOLARYNGOLOGIST, Dr. Whatever His Name Is”.  By the time she gets all this out, your runny nose has turned into a full-blown sinus infection, your throat is raw and you’re coughing too hard to make the appointment.

The danger here is that most of us have reached the age where we qualify for any study that might be underway by a gerontologist  ( a euphemistic term for treating old people). We may not see as well or hear as well as we used to. We need to be sure we understand exactly who we’re making our appointments with when we call for help.  Terrible mistakes have been made.

You might limp in to see your podiatrist, bunions blazing, only to find that you’re at a pediatrician’s office.  One woman I knew went to see her orthopedist with a sprained left thumb and found herself at the obstetrician’s.

My neighbor phoned his psychologist to discuss a slight problem he was having with his spouse,  only to call a proctologist by mistake. Someone I heard of needed a neurologist and ended up with a urologist, and a phlebotomist’s patient consulted a pathologist.

I myself once made an appointment with a gastroenterologist after a particularly bad spell of indigestion  How embarrassing to show up at the gynecologist’s office complaining of acid reflux.

And then there was this classic; a dear little friend of mine was advised to consult an endocrinologist and she made the mistake of phoning an entomologist.  Now, entomology isn’t even a medical field, it’s the study of insects. That poor soul felt really buggy by the time she got home again. She claims she learned a lot about the Mediterranean fruit fly during her visit, though, so her time wasn’t wasted.

So, folks, be careful, be alert.  Life gets complicated enough without these mix-ups. When you have the need to visit a specialist’s specialist for whatever specialized purpose, be especially careful who you call.  You might end up seeing stars with a meteorologist – or is that an astrologist? archaeologist? anthropologist? No, No, I’ve got it all wrong, an astronomer, who isn’t an OLOGIST  at all. There’s a big difference.

And don’t even get me started on the names of all the new medications.

An Ode to All Things Old

(Here is a really old rerun. Yes, I do like old things)

Gazing fondly at one of the cuffs on my favorite sweatshirt, faded, frayed and stained though it is, I can only think what a reliable old friend that shirt has been for a lot of years. I can’t remember where or when I bought it or what color it used to be; too many wearings, too much soap and bleach.

The inside, once soft and fleecy, has been worn down to the point where it’s barely recognizable, something like its owner. I’m afraid I’m showing the wear and tear of too many years, too. Still, I love my old shirt and I’ll wear it until it hangs off my shoulders in tatters. Maybe we’ll wear out together.

I love old stuff, not necessarily antiques, although antiques are treasured by most people, especially when  they’ve been lovingly maintained. They’re beautiful, but a bit rich for my tastes. I just happen to like trashy old things, JUNQUE, if you will. Old furniture, old clothes, comfortable shoes, old music, beat-up cars, little old houses, the list goes on.

I’ve had a dress for so long it’s in style again for the third time. Originally a fabric called crepe de chine, it more closely resembles lace now, and the color has gone from a vibrant blue to kind of a wishy-washy gray. It’s beautiful. And let’s hear it for the good old songs, too; they just don’t write them like “Mairzy Doats” any more. The term “tin can” suits my car, and my house is a wreck. So who cares?

I like tried and true, reliable, well-loved, shaped and worn to fit, years-out-of-date stuff. Nothing can be too old. Give me a day of browsing Yard Sales, dusty Pawn Shops, Used Book Stores and dirty Junk Yards and I’m a happy person. Good honest dirt never hurt anyone.

Recently I came across the phrase “Re-cover, Re-paint, Re-purpose.” It resonated with me. Why can’t we use that phrase for people, too? We could use a bit of spiffing up, re-painting and re-covering. We may not respond to re-purposing but we do endure.

Old people are my absolute favorites. Being one myself has obviously influenced me; at least, I rather like to think so. I can appreciate the wrinkles, the long pauses in conversations, the unsteady gait, the endless accounts of medical visits and surgeries and the precious family pictures pulled out of old wallets for the umpteenth time. Comfort has a lot to do with this.

What could be more satisfying than a few hours spent listening to the same old stories, told by the same old friends, people I’ve known for years, as we lounge around in our tacky old shirts and jeans. We could finish one another’s stories, we’ve heard them so often. My sweatshirt has been in on more discussions than a pair of wingtips in Congress.

Obviously “old”  has become my favorite adjective and I use it with pride. I have friends dating back to grade school days. How’s that for tried and true? Sure, we’ve changed, who hasn’t, but we still recognize one another and share some good laughs. We’ve grown into the big ears and knobby knees of our school pictures, learned a few things, forgotten a lot more, outgrown embarrassments, forgiven slights and are finally comfortable with who we are.

There’s nothing wrong with “new”; where would we be without something new coming into our lives every so often?  “New” replacing “old” is what makes the world go around, but please, let’s not replace everything, at least not right away.  We old people will be recycled soon enough; let us enjoy each other and our precious old treasures as long as we can. I’d like to get at least another five years out of this sweatshirt.

How To Kill A Harmless Houseplant

On the off chance that you have any house plants you’d like to get rid of for some weird reason,  I’m your gal. I come with a 100% guarantee of satisfaction. I could almost work up a little sideline in plant removal if there was enough demand.  I’d get both of my black thumbs insured or patented or whatever might be called for.

My method is simple and humane. I kill with kindness and the very best of intentions.  No neglected, overlooked or forgotten plants on my watch. No dead, dessicated twigs or crumbling leaves desperate for water or food.  That’s not my way at all. My plants expire quietly.

Well, almost. They may strangle and drown, gurgling and holding their little plant noses as I pour more and more fresh water over them and they sink for the 3d or even the 4th time, but they do get watered.  As for food, my system is simple. If a pinch is good a tablespoon or maybe two will be even better. I’m so afraid the little dears will die of starvation.

I once killed a pot of artificial ivy. Real ivy is difficult to get rid of for most people, although it’s never been much of a problem for me with my particular talents.  However, the artificial type was a little more complicated. In a fit of absentmindedness I began to water it as faithfully as I watered each of my real plants, until I was finally forced to notice the water wasn’t going anywhere. It had filled up the container and begun to rust all the wire stems. The leaves had been made of  cloth coated in something and and were rotting away into a gummy mess..

The only plant I ever had any luck with was a Chia Pet my husband gave  our cat, Samson, one year for Christmas. The idea was that when the greens grew to full size, they be as tempting as catnip and Samson would love them.

I followed all the directions meticulously and grew a gorgeous crop.  The trouble was Samson was totally uninterested. Even as I plucked a few sprouts and nibbled on them myself to show him how tasty they were, he merely sat and gazed at me with that impassive cat look that says  “You know you’re being an idiot and you know I know you are but I’ll keep your secret.”

So much for the Chia Pet. It was exiled to the patio where even the neighborhood strays left it alone.

I’ve mourned each and every plant I’ve managed to kill. They never deserved a monster like me.  I do yearn for a home full of living, flourishing greenery and beautiful blooms. I drop in on my friends from time to time. They all have lovely plants and I’m welcome to visit, but I have to promise ahead of time that I won’t touch any of them.

Blarney as Our Second Language

(This is a three-peat from the past two years. I still think it’s a good idea!)

Shure and haven’t I been speakin’ the Blarney since I was a wee lass?

Okay, enough of the phony Irish brogue.  I never was good at it anyway. I just wanted to emphasize the fact that Blarney, that soothing, delightful manner of addressing others, is a great way to communicate. You don’t have to be Irish to speak it but it doesn’t hurt.

Blarney just might be the universal second language our world needs, long sought after, a means of expression understood by everyone.

So what is Blarney anyway?  Well, all you need is a soft smile and a sweet, sly voice, or maybe a soft voice and a sweet, sly smile.  Sometimes called the Gift O’ Gab, sometimes schmoozing, or soft soap, it’s occasionally rather insultingly referred to as B.S.  The Blarney is a much kinder means of communicating, the idea being to establish a good feeling with the person to whom you are speaking.  A tiny white lie is never amiss as long as it makes your listener feel good.

Blarney is the perfect language to use with curmudgeons, crabs and cold hearts, or anyone having an off day.  When voices get tense and an argument seems imminent, lay on the Blarney and talk the combatants down. When spirits are low, Blarney is the way to cheer people up, flattering the bejabbers out of them.

For example, you haven’t slept, the bags under your eyes could hold bowling balls and you look like you barely survived The Perfect Storm.  Do you want to hear “Ye gods, what a mess. What happened to you? Go back to bed and get up again.”

Or would you rather hear  “Oh, you poor love, you aren’t quite yourself, want to tell me about it?”  That’s a no-brainer and that’s why the person now speaking to you just became your new best friend.  So you’re being schmoozed, you know it, it feels good and so do you.

There is a lot of Blarney going around right here at our retirement residence. I hear it all the time and I love it.  Whatever the reason, our age group, our similarities, the fact that we all have one foot on the proverbial banana peel, it’s beautiful to our ears.  Maybe we’re just naturally nice people; whatever, schmoozing is soothing.

Oh sure, there are always those who can’t resist a snide remark or a snarky comment but they’re few and far between and they just need a good dose of Blarney to calm them down.

If only our world leaders would learn to use the Blarney, think of the benefits.  Our legislators need to start addressing one another as “The esteemed gentlewoman or gentleman from the great State of Euphoria”  without the undercurrent of sarcasm we hear so often.

They could then communicate with representatives of the most powerful countries of the world at the next Global Summit in an equally sincere, flattering fashion, thereby setting the stage for success.  Imagine a Global Round Table discussion right here in our own country with current world leaders together.

A surprisingly affable Donald Trump is welcoming all the delegates with open arms.  Vladimir Putin and Benjamin Netanyahu are questioning Kim Jung Un about the efficacy of Rogaine on male pattern baldness.  Jung Un, who resembles an overwatered Chia Pet with a bad dye job, is nodding vigorously, repeating over and over, “Is good, is good” in Korean Blarney.

Angela Merkel and Xi Jinping are happily trading recipes for Rouladen and General Tso’s Chicken.  Emmanuel Macron and Teresa May have set aside centuries of dissension to agree on the proper pronunciation of such common words as CHANNEL versus CHENEL or the usage of LOO versus PISSOIR.  Pope Francis and Italy’s Conte toast the fact that neither has ever owed the other rent or taxes; and so it might go.

The African contingent and the Scandinavians are smiling, deep in conversation, as are the Central and South Americans. The Canadians are arm in arm with the Greeks, learning traditional  dances. The bad boys from ISIS have been exiled to the kiddies’ table in the corner until they agree to shape up.

Each session begins and ends with the delegates clasping hands, swaying slightly and singing  “Kumbaya.” Pots of herbal tea and platters of Snickerdoodle cookies are consumed. The warm fuzzies break out all over, all because everyone is speaking our common language, the Blarney!

Hey, it’s worth a try!!

Erin Go Bragh!