Something about passing 65 has stirred up a macabre fascination and fear of death in me. I suppose it's because more people over 65 die than under 65. (I don't know if that is statistically valid so don't quote me.) But with each day I grow more aware that at this point in my life time is a gift. I find myself skimming the obituaries...I don't read them but I do glance at the ages of the deceased and so many are in their 60's. I think I should stop looking at that page or maybe even cancel my subscription to avoid further temptation. But I can't...won't. I have become a version of Woody Allen...not in a perverse way (I don't lust after my stepson, for instance) but in a way that causes me to make jokes and constant references to the amount of time I have left.
This blog entry, for example, is not the first time I have alluded to death, and wasting, and rotting. Maybe not in those terms....but post 65 one can't help but marvel as things in and on the body just don't work the way - or look the way- or respond the way they used to. I have bags under my eyes. Three months ago I did not have these bags. They are not bags in the same way Coach or Louis Vuitton are bags. They are unsightly pockets of loose skin that collect liquid while I sleep. Puffy things that I spent ten minutes trying to drain in the morning and then attempt to arrange the saggy skin that remains in such a way that they are less noticeable. Wearing glasses helps hide them...who knew? Even Yoga causes issues. Not that long ago I could do a cat/cow and push myself up into downward dog in one swift move. Now it's in two moves and they aren't pretty.
So I thought about my obsession a lot last week and pledged to stomp on all thoughts of dying. I went to the library and checked out Diane Keaton's book, "Let's just say it wasn't pretty". I love her and I believed that she would make me smile and distract me from my death dirge. That did not happen. This book is almost totally about her own struggle with aging...(and some other insights as well)...but it was as if I'd written it. It was me talking. I found some comfort in knowing I was not alone....but she is best friends with Woody Allen and he is obsessed with a fear of death. Water finds its own level for real. Still, I wish Diane and I were friends cause then I'd be able to say all this crap out loud with someone.
It doesn't help that every day a new study discovers something else we're doing wrong that is killing us. Sugar is killing us (but I intend to die with chocolate icing on my lips). Carbs are killing us but you'll have to pry the pasta and freshly baked Italian bread from my cold dead hands.We're supposed to eat more fatty fish but the mercury in the fish is killing us (and so is the price of fish). Sitting is killing us but watching TV standing up just isn't right . Neither is being a therapist who stands instead of sits while people pour out their pain and anguish. Vegetables might save us but they give me gas and good ones are hard to find when you live in a state that is covered in ice 6 months of the year.
Butter and eggs were recently vindicated from their former roles as killers...but I never ever stopped eating them. (You have to put butter on the freshly baked Italian bread). Oh well.
Next week I leave for Florida. Before i go I will have struggled through the agonizing wait to see if my son is going to jail or prison.I will have the answer to why my friends Amy's bone marrow has stopped making platelets. I will have attended my good friends' husbands funeral. And I will have rewritten the codicil to my will in case I die on the trip.
My friends do not seem to share my obsession. They appear to be taking their losses in stride and toss them off with an "Oh well".
I hate those bitches.
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Monday, February 16, 2015
Goodbye Leslie Gore...and thanks for the song
The summer before my sophomore year of high school my parents bought me a limited membership to a pool. The irony of me having a membership to anyplace where there was a pool was not lost on me or my friends. I do not swim. I do not go near the edge of a pool in case someone might think it funny to push me in. (It's not). But with the limited pool membership came 2 important things a "cabana" for storing my stuff and changing my clothes and boys. New ones from other places I lived in North Bergen, New Jersey...the new boys appeared to mostly be from Jersey City. They were cute.
It was a good summer. I discovered that the cabana had a third purpose. I could go inside with a boy, close the door and makeout. And I did. A lot. His name was Jay. Jay and I hung out together for several weeks...but I already had my eye on a tall skinny kid named Mike who went to a private school. We spent a lot of time talking...and eventually making out....most of the summer. When school resumed we had less contact (in all possible ways) but I saw him from time to time because his best friend was dating one of mine. About a week before the homecoming dance at my school, I was toying with the idea of suggesting that Mike come to our dance. With a little encouragement I finally did. He said "That sounds like fun. I'll drive with Mike (another Mike)".
On the night of the dance I was a wreck. I cannot recall what I wore but I know I changed my clothes 100 times before my Mom said "STOP!".Later, as I stood at the door of the gym and waited for the Mikes to arrive, I imagined what the night would be like. Lost in my fantasies I was surprised when my friend Ellen came rushing in my direction with wide eyes and the look of stark horror on her face. "Okay. Okay.. she said, "Now don't panic but Mike is here...and he brought a date. Her name is Judy".
Devastating. I guess I hadn't been clear about this being a DATE....(I would never make this mistake again) I pulled my self together enough to walk over to him, smile and allow myself to be introduced to JUDY. At that moment I was certain that I was not going to let JUDY wreck my life...she could wreck only that night. After being cordial and smiling I ran to the girls' room and cried for twenty minutes...and then waited twenty more until my nose stopped running, my eyeliner was reapplied and the actual color returned to my face.
That was the year that "It's My Party" by Leslie Gore was released. If you're old enough to recall the song, then you know that the bad girl in the song was named, yep, JUDY. I remember my favorite line "Judy and Johnny just walked through the door, like a queen with her king..." I declared then and there that Mike would be mine and Judy would be GONE IN NO TIME.
I succeeded.
And the next song Leslie Gore released was, "And now it's Judy's turn to cry"
Leslie Gore passed away today. She was one year older than I am now. I feel badly. I never got to tell her how much those songs meant to me...when I was 14.
Party on Leslie
It was a good summer. I discovered that the cabana had a third purpose. I could go inside with a boy, close the door and makeout. And I did. A lot. His name was Jay. Jay and I hung out together for several weeks...but I already had my eye on a tall skinny kid named Mike who went to a private school. We spent a lot of time talking...and eventually making out....most of the summer. When school resumed we had less contact (in all possible ways) but I saw him from time to time because his best friend was dating one of mine. About a week before the homecoming dance at my school, I was toying with the idea of suggesting that Mike come to our dance. With a little encouragement I finally did. He said "That sounds like fun. I'll drive with Mike (another Mike)".
On the night of the dance I was a wreck. I cannot recall what I wore but I know I changed my clothes 100 times before my Mom said "STOP!".Later, as I stood at the door of the gym and waited for the Mikes to arrive, I imagined what the night would be like. Lost in my fantasies I was surprised when my friend Ellen came rushing in my direction with wide eyes and the look of stark horror on her face. "Okay. Okay.. she said, "Now don't panic but Mike is here...and he brought a date. Her name is Judy".
Devastating. I guess I hadn't been clear about this being a DATE....(I would never make this mistake again) I pulled my self together enough to walk over to him, smile and allow myself to be introduced to JUDY. At that moment I was certain that I was not going to let JUDY wreck my life...she could wreck only that night. After being cordial and smiling I ran to the girls' room and cried for twenty minutes...and then waited twenty more until my nose stopped running, my eyeliner was reapplied and the actual color returned to my face.
That was the year that "It's My Party" by Leslie Gore was released. If you're old enough to recall the song, then you know that the bad girl in the song was named, yep, JUDY. I remember my favorite line "Judy and Johnny just walked through the door, like a queen with her king..." I declared then and there that Mike would be mine and Judy would be GONE IN NO TIME.
I succeeded.
And the next song Leslie Gore released was, "And now it's Judy's turn to cry"
Leslie Gore passed away today. She was one year older than I am now. I feel badly. I never got to tell her how much those songs meant to me...when I was 14.
Party on Leslie
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
The effects of groundhogs on ordinary lives and other things
In three weeks we will leave on our annual trek to Florida. One glorious month.The one time of the year when I can tune out everyone and everything unpleasant. And this year I have been determined to think positive, keep smiling, and not prepare for a pre-trip disaster. No more references to my life and the movie Ground Hog Day. Things around here were changing. Yep...my old negative outlook was crumpled and tossed in the crapper,,,which, it turns out, is where it belonged.
As a snippet of background...much of my peace of mind comes from the state of my only offspring (can an adopted kid BE an offspring?). Only people with troubled kids can understand that...the rest believe we are weak. Fuck em. When he is not doing something illegal, is working, is pleasant and nice to be around....then I am at peace. It is rare that all of those elements ever converge in one place at one time...and I have settled for two out of the three most times. But these past three months have been different. I even dared to say it out loud. I had the audacity to say I think he has finally turned a corner." I relaxed. Not not not wise. (So when I get to Florida I will buy a bag of Wise Potato chips because I cannot get them in Wisconsin...perhaps they will help...)
Life has been like this since my son was 14. That was a long time ago. Before that -he was just a challenge. When he got old enough to make some really bad decisions, things changed and we endured a pattern of drugs, attitude, getting caught, hearings, lawyers and jail...followed by probation. It has never changed much. The offenses were different - but they were also not big...possession, possession, possession. Lawyers, shrinks, lawyers, judges, local jail, reform school...nothing mattered and nothing changed. We tried throwing him out, every consequence you can think of, lectures, role models...endless. Nothing changes, He is who he is. I strongly believe that many adopted kids are forever broken. That's the extra little kicker you get after plopping down a ton of money and being examined by social workers...a broken kid My son makes Humpty Dumpty look whole.
So, back to the present. November, December and January were the best. I cannot remember being so relaxed. I was less bothered by phone calls from him late at night (they used to always be bad news.."Mom I'm being arrested..."), police cars parked on our street (are they watching for him - did he do something?) and getting the mail. Getting the mail is almost always where I discovered something bad had happened. Two days ago I went to get the mail and looks like something bad has happened. Surprise! Fooled ya!!
It's the same old thing. I went on line to look up the arrest and discovered it happened in NOVEMBER. He said nothing. I suppose in his own twisted way he gave me a gift of three months.
His hearing is three days before I leave for Florida. I will not be there. I will not ask. I will not pay for a lawyer. I will not visit him in jail or prison (I have been this way for the past 3 arrests) I will not give him money or pay for the special and extradinarily expensive phone arrangements families have to make to get calls. This can and will stretch on for months. He may end up in jail..or prison (in this state habitual offenders go to prison after a certain number of arrests...he has hit the number).
This is his life...and it is also mine. I can go 1200 miles away but my gut is here....I love him but I hate what he has done with his life. He is considered a felon. And still I call him my son. Go figure.
As a snippet of background...much of my peace of mind comes from the state of my only offspring (can an adopted kid BE an offspring?). Only people with troubled kids can understand that...the rest believe we are weak. Fuck em. When he is not doing something illegal, is working, is pleasant and nice to be around....then I am at peace. It is rare that all of those elements ever converge in one place at one time...and I have settled for two out of the three most times. But these past three months have been different. I even dared to say it out loud. I had the audacity to say I think he has finally turned a corner." I relaxed. Not not not wise. (So when I get to Florida I will buy a bag of Wise Potato chips because I cannot get them in Wisconsin...perhaps they will help...)
Life has been like this since my son was 14. That was a long time ago. Before that -he was just a challenge. When he got old enough to make some really bad decisions, things changed and we endured a pattern of drugs, attitude, getting caught, hearings, lawyers and jail...followed by probation. It has never changed much. The offenses were different - but they were also not big...possession, possession, possession. Lawyers, shrinks, lawyers, judges, local jail, reform school...nothing mattered and nothing changed. We tried throwing him out, every consequence you can think of, lectures, role models...endless. Nothing changes, He is who he is. I strongly believe that many adopted kids are forever broken. That's the extra little kicker you get after plopping down a ton of money and being examined by social workers...a broken kid My son makes Humpty Dumpty look whole.
So, back to the present. November, December and January were the best. I cannot remember being so relaxed. I was less bothered by phone calls from him late at night (they used to always be bad news.."Mom I'm being arrested..."), police cars parked on our street (are they watching for him - did he do something?) and getting the mail. Getting the mail is almost always where I discovered something bad had happened. Two days ago I went to get the mail and looks like something bad has happened. Surprise! Fooled ya!!
It's the same old thing. I went on line to look up the arrest and discovered it happened in NOVEMBER. He said nothing. I suppose in his own twisted way he gave me a gift of three months.
His hearing is three days before I leave for Florida. I will not be there. I will not ask. I will not pay for a lawyer. I will not visit him in jail or prison (I have been this way for the past 3 arrests) I will not give him money or pay for the special and extradinarily expensive phone arrangements families have to make to get calls. This can and will stretch on for months. He may end up in jail..or prison (in this state habitual offenders go to prison after a certain number of arrests...he has hit the number).
This is his life...and it is also mine. I can go 1200 miles away but my gut is here....I love him but I hate what he has done with his life. He is considered a felon. And still I call him my son. Go figure.
Tuesday, January 6, 2015
4...5.. SIXTY SEVEN, 8...9
Another birthday. I don't know why birthdays render me useless for a few days - but they do, It may be that so many younger people say so many well-meant things, and so many older people express gratitude for still being here. I'm sort of stuck somewhere in that middle ground. Last night as the clock grew nearer to midnight and I was deeply engrossed in Call The Midwife, season 2, episode 3,(why do people with British accents always sound so good??? And why don't they caption British actors so I can understand what they are saying?)) as well as reviewing hours of other peoples' lives on FB... The part of my brain that was still unengaged was pondering what I would leave behind if I died right there...on the spot...
I concluded that I leave 2 blogs that I share with no one unless he or she finds them A handful of friends who would probably miss me, 2 dogs who in the end will be loyal to anyone who feeds them or tosses a ball, my 3 husband(s), my few remaining relatives, and maybe my son because he appears unable to live his life independently. I won't live on in my non-existent grandchildren and that is disappointing...grandchildren give you a chance to fix things you may have messed up with your own kids......there are no beach trips, or Disney trips or family fun in Cancun ahead. The holidays are not very exciting - just a bunch of disgruntled adults sitting around sucking food and drink and lamenting something (like I am doing now). I would be taking my memories with me (and there are some doozies) because I can't write most of them down without affecting someone else.
If I sound depressed, I'm not. There is a unexpected pull, an internal tug that I did not know existed until I turned 60. It grows a little more insistent each year. It triggers an internal review of where I've been and where I might still go. It randomly selects pictures from my life and makes me review them. It whispers "Is this it?" (And it makes me think of that awful Peggy Lee song, Is That All There IS?) It ennumerates my losses and repeatedly tells me what I should be grateful for. Every year has some sort of loss...either physical or personal... and I don't do losses well. This tug is relentless...it pushes me but not in any specific direction. I add and subtract things from my life. I change things up. But it's still my life and I missed a bunch of pieces that I really wanted. Small things. Things I'm surprised to discover I really wanted. It's that damn negative gene...passed down from Mom and Gramma..(.Fortunately it will not be passed down by me)
A birthday is a reason to celebrate...so tonight I am going out for Italian...(I wish it was an Italian named Paulo...I always liked the way that name sounded.. Pow lowww..) Tomorrow I will go to the clinic and be able to help others far more easily than I can help myself. The birthday slump will pass and I will be my regular old asshole self. I will however try to figure out why my aerola are fading...do they make nipple make-up? Does this happen to everyone? Do I need to get them tatooed? And why do I care - no one sees them anyway.
I concluded that I leave 2 blogs that I share with no one unless he or she finds them A handful of friends who would probably miss me, 2 dogs who in the end will be loyal to anyone who feeds them or tosses a ball, my 3 husband(s), my few remaining relatives, and maybe my son because he appears unable to live his life independently. I won't live on in my non-existent grandchildren and that is disappointing...grandchildren give you a chance to fix things you may have messed up with your own kids......there are no beach trips, or Disney trips or family fun in Cancun ahead. The holidays are not very exciting - just a bunch of disgruntled adults sitting around sucking food and drink and lamenting something (like I am doing now). I would be taking my memories with me (and there are some doozies) because I can't write most of them down without affecting someone else.
If I sound depressed, I'm not. There is a unexpected pull, an internal tug that I did not know existed until I turned 60. It grows a little more insistent each year. It triggers an internal review of where I've been and where I might still go. It randomly selects pictures from my life and makes me review them. It whispers "Is this it?" (And it makes me think of that awful Peggy Lee song, Is That All There IS?) It ennumerates my losses and repeatedly tells me what I should be grateful for. Every year has some sort of loss...either physical or personal... and I don't do losses well. This tug is relentless...it pushes me but not in any specific direction. I add and subtract things from my life. I change things up. But it's still my life and I missed a bunch of pieces that I really wanted. Small things. Things I'm surprised to discover I really wanted. It's that damn negative gene...passed down from Mom and Gramma..(.Fortunately it will not be passed down by me)
A birthday is a reason to celebrate...so tonight I am going out for Italian...(I wish it was an Italian named Paulo...I always liked the way that name sounded.. Pow lowww..) Tomorrow I will go to the clinic and be able to help others far more easily than I can help myself. The birthday slump will pass and I will be my regular old asshole self. I will however try to figure out why my aerola are fading...do they make nipple make-up? Does this happen to everyone? Do I need to get them tatooed? And why do I care - no one sees them anyway.
Sunday, December 21, 2014
The Sinking of Santa
At this time of the year I often find myself reliving earlier Christmas memories. It's hard not to do that when your kid is grown and Christmas just seems to lose it's lustre. Like most kids, my son relished every second of Christmas - especially those weeks before the 25th when he edited and re-edited his Christmas list. How many times did I hear him call out to me "Mommy - come here...come here" and I would rush to the living room where he would inevitably be pointing at something on television..."This!" he would yell "I want this! Can I have this??" But, like many Mom's I wanted my child to experience the holiday from all angles so every year we carved out a few hours to shop for children who wouldn't have a Christmas unless some well-meaning strangers gave them one.
It was 1990. Eli had just turned 6 and the excitement and anticipation of the holiday filled his thoughts. He worried that maybe santa knew he hadn't exactly been a "good boy" as often as he should have been...but he hoped Santa would overlook his missteps. I assured him that he had probably been "good enough" to get at least some of the many items on his growing list. I reminded him that Santa would forgive most of his transgressions if he spent some time doing something for others. So we planned our yearly shopping trip to get some toys for children who needed them. We talked about what these children might want and where we might find these toys. We set a date to shop. My plan was working. I was certain this was a good way to instill some values that he could carry with him into adulthood.
On the day of our big shopping trip we bundled up and piled into the car. We were still in the driveway when he said, "Mommy?" "What," I asked. "Why isn't Santa bringing the poor kids gifts?" Oops. I spent a few seconds collecting my thoughts and choosing my words. "Well honey, Santa can't do it all. He needs help. That's why he has helpers....like at the mall...where all the Santa's are just helpers because Santa is so busy getting the toys ready." There. Good answer. "But," he said, "why are we buying toys for the kids. Do other people buy us gifts too?" Uh oh. I may be losing ground here I thought. "Well Eli, the real truth is we pay Santa for the toys and the poor kids parents' don't have the money to do that." This was not going well. After a long silence during which he pondered my answer he said, " That's not nice. Santa's not very nice is he?" Oh. My. "I think he is Eli. But he wants us to be nice too. So we help." Another silence. "I don't like this," he declared. ANother silence. "Mommy?" "Yes Eli?" Are you Santa? Is there really a Santa? I don't think there is because it's not like in the Night before Christmas book. IS THERE A SANTA? he demanded, "IS HE REAL?"
What to do? What to say? Perpetuate the lie? The kid has already figured it out. I hadn't figured on having this moment with him for at least another year. But here it was. "You're a very smart little boy Eli. And you're right. Santa isn't real. Daddy and I are Santa.". He said nothing for a few seconds. "Oh. Okay. Then lets go get some toys for those kids. And Mommy? "Yes?" "I'm glad you're Santa cause we don't have a chimney anyway."
It was 1990. Eli had just turned 6 and the excitement and anticipation of the holiday filled his thoughts. He worried that maybe santa knew he hadn't exactly been a "good boy" as often as he should have been...but he hoped Santa would overlook his missteps. I assured him that he had probably been "good enough" to get at least some of the many items on his growing list. I reminded him that Santa would forgive most of his transgressions if he spent some time doing something for others. So we planned our yearly shopping trip to get some toys for children who needed them. We talked about what these children might want and where we might find these toys. We set a date to shop. My plan was working. I was certain this was a good way to instill some values that he could carry with him into adulthood.
On the day of our big shopping trip we bundled up and piled into the car. We were still in the driveway when he said, "Mommy?" "What," I asked. "Why isn't Santa bringing the poor kids gifts?" Oops. I spent a few seconds collecting my thoughts and choosing my words. "Well honey, Santa can't do it all. He needs help. That's why he has helpers....like at the mall...where all the Santa's are just helpers because Santa is so busy getting the toys ready." There. Good answer. "But," he said, "why are we buying toys for the kids. Do other people buy us gifts too?" Uh oh. I may be losing ground here I thought. "Well Eli, the real truth is we pay Santa for the toys and the poor kids parents' don't have the money to do that." This was not going well. After a long silence during which he pondered my answer he said, " That's not nice. Santa's not very nice is he?" Oh. My. "I think he is Eli. But he wants us to be nice too. So we help." Another silence. "I don't like this," he declared. ANother silence. "Mommy?" "Yes Eli?" Are you Santa? Is there really a Santa? I don't think there is because it's not like in the Night before Christmas book. IS THERE A SANTA? he demanded, "IS HE REAL?"
What to do? What to say? Perpetuate the lie? The kid has already figured it out. I hadn't figured on having this moment with him for at least another year. But here it was. "You're a very smart little boy Eli. And you're right. Santa isn't real. Daddy and I are Santa.". He said nothing for a few seconds. "Oh. Okay. Then lets go get some toys for those kids. And Mommy? "Yes?" "I'm glad you're Santa cause we don't have a chimney anyway."
Monday, December 15, 2014
It feels like buttah and there are only 1000 left
It's not that I don't have a buttery leather jacket made by some far flung company whose clothing I've never bought (or heard of for that matter) - it's just that I never knew it was humanly possible to talk about one item for 30 minutes using every adjective or combination of adjectives possible. I am stunned. I have discovered the shopping channels. WHo knew?
Boredom combined with a remote took me to the channels tucked below HGTV, The Cooking Channel and the endless bullshit of the Guy Fieri channel (what do you mean he doesn't have his own channel - of course he does. He's on all day and night.)What I found blew me away.
Tonight I missed (or rather ignored) the opportunity to buy a tall, skinny (excuse me, "sleek") vacuum that came in 4 designer colors. This "amazing" vacuum boasted "double motor action" and the man who was selling it said that if my vacuum didn't have a motorized brush bar that I was relying on nothing but "air" to move my brushes. I'm so ashamed of myself and my inferior floor cleaner. And this vacuum is lightweight (much like the guy who was selling it) and why was I lugging around a heavy, old fashioned slug when I could own this remarkable, modern, machine for 6 easy pay payments of $30? And I'd better hurry because they were selling fast....only 427 left at this price. Tonight only. Ta dah!
On the next channel a young, absolutely gorgeous woman was selling 100% pure Argan oil. While she talked and talked and talked she kept rubbing the oil on her arms, hand, neck and chest. I must confess I was worried that the spray on dress she was wearing would have nothing to grip and just slide off with all that oil. But it didn't. I kept wondering if she had side rails on her bed to keep her from sliding out of bed at night....I had vision of her husband having trouble holding on to her when they made love...but I guess that's none of my business. I also liked the callers. Yes, people actually watch these shows, buy the stuff, drink the Kool Aid and gush endlessly about the products. They all have southern accents and they all swear that the oil has changed their lives. (I don't think they really have lives.) Tonite one caller suggested that the company should make a larger bottle. The pretty lady responded that "we're working on it". Seriously? What's to work on? Buy two! I have several under my sink to pour bacon grease into...they can have these bottles if they need them. They can also keep the bacon grease because it's probably as good as their product but smells yummier.
Skipping to the next channel, I overcame the temptation to buy a lamb leather jacket in cognac, wine, mallard, black or evergreen. ( Mallard? )This channel had two sales reps - both young with a lot of hair and fake nails. The jackets were dull but the ladies took the viewers on a tour of the seaming of the jackets. I've never toured a jacket quite that way. This "must have" jacket was a "phenomenal value" and was "crazy popular". Over 500 were already gone. So was I.
My last stop was a jewelry channel. The sales person was sitting next to the jewelry designer who looked a bit like a stuffed Yogi Berra doll, He smiled a lot but never spoke. I only ever saw his profile so I'm not sure they'd finished stuffing him before air time. The jewelry was not to die for. It was fake. The sales host repeatedly said that if I bought these earrings and necklace that people would think I was wearing "real diamonds". Sorry, but the people I know HAVE real diamonds and aren't blind - just old. The jewelry was "fabulous". It was being offered at a special price and the price was only good for 30 more minutes. I waited. Still waiting. I didn't bother to wait for the matching bracelet because the lady said there were only 29 left. I didn't want to go up against the ladies who sit by their TVs, phone in one hand and credit card in the other. They're pros. I'm not competitive.
I don't know if I'll watch again. Maybe on some cold night when everyone else is asleep, the dogs are snoring and I'm out of chocolate...maybe then. But probably not.
The Incredible Shrinking Woman
So I haven't blogged for awhile. Too much going on. So, naturally, it would take something major to redirect my attention to anything other than my hectic life. Case in point: The annual physical.
Let's roll back to late October when, out of the blue I get a phone call from an enthusiastic young man who identified himself as Brad from United Health. His mission that afternoon was to convince me that it was time for my annual physical.( How creepy is that...? ) "How do you know I haven't had one?" I asked. "Your records don't show one for this calendar year," he responded. "Brad?." I replied, "Are you watching me? Has United Health joined the NSA to spy on me? WTF? I don't need an annual exam...I've been at the doctors' many times since May...I'm fine. Really." "Ma'am," Brad commented, "We encourage annual physicals and to make it easier for you we have arranged to have several pharmacies available to perform the exam for you...to make it more convenient .for you...maybe closer to your home. I can even make the appointment for you."" "Brad, " I responded, "My doctor is less than three miles from my house. I think I can get there. I can still drive. My brain still functions. I don't wear diapers. I still have most of my teeth. And I don't need any help."
Brad was silent for few seconds. "Well, ma'am (knock off the freakin' ma'am stuff already!!!) If you complete your annual physical we will send you $15" "Brad, I said softly and slowly, "I don't need to be bribed to see a doctor. Keep your money...really keep your money." Apparently Brad has never experienced anyone who actually told him they didn't WANT UHC's money. "But ma'am, it's part of our service to this plan." "KEEP YOU MONEY BRAD!!!!" I said somewhat forcefully and I ended the call.
But I did call my doctor because not all systems had been checked and what the hell - it is free.
Turns out my doctor was booking physicals way into 2015 but the receptionist said she was familiar with UHC's aggressive tactics and she would schedule me with the NP. I took it. Nothing special happened. After all, for a woman closing in on 67, I'm in pretty good shape...except....omg...tell me it, isn't so...I have shrunk a quarter of an inch!!! I made the nurse measure me again. I stood as erect as I could, sucked in my stomach (don't ask what that was going to achieve), stretched my neck and stood in the posture that my mother had always wanted me to have (Stand up straight! Stop slouching or I'll get you a back brace!!) But fact is fact. I am on the downslope. Shrinking. Withering. Getting smaller.
So what has aging given me so far? Grey hair I cannot dye. Deep smile lines. Freckling and strange bumps from the years of sun worshiping (baby oil, iodine and a reflector) sore joints, less collagen, diminished stamina and now - the cruelest thing of all. Shrinkage.
I'm looking for property in Lilliput...I'll still be tall there.
Let's roll back to late October when, out of the blue I get a phone call from an enthusiastic young man who identified himself as Brad from United Health. His mission that afternoon was to convince me that it was time for my annual physical.( How creepy is that...? ) "How do you know I haven't had one?" I asked. "Your records don't show one for this calendar year," he responded. "Brad?." I replied, "Are you watching me? Has United Health joined the NSA to spy on me? WTF? I don't need an annual exam...I've been at the doctors' many times since May...I'm fine. Really." "Ma'am," Brad commented, "We encourage annual physicals and to make it easier for you we have arranged to have several pharmacies available to perform the exam for you...to make it more convenient .for you...maybe closer to your home. I can even make the appointment for you."" "Brad, " I responded, "My doctor is less than three miles from my house. I think I can get there. I can still drive. My brain still functions. I don't wear diapers. I still have most of my teeth. And I don't need any help."
Brad was silent for few seconds. "Well, ma'am (knock off the freakin' ma'am stuff already!!!) If you complete your annual physical we will send you $15" "Brad, I said softly and slowly, "I don't need to be bribed to see a doctor. Keep your money...really keep your money." Apparently Brad has never experienced anyone who actually told him they didn't WANT UHC's money. "But ma'am, it's part of our service to this plan." "KEEP YOU MONEY BRAD!!!!" I said somewhat forcefully and I ended the call.
But I did call my doctor because not all systems had been checked and what the hell - it is free.
Turns out my doctor was booking physicals way into 2015 but the receptionist said she was familiar with UHC's aggressive tactics and she would schedule me with the NP. I took it. Nothing special happened. After all, for a woman closing in on 67, I'm in pretty good shape...except....omg...tell me it, isn't so...I have shrunk a quarter of an inch!!! I made the nurse measure me again. I stood as erect as I could, sucked in my stomach (don't ask what that was going to achieve), stretched my neck and stood in the posture that my mother had always wanted me to have (Stand up straight! Stop slouching or I'll get you a back brace!!) But fact is fact. I am on the downslope. Shrinking. Withering. Getting smaller.
So what has aging given me so far? Grey hair I cannot dye. Deep smile lines. Freckling and strange bumps from the years of sun worshiping (baby oil, iodine and a reflector) sore joints, less collagen, diminished stamina and now - the cruelest thing of all. Shrinkage.
I'm looking for property in Lilliput...I'll still be tall there.
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