Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Coping mechanisms, Oh for pete's sake, Oversharing
There are parts of getting old(er) that I am not so fond of. Heartburn/reflux whenever eating something more interesting than a bowl of cornflakes (but there’s a pill for that!), aches and pains in assorted joints (Ditto!), the difficulty of bending over to reach my toes so I can paint the nails (no pill for that but there are people who will do it for me…for a fee, of course). Painted toes are important in the Summer, and it is the one medium I have for getting as funky as I want to.
Have you noticed that? We Women Of A Certain Age can express our inner girl-ness through the colors on our toes. Right now mine are a metameric purple-blue, like the paint on a hot rod. Last week they were glittery hot pink. I see my friends, all relatively conservatively dressed women similar to myself, with aqua blue, or dark navy-almost-black, or little white daisies on their toes.
Anyway, this aging thing. it’s not so bad. God has provided (what I consider to be) Consolation Prizes. For instance, along with the…ahem….”softness” of middle age (can be translated into “cannot be bothered to go to the gym but maybe will one day”) has come…well…er. bigger boobs. As a younger woman I yearned for them. When I had babies they went up a cup size, which was great fun, then they went away. Around the time I turned 45 or so…there they were! Well HELLO THAR! A professional fitting revealed that I had the ones I always wanted, finally! It is as if God was saying “Here, have this because of stretch marks.”
Then my hair got curly. I imagined Him saying “ok, yes, you’re getting grey, so I’m going to give you curly as well.” As a younger person, the hair was stick straight and wouldn’t hold a curl to save my life. even an expensive professionally done perm was only pretty for a couple of weeks, then turned into limp little sad frizzy things. EVEN with the expensive salon curl-revitalizing angel-spit hair serum. I flamin’ love the curls. A friend, who’s a hair professional person, FINALLY explained (no one else ever had!) that hormonal changes inherent in peri- and menopause can cause curliness. Is that another one of God’s Consolation Prizes? Like “Ok, hon, you’re having hot flashes, here, have those curls you always wanted.”
Oh sure, there’s things I could be complaining about, like how the men my age seem to have aged better than many of the women…I see a few of them on Facebook, and remember them as kind of gawky, all elbows and adam’s apples but now they’re…well..anyway. Terry was lean and all legs and arms when we married humptwenty years ago, and like all men seem to,has aged with grace and dignity and has those silver bits on his temples and crinkly things around his eyes and the occasional interesting scar-with-a-story-behind-it.
I say, don’t fight to stay young, Find the benefits of age and roll with them. If you’re still alive, you’re probably a better driver. You have more experience in most everything. You’ve learned to appreciate the simple pleasures of a cup of coffee and a pastry without fear of what it will do to the fit of your skinny jeans. You appreciate the comedy of the 1960′s and ’70′s.
I guess this is the second part of the last post. Everyone has a coping mechanism whether it’s dealing with something head-on or ignoring it completely or something in between.
I like to laugh. When things get real tense or my head hurts from anxiety or whatever, I look for the funniest things I can find. Being a very visual sort, images that make me laugh are what’re usually in order.
And I like horses. They’re big, have pretty eyes, and a deep capacity for extreme goofiness. Have you ever noticed what their noses do when they show their teeth? Now I know that a horse showing it’s teeth is a sign of irritation or aggression or general pissedness, and they aren’t actually laughing or being funny, but it looks that way and I dearly love anthropomorphising creatures so when I see a photo of a horse doing that it’s like they’re laughing.
Once a while back I was able to get up close and personal with the Budweiser Clydsedales, and there was this one right at the front of the team. I asked him (her? didn’t check) if I could take his (her) picture and he/she nodded. Yes. Nodded. Then I said “Say cheese!” and…he/she did.
Either that or he/she was annoyed, but was too polite to say so. Those Clydesdales were very, very polite.
I’m doing a lot of laughing horse-looking-at these days.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Christian Values, Coping mechanisms, Kids, Oversharing, perspective, responsible adult, solving personal problems
I’ve probably written about this before, but it’s on my mind so here it goes again.
Mother’s Day…I like it. However, it brings up so many mixed feelings. You know how parenting magazines are all about taking care of little ones and keeping them safe? I want one that talks about taking care of teenagers and young adults, and what you’re supposed to do when a situation comes up. When they get that age, emotion has to be set aside and logic used. What you emotionally want to do sometimes is directly opposite of the logic. What you did for them as little kids, the protection, the coddling and organic foods and careful tending…that doesn’t work when they’re teens and young adults, and you never hear that. You never…well I never did, anyway…see a Parents of People With Minds Of Their Own magazine.
They get to this point where…you have to let go. you don’t want to. You want to keep them safe and fed and content,but doing that does not help them. It stifles them. Even when they don’t see it that way. You don’t want them to hate you so you do whatever you can so they won’t hate you but that isn’t what they NEED. I hate that. It hurts. I don’t like hurting. It’s also not easy. I hate that too. I like easy. But easy isn’t best, or good for you or them.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my older sons. I don’t like calling them children or kids, because they aren’t. They are young men. Letting go is tough.
And where’s the rulebook? Where’s the guide that says “if this, then that?” How do you let your adult children be adults?
I think you just…let them be adults. Even when they don’t really want to. Give them the space to make decisions, good or bad. Put them out there,shove them out of the nest like a bird, and hope they fly? Boy that’s a tough one, but how would they ever figure out how to fly if you don’t?
Anyway…I am both amused and resentful that there’s no parenting support out there (that I can find…do you know of one) beyond the organic juice boxes and Dr. Seuss. It’s kind of like society says if you can keep them alive until they’re 10, you’re on your own. And frankly, I think parents of teens and young adults need MORE help than the ones of little kids. God know I did, and I didn’t have it beyond “Oh…you have teens? Make them memorize scripture and rebuke them when they’re bad.” Say what?
The best I can do is the best I have done, even though it hasn’t been that great. I love them,I feed them, and each morning is a new day where grudges and resentment are forgotten…sort of. There’s stress…oh my word there’s stress. I haven’t seen a magazine that tells you how to deal with that sort of stress that comes from your kid acting like he hates you one minute then needing you the next and you’re wondering when he’s going to hate you again. I have my own coping mechanisms that come in a big bottle of chilled white wine, a bit of talk therapy, and occasionally pharmaceuticals. Probably not the best way, but it’s how I roll. Do you know how hard it is to pray for someone when you’re so tense your ears are ringing? The only coherent prayer I can form is “God help me…”
I need a group. I need a group of women who’s children have broken their hearts and scared them and made them wonder what they did when the child was 4 that resulted in this. I want them to still be there, still wondering. And I want a couple or three women who’ve been there and survived,who can say it may or may not be ok, but it is possible to survive and not feel this tension and fear, to simply love them, those sons and daughters who have taken a path that I don’t understand.
I googled it, to see what’s said out there about mothers of adult children, and what I got was stuff about adults abusing their mothers, and about how to deal with a terrible mother when you’re an adult. Nothing about how to love your adult children, how to guide them when they don’t want your guidance, or how to show them you love them when they think you don’t.
I will always love them. Always. But I don’t always understand.
Lord,give me the wisdom to love my children the way You want me to, and the courage to do it.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Being Southern, Coping mechanisms, Home and hearth, In the Southland, Oh for pete's sake, responsible adult, Spouse
I woke up at 4 this morning. No particular reason but something said “get up” even as laying back down seemed like it should be inviting, but wasn’t. Fresh coffee is extra special at 4 am, especially when there’s a small curly dog snuggled next to you, and a cat who is pretty sure you exist to provide her with a lap.
Last night, Himself gave me a glare and said “May 1st, the air conditioner is coming on.” He was very stern and as I opened my mouth to protest he cut me off and said ‘MAY FIRST”. Am I the only one (barring Canadians and those nearby) who think May 1st is kind of ridiculous? I know, he’s hot. I see the sweat, hear the grumblings, and was on the receiving end of a lecture from #4 about Pride and Inflexibility Concerning Air Conditioning. I am accustomed to these arguments ’round about May 20, due to an ingrained belief that A/C before June 1 is Self Indulgent and Ridiculous.
O for an old house with high ceilings and an attic fan. O to live out in the country where there’s pecan trees shading the roof and breezes. O for a family who understands my inflexibility on such matters. O for some consideration for my husband, who earns the income and deserves to be comfortable in his own house. Sigh.
So ok fine. I will close the windows,
cutting off the honeysuckle scented morning breeze, blocking out the evening song of peepers and martins, cloaking us all in the artificiality of climate control, and be considerate of Himself, who earns the income and deserves to be comfortable in his own home. He spends all day in the confines of a hot textile mill, or walking around in the South Georgia humidity outside. I will do it. yes I will. But I won’t be very happy about it.
And I will be happy that I am doing what I can to make my husband comfortable in his own home. Because I love him and he bends over backward to make me happy. I can do this one thing that will make him very happy. And I will be happy about it.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Being Southern, cats, Coping mechanisms, Home and hearth, In the Southland, NASCAR, perspective, responsible adult
The past few days have been those incredible Southern Spring days that us folks in the Wiregrass Region like to fall back on during the scorching, gnat infested Summer months. It’s what we get smug about to our friends in Northern climes like North Dakota, because they’re in Mud Season and we don’t really have a Mud Season. They, however, don’t have 115 degrees with 80% humidity and
tiny demons from hell gnats and no-see-ums. It’s a trade-off, I reckon.
This past week has been…idyllic. Scary so, in fact. The boys are all behaving. I’ve made no calls to a bail bondsperson nor had any calls or visits from a Sheriff’s deputy. #4 is passing all his classes and is, in fact, doing VERY well in a couple of them. AND is actually working on 2 projects due May 17, ACTUALLY WORKING ON THEM…instead of waiting until May 16 to remember he has them and bashing out something in a panic at 9 pm. I love the kid, but 13 yr old boys…well, my experience with the 4 of them is that forethought isn’t a characteristic that I’d credit them with having.
This idyllic Southern Spring, tho…it’s spilling over into everything and that has me worried. Because, according to the preacher’s wife, I have a disconcerting lack of faith when it comes to accepting the good as well as the bad. The bad, I can take it on the chin every time. I can handle calls from Sheriffs and trips to emergency rooms and dead cats in the road and midlife crises. I expect them, and am generally prepared for most anything.
Spring, tho, is so hopeful. It’s walking out on the patio and seeing a rose bush covered in buds, or having the 13 yr old greet me at school with a huge bag full of Spring onions he grew in the school garden, or seeing an older son make plans for the future- real plans.
It’s also taking a Friday,with the windows open and a movie from Netflix, and eating almost an entire bag of Doritoes and drinking fresh iced tea and doing absolutely nothing productive, because I do productive things all week long, but something about the breeze through the window and that weird noise the cat makes when the mockingbird is…you know….MOCKING her through the window. I honestly think that bird stuck it’s tongue out at the cat.
However tonight, because it’s Friday and we can, will involve adult beverages and a tasty sandwich that simply looks too good to pass up. because I am going to soak up this good feeling like a dog in a sunbeam, and take it as it comes, and not worry about what might happen in the future. Or try not to anyway.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Coping mechanisms, Oh for pete's sake, responsible adult, Who does that
Was is Charles Barkley who said “It’s not bragging if you can back it up.”?…no. I looked it up. Mohammed Ali said that. But it’s true. So I’m not bragging when I say that I can buy groceries. I buy them very, very well. I am organized, efficient, and I use those cloth tote bags. In fact, I am so good at it I should teach lessons. Not that I’m smug about it or anything.
No, I don’t do coupons. Maybe I should, but I’ve watched that Extreme Couponing show a couple of times and while I am impressed at someone buying 1250 bottles of iced tea and paying nothing for them, I do not want that much iced tea and besides, I make my own thankyouverymuch. No, coupons don’t happen here because you never see coupons for fresh meat, vegetables, and dried beans or rice. It’s all premade stuff and premade isn’t done much here. I also lean heavily toward brand loyalty because knowing exactly what to get means getting in and out of there in an hour, rather than perusing through each aisle to find whatever’s cheapest. Time is money, ya’ll, and worth more than the 10 cents I’d save by spending time clogging up the aisles (another pet peeve…inconveniencing someone else makes me uncomfortable).
I have a system, and in the interest of educating people, here it is. Yes, it takes a little bit of time, but can be spread over several days for the sake of convenience.
1. Make menus. I used to make them once a month, since that was how often Terry was paid. Now they are biweekly, because that’s how much will fit comfortably in a buggy (or grocery cart, to those of you living above the Mason-Dixon line or west of the Mississippi) (River). I love to look for recipes and have about a million bookmarked, neatly in folders labeled “Beef, chicken, salad, (etc). I sift through them when making out the menus. I have a friend who makes menus as well. She makes out one week’s worth and repeats the week throughout the month so she only has to do it once, for 7 days, and grocery buying is a snap. I remember being (very) briefly horrified by that, but she also speaks conversational Latin so I got over it. Plus it works for her and I also got over thinking that just because someone does it differently doesn’t mean they’re wrong, or that they think I am. It works for her so cheers to that!
2. Simultaneous with making the menus, make the grocery list, adding ingredients as per the menu. When making the grocery list, break it down in to categories on the paper, by the way the grocery store is laid out, so you have several mini-lists within the big one, and you don’t have peanut butter next to the bleach then have to go back to the aisle to get something you missed. This streamlines the picking up of stuff. It is also intensely satisfying to mark through each item in an orderly manner instead of willy-nilly all over the place. Like an organized sock drawer or filing you music CDs alphabetically by genre. or having your bedsheets folded and stored in chromatic order. Wow…I sound OCD. I’m not…really. much.
3. Over a period of about 3 months, we gradually accumulated a bunch of those tote bags everyone is selling, so now there’s a nice pile (neatly folded and stored all in one bag, easy to grab when heading out the door! Aaaand…now I sound like some chipper young thing with only one child (who has never had a cold or a whiny day), who’s all full of sanctimonious advice for the Less Organized Unfortunate Woman…who if she’d just get her act together for once would actually be able to function properly. Anyway, those bags are great. I highly recommend them and not just because of some starry-eyed Save The Planet thing, but because you can put 4 times as much in them and they don’t spill in your trunk. Eventually,if you frequent one grocery store, you’ll figure out which clerk shares your sense of order and packs the bags Properly. I will wait in line to get the right clerk, and avoid this one lady who seems pissed off with my bags and hurls stuff into them, even if there’s no wait in her line.
4. When unloading the buggy onto the conveyor belt in the store, put stuff neatly on it, with each like item together, with a small gap between each group of items. Throwing them up there willy-nilly signals the clerk that it is fine to put cans on top of bananas, it also makes the food pretty. I like to group the boxed stuff chromatically, and put the cans on large-to-small. The clerks appreciate that, even the ones that make comments like “I bet you have your sheets arranged by color and your DVDs are alphabetical.” Not quite…they are by genre THEN alphabetical. That way Evil Roy Slade isn’t next to Emma because that would be weird and uncomfortable. Even though John Astin is a hoot.
Did you know I can fit an entire buggy full of groceries in the trunk of my 2008 Beetle? I can. It takes precision and a little time and occasionally there’s an audience of old men who are pretty sure I can’t do it, but with the exception of the jumbo pack of toilet paper, that 2 weeks worth of food fits right in there. It is disappointing when they won’t, and kind of weird and uncomfortable to have groceries in the backseat, but I am flexible enough to allow it once in a while, as long as those are the ones that get put away first.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: a weekend away, Being Southern, Coping mechanisms, In the Southland, Oh for pete's sake, perspective, Talladega, Who does that
I will admit it. Living in a small town in South Georgia isn’t the most stimulating thing in the world. But that’s ok. It’s enough for me. Reading the headlines about bombs in Boston and limbs flying around and how hard it is to treat the types of wounds caused by that, it makes me thankful that the most exciting thing to happen here in YEARS was a while back,when someone strapped some bottle rockets to his chest and yelled from the verandah of the local courthouse. Then there was the time when George W. Bush drove through, we don’t know which vehicle he was in, but it was one of several big black Suburbans. I remember that because Will tells of sitting on his second-story front porch and making socialist comments as the motorcade went by. He got a dirty look from the Secret Service, and that made his week extra special.
My form of excitement involves things like pine limbs falling on a neighbor’s roof, and the fervent hope that no one in the house was harmed. Once I find out that everyone’s ok and the only casualty is a 35 year old La-Z-Boy that she was wanting to replace anyway, I can cluck like a hen about how pinetrees are the cockroaches of the plant world and should be limited to non-residential areas.
Now that my children (with the exception of one) are grown and have developed some sense of self-preservation, what little excitement I had in the past has calmed down to the point where finding out about “Spanish pesto” makes me giddy, and I can see things like Boston bombings from a distance. My reaction is more in the form of clucks and mutterings about how sometimes, humanity sucks.
It doesn’t take much to get excited around here. I don’t know if it’s the deficit of exciting things, or that, as a person who doesn’t respond well to sudden change, I have put myself in a living situation that could be considered incredibly dull. I like dull. I like predictability. I like getting worked up over 20 rows of ruffles and have absolutely no desire to hurl myself out of airplanes or surf in Maui or drive Formula 1 racecars.
NASCAR…that is another matter. That is rapidly becoming a once-a-year dose of adrenalin, shared with the family that might just lead to a 50th birthday personal gift of a driving lesson, Stock car style. I know. I am more the Library Book Club W/ Cookies type of person, than the Race W/ Beer And Tank Top type, but one needs excitement in a relatively safe environment where someone else is in control of most of it and there’s a sweet fellow with few teeth who will hand a beer over your shoulder when he sees your cooler is empty. True story. Where did this come from? Our tickets came yesterday. Talladega Aarons 499 both Saturday (Nationwide series) and Sunday (Sprint Cup) AND (drum roll please…) PIT PASSES! That’s Right. Ms Calvinist Librarian w/Thick Glasses And Family (well, 3 of them, anyway) are going to be in Talladega for a weekend and even get to be up close and personal with some race cars!
And that will be enough excitement to last us well into 2014.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Coping mechanisms, Oversharing, solving personal problems, Spouse
Men and dogs share this one characteristic. They can fall asleep like flipping a light switch. Yesterday, Terry and I drove 4 hours (one way) to spend some time with CJ and help get his trailer set up. On the way there, (I was driving) Terry said “I’m going to take a quick nap” and within moments…like 30 seconds…there was a soft snoring coming from the seat. It lasted about 15 minutes, then he woke up. Same thing on the way home.
This morning, I got up, let the dogs out, poured a cup of coffee, and got in the recliner. Rusty jumped up next to my legs, flopped his head on my ankle and within moments was snoring softly. He’s still there. Snoring softly and smelling like old cheese (hm…).
Fortunately Terry never smells like old cheese.
Anyway, how do they DO that? I can’t fall asleep like that. I have to go through a process, a long and involved one. Dinner will have to have been something light like a bowl of cereal or a salad. After 27 years of being an adult and responsible for the meals, I finally figured that one out.First, a cup of warm (not hot! Not cold for that makes me cough, it has to be about 120 degrees) herbal tea heavy on the chamomile. Then, a large handful of all the prescription stuff. Then, quiet reading for however long it takes to get sleepy. No action stuff, no really good books that make me wonder what happens next or requires thinking. It has to be some kind of formulaic fluff where you know that Protagonist A will end up with Protagonist B and the antagonist is something like the weather or a mean horse. Dim light, pillows in the proper position for optimal spinal support and comfort (Terry calls it my nest), ambient temperature has to be somewhere between 67 and 70 degrees (in the winter) or 78 and 80 degrees (in the Summer). After laying on my right side, and cracking all the joints there are, I will finally be ready to start the real process of attempting to go to sleep. Earplugs-check. Water bottle that blocks the glare of light from the large-number clock-check. Fluff the pillows again. Try laying on my left side for variety’s sake. Decide that doesn’t work and return to right side. Legs straight. No, bent. No, straight. Right leg straight and left one bent. Ok. Left foot reaching over to see if Terry’s there. Ok he is. ahhh…finally falling asleeWHAT WAS THAT NOISE?! *sigh*
and all the while, Terry is softly snoring next to me, having fallen asleep 30 seconds after he turned out his bedside light.
I envy that. I am happy for him, really I am.
Do you remember as a child, when you didn’t have to go through this ridiculous 2 hour ritual in order to sleep? I remember the only ritual I had for getting into bed was making a sprint down the hallway so I could leap from the bedroom doorway (and hit the light switch at the same time) and land on the bed without ever touching the floor, so as to avoid the potential of being dragged under the bed and reduced to a pile of dry bones by whatever it was that lived there. I was pretty sure there wasn’t anything there but being a cautious sort of child, I wasn’t taking any chances. Mom always made me clean out from under the bed because I never could convince her that if the under-the-bed was crowded with stuff there was no room for whatever otherwise would have lived under there. Anyway, after the grand leap (and admonitions from downstairs to STOP RUNNING!) I would land on the bed and fall asleep, comfortable in the safety of sleeping right in the middle of it so nothing could reach, also protected by the Quilt Of Invincibility Which No Monster Could Cross.
What happens as an adult that that ability to fall asleep so easily evaporates? It started happening right about when puberty hit. I began reading in bed, listening to soft music (Oh y’all…Mike Kellogg- Best. Night. Music. Ever.), then drinking the tea…etc. I noticed upon getting married that Terry could fall asleep so easily, and later also sleep the sleep of the innocent even while a baby was screaming 3 feet away from his ear. That one earned him a middle of the night punch when I was 3 weeks into motherhood and thought it was grossly unfair.
Don’t get me wrong, I am very happy that he (and other men, I have since found out) can fall asleep so easily. Our boys do it too. I wonder if their wives will be able to do it as well, or, like me, have to develop a 2 hour ritual with a contingency plan.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Coping mechanisms, Disease and infirmity, Oh for pete's sake, Oversharing, perspective
I have a new definition of Middle Aged: Middle aged is when your doctors are younger than you are. Also, doctors become plural. Middle aged is when you have more than one specialist you see on a regular basis.
The first orthopedist I ever went to regularly was in Auburn Alabama at the Hughston Clinic. I was sitting there with back pain, and in walks this 12 year old with pink ears and messy hair. I remember thinking “Sweetheart, the bathroom is 2 doors down.” when he said “Hi, Mrs Toot, I am Dr. (whatever) what seems to be the problem today?”
Then I started seeing a nephrologist a few years ago, when the kidneys crashed. I was sitting there, worrying about the kidneys, and in walked this Nigerian version of Charlie Brown. Seriously, perfectly round head, little squiggle of hair in the front.I thought “Young man, does your mother know you’re wandering the halls” when he said “ALLOO MAM! What seems to be your problem today?” That was when I noticed the white coat with his name on the front.
Yesterday I saw a pulmonologist. I was sitting there, wondering if I’d ever breathe properly again, and in walks this 17 year old in skinny jeans and a plaid shirt. That was when the postulation about middle age and doctors formed. The good news about that is that he seemed to know what he was doing.
And all that has me thinking about this whole aging process. I kind of like aging. There is (or should be, in my opinion) a degree of confidence that comes with it. Not the confidence of youth that assures us we are lithe and lovely and physically desirable, but a confidence of experience that says “been there, done that, not worth the trouble.”
I like the physical changes…well, most of them…ok maybe not even most…but SOME of them. The grey in the hair is nice. I am not going grey, instead I’m going the direction of Mom, which is a white/metallic silver blend. Also the boob thing. They’re bigger. I like that. A lot. Granted, it would have been nice to have them bigger when I was younger, but I am taking them as a sort of gift, a consolation prize, if you will. Consolation for the other stuff that requires medical specialists. It’s as if God said “Ok in exchange for loss of stamina and for having to pee every 10 minutes I am going to give you those D-cups you’ve always wanted.” And I didn’t even have to buy them.
Why fight aging? It (unless you have a terrible disease) is inevitable. Sure, according to The Media and everything you see, it is Unacceptable and you should spend lots and lots on all sorts of potions and creams and surgeries in order to look as young as possible as long as you can. Think about whatsername…that comedian…Joan Rivers The Facelift Queen. She’s 70-something and looks every day of it even though she has fought it tooth, nail, and wallet with surgical procedures and injections and Lord knows what else. I don’t know how she took care of herself when she was younger….but I still worry sometimes about the messages out there about the inherent superiority of youth to aged and what that does to people who buy into it.
I was young once, and remember feeling smug about it. I remember being lithe and supple and having the stamina to be able to go for weeks on just a few hours of sleep a day. What’s to envy about that? It was fun but I’ve had my turn and it’s time to let someone else be young for a while. My responsibility now is to keep medical specialists employed, and I am doing the best I can to keep as many of them in work as possible.
Update on the breathing issue: I saw the 17 yr old pulmonologist yesterday. He said No to the pneumonia and thinks it’s more upper airway, asthma and coughing likely exacerbated by GERD (acid reflux). So now I’m on stuff for all 3 issues. The asthma stuff started working almost immediately and I actually went the entire night without coughing once! Huzzah!
Update on aging: My 100 year old grandmother passed away yesterday. I will write a post about that later, when I can think clearly about it. We are going to her funeral in Amarillo so I won’t be writing for about a week. When she was about 90, she started saying “Don’t ever get this old. This is the hardest time of my life. Everyone you love leaves you.” I am happy for her that she is no longer in the hardest time of her life. I will miss her, but I know where she is and that I will see her again. I am very happy that she is with God, and her family that she cherishes. I inherited a lot from her- a love of sewing and making beautiful things, a love of cooking, the joy of relationships with family. There are pieces of her all over our house- things she made, her cookbooks…I will miss her. Don’t say you’re sorry for me that she’s gone. She was very very unhappy in the last year of her life, very frustrated that she couldn’t see or hear well enough to do the things she enjoyed, and she was so ready to go. She lived a very long and interesting (in her own peaceful rancher’s wife sort of way) life, and saw a lot happen in her 100 years.
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Coping mechanisms, Home and hearth, Oh for pete's sake, solving personal problems
Do you ever consistently misplace things? Are there a few specific things you regularly misplace? (which is a variation of the first question). Car keys and reading glasses. And cell phone. And even though I buy a pack of 100 every week, I can never find a pen when one is needed. Also postage stamps. But that makes sense because those get used maybe twice a month.
What funny is how I can know where the most obscure doodad resides (“Mom have you seen the lase gun that goes with the Lego Star Wars guy?” Yes, it’s in the third desk drawer behind the empty staple box.), but the reading glasses could be sitting on top of my head (and frequently are) and I’ll have a fit because they’re nowhere to be found and probably irrevocably lost forever. (Don’t you love redundancies?) It usually takes someone else to point out their location, but because they know I know where everything else in the world is located, they have enough sense to not mock me (at least not to my face) about it.
Those things listed above are really the only things that are consistently lost. The cell phone is an issue because usually to find one of the boys phones I’ll call it but I can’t call my own because it’s lost,and when I need it, it’s to call one of the boys or Terry, and if I’m calling them it’s because they aren’t here and other than maybe emailing Terry to ask him to call my phone there’s nothing I can do but hope someone calls so I can find it. And no, there’s no landline. We got rid of it when we realized the only people who ever called on it were politicians. Usually the phone can be found in the pocket of whatever I was wearing yesterday, but I never remember that until after a 2 hour panicky search and being convinced that it was stolen or run over by a tank. Tho the tank issue might be ok because Terry understands that I am hard on small electronics, thus I have one of those super heavy-duty military grade phones that can double as a hammer or a tile on the skin of the Space Shuttle. It’s not cute or small or fancy like an iThing, but by golly I can have an arm spasm and hurl it into a brick wall with no ill consequences.
I’ve found the glasses on top of my head or hanging in the front of my shirt. I’ve lost the car keys simply by holding them in my left hand. Once I lost the dongle (giggle!) that goes with the embroidery program for the sewing machine and was coldly informed by Customer Service that I’d have to purchase a whole new program because obviously the dongle wasn’t lost, but was given to someone in an attempt to bypass the $550 cost of the program. I understand where they’re coming from, but I don’t KNOW anyone with the same machine…obviously they don’t know that. The dongle was later found under a stack of papers, most of which were the instructions on how to use it. That was a relief because it was hard enough asking for the program the first time.
So how is it I can know where everyone else’s stuff is and constantly lose my own? How can I know that the roll of packing tape is no longer on the hook in the utility room (where it belongs) but is now underneath the sideboard where it rolled 3 days ago after it got knocked off the dining table with the cat slid off the pile of mail?
Which made me think of this: