tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78191382486933028242024-03-18T20:39:16.735-07:00The Great Hair Migration...and other self-realizations as we grow older.
A necessary look at ourselves as we age.The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.comBlogger23125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-35513701956812250942022-12-04T16:04:00.000-08:002022-12-04T16:04:00.618-08:00How The Hell Did That Happen! <p>Ten years? That went by in the blink of an eye! Hang on while I blow some of the dust off this place, and shake out some of the cobwebs! </p><p>Ten years? So what the heck has been happening? Well, in a nutshell... I'm ten years older, with all the wonderful crap that goes along with that. I am standing on the threshold of 'The Golden Years.' You all know what that is: The biggest con job of our lifetime. </p><p><br /></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi30DRFc3qo5xmhox2PU0Svk8lS3g5jK5_hLe66rkiu2uqW_xgazBbCQTKgIgAx0In76quGYqV9ZI5ANKK-M_i7PCI-PSIJuRvXOg2J_MGZOnPKYmnHq87KgmQgMo27LpHCctudoSl0IIacKMlW347p86p5oH0gPmZwZZF45eeUK0VzbaeNWWuAUYto-g/s680/Golden-Web-1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="454" data-original-width="680" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi30DRFc3qo5xmhox2PU0Svk8lS3g5jK5_hLe66rkiu2uqW_xgazBbCQTKgIgAx0In76quGYqV9ZI5ANKK-M_i7PCI-PSIJuRvXOg2J_MGZOnPKYmnHq87KgmQgMo27LpHCctudoSl0IIacKMlW347p86p5oH0gPmZwZZF45eeUK0VzbaeNWWuAUYto-g/s320/Golden-Web-1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p>Go to work, work hard, do honest work, for you will eventually gather in your reward. Squirrel away all those dreams and plans, fill a huge bucket with that list of things you have to do before you die, keep your nose to the grindstone, and voila! Golden years! Time to live those dreams... </p><p>BUT remember you have to do it between doctor's appointments, and you don't want to start during allergy season, and don't forget to pack along your extra bag of prescriptions and your CPAP machine. Then there are the physio appointments for your new knee, the eye doctor appointments, that hearing test you have scheduled, and don't forget the extra travel insurance you're going to need. </p><p>We tell our teenagers to get out there and get a job, while keeping their grades up. We tell them the virtue of walking ten miles in the snow to get to school (uphill, both ways), that it builds character and stamina. </p><p>Maybe we need to cut them a little slack. Let them be kids for a while. It doesn't mean letting them sit around doing nothing or running amok, but if they want to travel, to see the world, let them! If they want to spend a week at the beach or on the lake, there is no harm in that. </p><p>Man, the dust in here is bad for my asthma! And there's another damned kid on my lawn! </p><p>Hmmm, can Lazarus rise after 10 years in the crypt? </p><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-73517514215780379002014-05-09T11:22:00.000-07:002014-05-09T11:22:51.898-07:00Age -- Not Really In The Eye Of The Beholder<div class="MsoNormal">
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Remember when you
couldn’t wait to be 18? It was a magic age, the age when you finally really controlled your destiny. 18 seemed a lifetime away when you were 16. The weeks
were long, the seasons longer, but you stayed focused on that magic number. It
would be your Independence Day. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Ironically, if you
asked your mother, your real Independence Day was the day you took your first
step, when you were no longer reliant on her for everything. If you asked your
dad about it, he would probably grunt, roll his eyes, and mumble something
about it being the day you die. In his eyes, while you might feel independent,
he will still be determined to be your protector, your defacto head of state,
regardless of how strictly ceremonial you think that role might be. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For some of us, 21 was
the Holy Grail, the year we were able to drink (legally). It might be
interesting to know exactly how many waited until that twenty-first year to
taste their first drop of liquor... but I digress. For others, 25 was the key,
because, as they grew older and became more responsible, they realized that at
this age, their insurance rates dropped back to something finally within the
stratosphere. Sorry, but after that, it all seems to go downhill. There is no
longer any desire to age faster. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Buried deep within
this realization must be some profound lesson, some quaint, witty cliché that
will bring a smile to all our faces. There might be, but I have no idea what they might be. Time moves forward; we were blessed with photographs and memories and faint
smells that can take us back to that time, but we can’t relive it, and perhaps
that’s a good thing. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I thought back to when
I was 16. I was at Samuel Crowther High School in Strathmore, Alberta – what we
affectionately called Sam Crow Pen. I don’t believe the school is there
anymore, or perhaps it has been reborn under another banner, but that really
doesn’t matter. I am not sure I could bring myself to walk through those doors
again. High school was tough. We spent those years discovering ourselves,
testing our limits (and perhaps our parents’ limits even more), picking away at
the matrix in that quest to discover what gem was hidden inside. We rebelled,
we argued, we commenced that life-long battle between principle and
popularity, praying that maybe there was a balance between the two. Every day
was a balancing act. Every day there were tests, some written, some just lived,
not all of them passed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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In my old age, I
cannot imagine what it is like now. I never had to worry about having the most
modern communications devices on the planet. We had telephone party lines – the
no-frills precursor to conference calling, and to be honest, there were a lot
of times, that was just a pain in the butt, because there was really no
privacy. How would we manage now, though, with everyone having a camera on
their phones, their phones in their pockets? Privacy? I can’t imagine how that
happens anymore. We didn’t have the clothes issues, the shoes issues, the
hair issues... there were fewer templates for us to want to emulate. Careers
were for life, not something we had to pay hundreds of thousands of dollars for, only to
have to ‘retrain’ ten years later. Yes, we had drugs in our schools, but it’s
nothing compared to what they deal with now. There were more two-parent homes
in our day (although probably just as many dysfunctional ones, if we were all
being honest, so perhaps that isn't a better thing, but it was a different thing). We had more nutritious meals, less ‘clutter’ from televisions, no
computers to consume our time, and not once did we have to worry about some
crazed gunman coming into the building, determined to cut down as many lives as
possible in the short time he had. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We can’t go back, but
we have the absolute beauty of being able to cherry-pick what we want to
remember. We can remember the faces, the laughs, the loves, the triumphs, and
hopefully the lessons. All of it was right for us at the time we were doing it.
We would be disasters if we had to go back to 16 now. We have made those rites
of passage that come after high school – the marriages, births, divorces... the
success stories and those that break our hearts. From high school, we remember the first of ‘our
year’ to leave us – still miss you, Moose, and think of you often – and the
most special to each of us who is no longer here – Godspeed, Tracey; you’re singing with the angels now. From our lives, we welcome more babies -- nieces, nephews, grandkids -- and we say goodbye to parents and partners.<o:p></o:p></div>
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We always need things
to look forward to. When we were 12, it was 14, when we would get our learners
licence. When we were 14, it was 16, when we could get our real licence and
start to wear make-up. When we were 16, it was 18, when we would be legal and
free. Now, it’s Tuesday, because that’s when there is a senior’s discount at
Safeway, or it’s in three months when we will be leaving on holidays, or the
summer because we will be welcoming a new member into the family fold. Our age
doesn’t matter in the need for hope for the future -- our own and globally. We know
that with the drivers licence, comes more responsibility and the need for gas
money. We know Independence Day comes with a dramatically new set of priorities
and demands. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Do I want to be 16
again? No, not really. I know what comes after that, the good and the bad, the
wondrous and the heartbreaking. I don’t think I am brave enough or strong
enough to be 14 again. I would rather reminisce, perhaps wax poetic about it,
and look forward to what tomorrow holds for me. We should all be excited for
tomorrow to come, because, like cheese and wine, we are more flavorful and valuable (and get better looking) every day. <o:p></o:p></div>
The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-45929881456081383742013-12-24T07:40:00.000-08:002013-12-24T07:43:32.910-08:00That Most Wonderful Time of the Year<div style="text-align: left;">
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Do you remember those years when it seemed that December lasted forever? A day felt like a week then as you minded your Ps <span style="background-color: transparent;">and Qs... just in case. Finally it would be Christmas Eve, and you were getting ready, at least in our house, for Midnight Mass. There would be people over after supper, also waiting to go to Mass. The stereo would be playing Christmas music, and you would be trying to find something to do to make the time pass just a bit more quickly. With two channels on the television, long before the birth of videos, your options were pretty limited.</span></div>
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Midnight Mass – there was another thing that had me in knots, but not for the reasons you would think. For starters, we had a small farm and on that farm, we had some donkeys. I had been told (probably by one of my slightly evil older sisters) that all donkeys knelt down right at midnight on Christmas Eve. Every year I asked if I could stay home to watch, just in case it was true. Every year, Mom replied by handing me the clothes I would be wearing for Midnight Mass.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBdFmJ9wwFfqRa_90OWqqhdxknhSlg7dUAjzi44hgcgCzBKsSVgrmhl14HdWHMlcq1A2rVSBgBd2hRVF7A_AWhrx8GBkAs9KFtw5kpX7gselKjaGuzAva8NpvIsfwEzyXeaPjm-3ulzqG1/s1600/darc5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBdFmJ9wwFfqRa_90OWqqhdxknhSlg7dUAjzi44hgcgCzBKsSVgrmhl14HdWHMlcq1A2rVSBgBd2hRVF7A_AWhrx8GBkAs9KFtw5kpX7gselKjaGuzAva8NpvIsfwEzyXeaPjm-3ulzqG1/s200/darc5.jpg" width="186" /></a>The radio at night in those days left much to be desired, especially in the old Biscayne, so we sang as we drove to church and back. Being the youngest of the brood, I was always in the middle of the back seat, but since seat belts were for all intents and purposes non-existing, I sat on the ‘hump’ right in the middle of the car, hanging onto the back of the front seat, so I had the music all around me. I like to think I invented sound-surround that way. We always had to be at church early, because it was always full, and I remember thinking with every tick of the second hand on my watch that we were delaying Santa. It’s rather hard, as a child, to grasp that Santa/Baby Jesus relationship and keep it all in perspective.</div>
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After Mass, we would come home, the kettle would go on, and my dad would make the hot toddies. It made me insane. We needed to all get to bed, time was fleeting and it would be morning soon, and Santa wouldn’t come if everyone was still up drinking and visiting. My first real recollection of this was our first year in Alberta. My brother had come to visit; it was the first time I had seen him since we have moved from Winnipeg. Along with the hot toddies an the full house, I remember very well that I desperately wanted to keep him there with us. It was also my first Christmas with all my uncles and aunts, and the ‘bachelor uncles’ who became a Christmas fixture for us. It wasn't Christmas until they had arrived.</div>
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Things have changed a lot since then. For starters, December always goes by too quickly. It’s amazing how the years change our perspective of time. Everything happens too quickly now. Thankfully artificial Christmas trees have changed from what they were. We had the ones that consisted of a stick with holes in it that more sticks were jammed into. There would be about 20 branches (sticks) on which to hang ornaments and tinsel. If you were really lucky, you had one of the hideously colored ones. Maybe next year, we will host an ugly tree contest, so start looking through those old pictures now (there are some added bonuses to looking at those pictures, but I won't ruin the surprise for you.)</div>
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For some reason, back then Mom was up at 5am, getting the turkey ready. What was it about turkeys then that required so many more hours in the oven? Mine is done in four hours; Mom’s would be in the oven for ten... but it was always cooked perfectly, even without the Electrolux 'Perfect Turkey' oven setting that does everything but stuff the bird.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyWI7eSGWrSHfRjQSKBMRQ438DkcyKE7_VtmPNzm-xqJ0ieM7fDYvoy9IIgNm0KS6M7oE3zx-8unjnTBpMoU_wB-KIOElV9SfCb2lCnRAw6G3pcYSfye8YrmoqhCl_PZkaLdAjcsXsvJ0/s1600/scan0005.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="197" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTyWI7eSGWrSHfRjQSKBMRQ438DkcyKE7_VtmPNzm-xqJ0ieM7fDYvoy9IIgNm0KS6M7oE3zx-8unjnTBpMoU_wB-KIOElV9SfCb2lCnRAw6G3pcYSfye8YrmoqhCl_PZkaLdAjcsXsvJ0/s200/scan0005.jpg" width="200" /></a>We all strive for what I call ‘the Rockwell Christmas’ – that idyllic event with carolers and nog, roasting chestnuts, warm camaraderie, love oozing from every corner as we all decorate the tree and read The Night Before Christmas together. The funny thing is that I am not sure if we had that, if it’s even possible to have that, we would remember it. I remember the Christmas the power went out and we cooked the turkey on the barbeque, and sat around playing card games. I remember the Christmas the grub was sick, and how I put him into the bed just made with new Santa-delivered satin sheets, only to have him skate right off the other side. I remember the Christmas where a dozen friends had to stay over because of the blizzard that moved in and turned they vehicles into snow-covered rocks in the driveway (thanks, Dad, for the hot toddy tradition because we needed it that night while we huddled around the table with blankets stacked on the floor to help keep us warm. I remember when we had K’Nex scattered over every inch of the floor as we tried to figure out what piece when where according to their weird picture they sent with it. I remember being in the kitchen doing the dishes after the Christmas dinner, listening to everyone telling their ‘remember that Christmas when’ stories, and laughing until I cried. Maybe that’s what Christmas, or Hanukkah, or every other holiday, is supposed to be about. Yes, some things have changed, but that which is important stays with us, in our hearts and in our memories, as we create our new traditions with our own families.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ38Gh8k9-dXfGM1YwmEPi5mCDjhUWz2ndQ4buT_U_H-eY1F0C9wiIChfvCc8ohoTM1N80fydl7i9bRLgKmE611h6o2OhdrPSyUbl1MdlJlS5eo2nXNKv1P-JGFw2X8QtJXv3G4_pCKg88/s1600/scan0055.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ38Gh8k9-dXfGM1YwmEPi5mCDjhUWz2ndQ4buT_U_H-eY1F0C9wiIChfvCc8ohoTM1N80fydl7i9bRLgKmE611h6o2OhdrPSyUbl1MdlJlS5eo2nXNKv1P-JGFw2X8QtJXv3G4_pCKg88/s320/scan0055.jpg" width="320" /></a>At this time of year, we all become children at heart, so from this very unlikely child, and her garishly overdone Christmassy home, I wish you the very best of the season, a safe holiday, and all the happiness and peace you can stand in 2014. </div>
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<span style="color: red; font-family: Trebuchet MS, sans-serif; font-size: large;"><i><b>Merry Christmas! </b></i></span></div>
The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-8994051914326775042013-11-18T16:26:00.000-08:002013-11-18T16:26:02.093-08:00A Shag By Any Other Name<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6cNlYP_oN0NXF-8hGkzBweQcHUhJJGWYKTt72podhw494NAz95fZDsAPFr6VexjOKGZVbwCWhsQy6JXFK4ELXRIN9Affnpyb1Ft9Ov0TbuJScAQHQoPtRLQIzOn-c_pSKjxiewS02KxV3/s1600/89bbc506-79b7-435b-8352-930eada25020_1000.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6cNlYP_oN0NXF-8hGkzBweQcHUhJJGWYKTt72podhw494NAz95fZDsAPFr6VexjOKGZVbwCWhsQy6JXFK4ELXRIN9Affnpyb1Ft9Ov0TbuJScAQHQoPtRLQIzOn-c_pSKjxiewS02KxV3/s320/89bbc506-79b7-435b-8352-930eada25020_1000.jpg" width="320" /></a>In my world, I
remember when ‘shag’ really was a dirty word. Those were the days when the shag
was the carpet, not what was done naked on top of it. Do you remember shag
carpets? They came in such wonderful, vibrant colors. In my first home, there
was a green shag carpet in the living room and dining room. One bedroom had a
golden shag carpet, the other had a bright green one. The crowning touch,
though, was the brilliant purple carpet in the master bedroom. The first time I
cleaned it, the sun was shining through the window and created sort of a purple
ectoplasmic glow down the hallway. <o:p></o:p></div>
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For those of you
blessedly too young to recall shag carpets, they were the ones with the very
long fibers, so long that the carpets came with their own rake. Yes, you vacuumed,
then you raked, and still they would not come clean. It was the perfect melding of outdoors indoors, for those who liked to rake but didn't want to do it in the garden, with the added bonus of having the ability to harbor and grow even more scary organisms than those found in mere dirt. The proof of that was when
that glorious day arrived when you were finally able to pull the damned thing
up and replace it with hardwood, and you could see the years of crap and
corruption that still hid in the depth of weave. Trust me when I say it was not
for the faint of stomach. <o:p></o:p></div>
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But, to be fair, the
shag carpet was a sign of success, a societal fashion high-water mark. Not
everyone had shag. It went wonderfully with the lava lamps, the avocado colored
kitchen appliances (or poppy red, or harvest gold – take your pick) that came with avocado colored dishes, mix master, crock pot, silverware, placemats and chairs, and the
funky gold-flecked mirror tiles on the wall. It was... shaggy, and we loved the devil-may-care freedom of shaggy, so we added that effect to a lot of things, arguably none of them improved for the hairy texture. Yes, we were changing how our
world looked. It was different... not necessarily better, but different. <o:p></o:p></div>
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We had embraced a ‘free
and easy’ lifestyle, one that shucked the drab greys and earthtones from our
lives. We were living in a brighter time, one where bright was to be embraced
in our clothes, our sunglasses, our cars, our television programs and our
homes. We were creating metaphoric rainbows after a long period of conformity
and nickel-counting, and everyone was going to know it. Our linoleum was not
two-toned checkers. It was a mash-up of blues, greens, yellows, pinks, all
spattered together like a Picasso crime scene. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Color permeated
everything. Nothing was, sadly, too daring. You realize that now when you walk
into one of these homes, a remnant of years gone by, and you need to use the
washroom. Purple toilets, pink sinks, yellow tubs... no, when it came to adding
color, even bathroom porcelain was not sacred. As BJ Honeycut once said, ‘it
was like a Tintoretto in barf.’<o:p></o:p></div>
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We had ‘modern’
furniture – for lack of a better way of describing it. We had giant bright
artwork on the walls, swag lights hanging from the ceiling, throwing funky
shadows everywhere, and the craziest, strangest lights you could ever imagine,
all set off with flags in the windows and beaded curtains in the doorway. We brought plants inside. No longer were we stuck with just a geranium on the porch. Like with the shag carpets, we brought the outdoors in. We were daring. We
worked hard to create these new treasures, embracing the knowledge that fashion
could make a statement and still be affordable... or so we hoped. In some ways,
you have to give some consideration to the rise in popularity of having a small
potted cannabis in the corner, and wonder if perhaps it wasn’t to blame for a
lot of what we gushed over at the time. <o:p></o:p></div>
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To be fair, it was a
time when, finally, we realized the shackles were off. We started to want
themes – mushroom (yes, in more way than one, I think) or the cows! Remember
the cows? The cow coffee creamer where you grabbed the tail to tip it and pour
the cream out of the cow’s mouth? There were cow flower pots, cow canisters,
cow aprons hanging on the door hook, cow oven mitts. We did that with the
mushrooms as well, and the gnomes and owls. We were wild and crazy. We were almost out of control. We put plastic flamingos in the yard – every
yard had a pair of pink flamingos on the way to the front door. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Of course, shag
carpets weren’t the worst idea for floor coverings. That title probably goes to
the notion of putting indoor/outdoor carpets on EVERY floor. Yes, I do mean the
kitchen and the bathroom floor. They were a delight when there was something
spilled in the kitchen. You never got it clean. As for the bathroom? I swear to
God, they could make the toilet bowl the size of Texas and men would still miss
it, especially with those last few drips. They would collect at the base of the
toilet, absorbed in the fiber of the carpet. Yeah, you could steam clean them,
but you didn’t do that every day. At that time, it was a pretty monumental
event to clean carpets, one reserved for two times a year. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Relegated to the dark,
not so gentle pages of history books, shag carpets are a thing of the past, and
really none too soon. Shags were really not that much better when they became a
hairstyle – yeah, we wore shags there too. I suppose, in a way, the curtains
really did match the carpeting. In truth, the shagging should stay on the
boulevard... or in Mike Meyer’s movies, and the people of the world should be
spared from them, in all forms, as fashion statements. <o:p></o:p></div>
The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-68705977046991854682013-11-04T09:58:00.000-08:002013-11-04T10:01:21.042-08:00Fling, Fling a Thong<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv9hI_ytN2rJooCy9ss5yM2zccTyZeKwccZN0-2Z1sRCxOzUXdoYzOzv-zvnq6T2ovPiTKal3l3YEUOibFL2kmj-PTTsPmcxDlGMdxw2Mdd1j-x05Vvx5pAlmzr3kfhm7hDkyG1eQDSGEP/s1600/thong5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgv9hI_ytN2rJooCy9ss5yM2zccTyZeKwccZN0-2Z1sRCxOzUXdoYzOzv-zvnq6T2ovPiTKal3l3YEUOibFL2kmj-PTTsPmcxDlGMdxw2Mdd1j-x05Vvx5pAlmzr3kfhm7hDkyG1eQDSGEP/s200/thong5.JPG" width="150" /></a></div>
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I never wanted to wear my mother’s clothes,
and I have no doubt she never would have wanted to be seen in anything that I
wore. Growing up, I wore small tops and tight jeans – tight by choice (unlike
now, where they are just plain tight and getting tighter by the day). She wore
house dresses when we first moved to the farm, and continued to do so until she
was truly christened into our new lifestyle – by being scooped up and dropped
into the horse trough by our new neighbor. It really was a rite of passage...
and ended the house dress era in our home.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIga7QNFQreiVKopCOLgjM_8Fs6utNmfCm3nNPNS_BsWXLl6BWZuCo4lVGsEj7o1h0KGG7X5KCcZ7f5emSX_U99cVwjKeYn7Zc9vktybuvFbmp-Li0WtOJQHHEu1gz0naxFW_ugM0pCAWZ/s1600/old-lady.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIga7QNFQreiVKopCOLgjM_8Fs6utNmfCm3nNPNS_BsWXLl6BWZuCo4lVGsEj7o1h0KGG7X5KCcZ7f5emSX_U99cVwjKeYn7Zc9vktybuvFbmp-Li0WtOJQHHEu1gz0naxFW_ugM0pCAWZ/s200/old-lady.png" width="200" /></a><span lang="EN-US">Our clothes change as we age. You can’t
deny it. Four-inch heels are replaced with sensible pumps, then flats. Shirts
become looser, and you start to get more bang for your clothes-purchasing
dollar – at least for the most part.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">Don’t get me wrong. I know there are some
who age to perfection, who don’t wrinkle or bag, who don’t slouch or sag. I
notice every freaking one of them. As discussed before, it seems rather
realistic to accept that these things are going to happen. It doesn’t mean that
we think of our bodies as ancient ruins as opposed to temples, but it does mean
perhaps a bit more window dressing is needed. Our hair volume and texture does
change. Our skin elasticity also changes. None of this is something to be
ashamed of.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">That said, and please know I say this with
much love... as we grow older there are some things that we just should not
wear. First – this cannot be stressed enough – pants should not be worn with
the crotch at the knee by anyone of any age. I really don’t care what color
underwear you may be wearing (although I am thankful that there is something
there providing a border between my eyes and the crack of don). Speedos, unless
you are a competitive swimmer, or Antonio Banderas, should simply not be
allowed. Sorry to be the one to break it to you, guys, but the greatest
marketing boondoggle in the history of time was the convincing of men that
anyone could wear a Speedo. While half-shirts may look okay on a sixteen year
old, with tight skin, toned tummy and a naughty little bellybutton ring poking
out, for the majority of us, they are absolutely not doing what we think, or
hope, they are. The quarter rule should apply to all these fashions, just like
it does to a marine’s bed: if the quarter snaps right back and lands in your
hand when bounced on the matters (or stomach), then you’re okay to show it off.
Otherwise, drop and give me twenty.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">There is one fashion statement though, that
i will never grasp, especially when we no longer have those supple strong
sixteen year old bodies. Could someone please explain to me the value of a
thong? The girls like to have them riding up the hips over the waistline so we
can all see them. The guys... well, thank god they don’t wear them with the
damned pants that have the crotch at the knees. What, though, is a thong
supposed to do? What is the pleasure of being trussed up like a turkey, with
those skinny little straps digging into the skin, straining with each movement?
For some of us, it would require a long and dangerous expedition just to find
the damned thing once we’ve put it on. You have no support, no... nothing,
other than what has to be the most galactic wedgie in the world. I refuse to
believe that they don’t ‘inch up’ every time you sit down, so that a wrong
movement could have you singing two octaves higher.</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhb-E-QgqyK44wGzzp-8FK3rqUbVohxJpVTPrty1fGj66WGCSeW1J22s3kIMym09mO4C2LnGnNI3D45Sqiyq_mJw-qxy1xQyz7Q2eLbYoU4Kkr-F2K3eSWpFAh0eqQ5p5YZ5GBWUGGtUZO/s1600/thong3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="264" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhb-E-QgqyK44wGzzp-8FK3rqUbVohxJpVTPrty1fGj66WGCSeW1J22s3kIMym09mO4C2LnGnNI3D45Sqiyq_mJw-qxy1xQyz7Q2eLbYoU4Kkr-F2K3eSWpFAh0eqQ5p5YZ5GBWUGGtUZO/s320/thong3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN-US">There is sometimes merit in trying to
recapture our youth. For those of us (I use a royal us because I definitely
don’t fall into this category) who manage to maintain a modicum of a girlish
figure as we age, by all means, take pride in how you look... but is the thrill
of showing off to the other septuagenarians at the scrabble tournament really
worth spending the day trying to discretely adjust the piece of material that
is woefully imbedded in the cheeks of your butt?</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-US">With age comes the ability to understand
the value of balancing fashion with function. I remember well the dances where
your feet ached from the must-have shoes that are really nothing more than torture
devices and bunion builders. We can still look good, but can we at least agree
that we don’t need to do ourselves a serious thong injury in the process?</span></div>
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The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-44147360008958766082013-10-28T14:04:00.001-07:002013-10-28T14:04:59.776-07:00A Trip to the Body Shop<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlTgsTPDMfABkCnTsKhFZpFcG1MHea3rrqeK2yL04HBh15AdUklnEqIkGl4ghDQcyW8Nvx30zslEL0Clc9Gbl_EVpzwcxQt4qd_N_VVJXrH87uK_sQbSTzyOHvZsd0OuhLvYzdxIL9jlH/s1600/grumpy-old-woman2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="263" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXlTgsTPDMfABkCnTsKhFZpFcG1MHea3rrqeK2yL04HBh15AdUklnEqIkGl4ghDQcyW8Nvx30zslEL0Clc9Gbl_EVpzwcxQt4qd_N_VVJXrH87uK_sQbSTzyOHvZsd0OuhLvYzdxIL9jlH/s320/grumpy-old-woman2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As my sister Ethel (I
wish I could say her name has been changed here to protect the innocent, but it
hasn’t) lay awake during the night a while back, unable to sleep, she asked
herself what she would like to change about her body. She has hit that age, you
know, where it feels like she has to accept that all of us eventually become
victims of Father Time, especially when we don’t have hundreds of thousands of
dollars squirreled away for the entry fee into the Youngest Looking Old Person In
The Coffin Sweepstakes. (Relax, sis, you have a lot of years before you reach
this point – although not as many as I have <span style="font-family: Wingdings; mso-ansi-language: EN-CA; mso-ascii-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-char-type: symbol; mso-hansi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-symbol-font-family: Wingdings;">J</span> )<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Being the
always-supportive little sister that I am – okay, younger sister that I am, I
decided to help her with her list. It’s more fun than counting sheep, and
requires fewer grey cells than the old Twenty Questions required. With this in
mind, let’s take a trip to the body shop, dream of that new you, and pick the
one thing you would want most.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkEHM7y_6Wyfwqm2o12PTejn7jm4XDdVzoGHihR8c0IjR8kMU8XmNma-eZE-JI4hw0ZDUm_ZjOk0rh8JAZnGxG8r4qJluBvKgfYDDTeOiTxnwX3L2Sc8bTSAsMiafSfOBaDY0RBvdK-B2/s1600/8075e-beautiful-hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkEHM7y_6Wyfwqm2o12PTejn7jm4XDdVzoGHihR8c0IjR8kMU8XmNma-eZE-JI4hw0ZDUm_ZjOk0rh8JAZnGxG8r4qJluBvKgfYDDTeOiTxnwX3L2Sc8bTSAsMiafSfOBaDY0RBvdK-B2/s320/8075e-beautiful-hair.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Let’s start at the
top. She said she wanted her old hair back – the thick, lush chestnut-colored
stuff that cascaded over her shoulder and curled just a bit at the end. That
would be awesome, although in my case it would be problematic because I am not
sure what color my hair used to be. Thanks to that wonderful twisted generic
rhizome I was blessed with from my father’s side, it has been grey longer than
it was any other color. That said, any color might be better, as long as it
didn’t have the texture and thickness of armpit hair.<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
If she had that wonderful
hair back, though, it would be nice to have the unwrinkled face and unbaggy
eyelids to go with it. Of course, that hair hanging down around your ears might
now mess up your limited hearing, so you would need your hear-a-pin-drop
hearing back, and if you are doing that, you might want to ditch the glasses
and restore your better than 20/20 vision you once had. Since we’re in the
neighborhood, maybe we can work out a deal – trade in a chin or two for perhaps
new earlobes that don’t shake when you move your head. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiys_IQuTXz3hcgsJlTptf2ddfYeDaNn56ls7KXpQv4JeD0Rwbl3iW89ef8-RGcKtMbmRYKHsErFKdPwNkjw9C8RiOrbmY_1r3ZpqO9kMfq9dkRyrOHYP9R19zgR2RmDCyqHcZ9q_gmbEDi/s1600/whiteteeth1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiys_IQuTXz3hcgsJlTptf2ddfYeDaNn56ls7KXpQv4JeD0Rwbl3iW89ef8-RGcKtMbmRYKHsErFKdPwNkjw9C8RiOrbmY_1r3ZpqO9kMfq9dkRyrOHYP9R19zgR2RmDCyqHcZ9q_gmbEDi/s320/whiteteeth1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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My sister, it pains me
to say, has been blessed with perfect teeth. No matter how old the rest of her
gets, she has worked like a trooper to keep those pearlies in perfect shape.
She is a dentist’s nightmare, because when he looks in her mouth, there is no
new pool liner there, no new Bimmer for the garage, no winter on the Riviera. I
am not so lucky, so we should probably throw a whole new set on my tab. If
we’re dreaming, let’s dream in Technicolor – make em so that they are the
impervious, untouchable, low maintenance ones that I never have to worry about
again. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
Back to the hair,
though – to do those new old locks justice, we would then need the arms to be
more toned, more durable, able to spend hours up, working on the hair to keep
it looking incredible. Hair is work. Beautiful hair is more work. With that
amazing hair back, though, it would be wonderful if it draped over shoulders
that weren’t so hunched or flabby. The tips of that wonderful hair curled above
those wonderful perky breasts – gravity really is a heartless bitch. Sis, remember
when I teased you about how you could save money by buying bandaids for those
puppies, instead of shelling out for a bra? Well, I do apologize, and ruefully
acknowledge that membership in the ginormous-boob club comes with a price. Like
gravity, karma is also a bitch; together, they are merciless. Your list won’t
require scaffolding and miles of duct tape to pull those puppies back up where
they belong. For that, I am jealous. I should point out though, that the way
mine are going, in a year or two, I won’t have to worry about polishing the
toes of my shoes... the boobs will take care of it for me (if I can just keep
them out of the gravy when I’m making dinner). <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Tq_46QxhMFAlj6_FhCCoClmhDVSni6lIdnWbutrUJHYtToiv7Ln0Om1Vf7xESlrzdkTP-8QN2qE7ZYjDzfnOuz5Ju8MCUW1hEKhmIqnGk-dIC6V6oL1Jv_g8bE2AvXZ7wn0g3K0HgYea/s1600/images.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Tq_46QxhMFAlj6_FhCCoClmhDVSni6lIdnWbutrUJHYtToiv7Ln0Om1Vf7xESlrzdkTP-8QN2qE7ZYjDzfnOuz5Ju8MCUW1hEKhmIqnGk-dIC6V6oL1Jv_g8bE2AvXZ7wn0g3K0HgYea/s1600/images.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We all wish for the
tight butt and the toned tummies of our youth. Even skinny people have saggy
skin on those areas as they get older. We also should consider some digestive
parts. Can you imagine what it would be like to again eat without having to run
through the list of things that would cause heartburn, gas or our gallbladders
to revolt? There was also a time when our knees, or in my case, ankle, didn’t
creak with every movement. If someone had told me when I was twenty that, at
the age of fifty playing tug-of-war with my ankle to unlock it would be
routine, I would have laughed in their faces. Do not worry though about that
harbinger of quintessential old-age – the bowel discussions. It won’t happen
here. On this blog, bowels are totally off limits. That’s my gift to those of
us sharing this journey. <o:p></o:p></div>
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There is a curse, and
maybe even a lesson, in this exercise, I suppose. The curse is that we can’t
turn the clock back, no matter how much we want to. We can slow some of the
process down, we can do our damnedest to maintain what we have, but we really
can’t stop it from happening. The lesson is that, it seems despite our
reluctance, our bodies work as a magnificent symphony, parts in concert, aging
together, to make us what we are supposed to be when we are supposed to be it.
There is undeniable beauty in that. <o:p></o:p></div>
The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-27024070525549099922013-10-21T15:53:00.001-07:002013-10-21T15:53:15.030-07:00The Quest for the Immaculate Complexion<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNiLj65u4k1LjPu8QneK8mFBcf_Yq074HkgwIefoerM3CMrAhcrRxBxTwEh00n9_I8f3LjNAP3aEFJEgRMd-56D-u5931AtqUZ2t_SR6bdxfsC-3MTGeZPvPBW7rNhStWQZJEj_6hPR4R/s1600/Cindy-Crawford-21.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPNiLj65u4k1LjPu8QneK8mFBcf_Yq074HkgwIefoerM3CMrAhcrRxBxTwEh00n9_I8f3LjNAP3aEFJEgRMd-56D-u5931AtqUZ2t_SR6bdxfsC-3MTGeZPvPBW7rNhStWQZJEj_6hPR4R/s320/Cindy-Crawford-21.jpeg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
‘A
picture paints a thousand words.’ Do you remember that old dog? It sort of went
along with the ‘pictures don’t lie’ thing; the definitive proof about how
awesome, or god awful, that dress looked on you, and whether or not your butt
looked big in it. There was a time when, if all else failed, the picture was
the proof needed. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
Once
again, in our quest for all things perfect, in a society where almost is never
good enough anymore, where human frailty and humanity take a back seat on the
bullet train to our own manufactured hell, honesty bears the scars of
collateral damage. I blame Nixon for this... well, in my little world where
it’s nice to have a face to throw darts at, I blame Nixon for it. I know he
wasn’t the first manipulator but he certainly made the activity a household
notion. There is a blemish on a piece of audio tape? Just get rid of it.
There’s a zit on Britney’s face? Get rid of that, too. I mean, what’s the
little airbrushing of wrinkles in the grand scheme of things? It’s a simple
activity... although in its very essence, it’s a lie. What’s wrong with there
being a wrinkle on a model? Why can’t bad-girl Britney have a zit on her chin?
She’s human. We all get them. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23lp_IiYL1FzAnQ1wzcRWZ8qSXq9O6rMrUYo8rZWfdyHUGYc7nMnPNbcnOC_MLzw9PkZcVCa5sskF4modaxWnX2apcEthyphenhyphenxmidoe5X6e0RaCdhAk1q7ucgUPmkKNqdWHwozASdCEOwaJb/s1600/snickerdoodlemuffins.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj23lp_IiYL1FzAnQ1wzcRWZ8qSXq9O6rMrUYo8rZWfdyHUGYc7nMnPNbcnOC_MLzw9PkZcVCa5sskF4modaxWnX2apcEthyphenhyphenxmidoe5X6e0RaCdhAk1q7ucgUPmkKNqdWHwozASdCEOwaJb/s320/snickerdoodlemuffins.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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As
I watch my Facebook ticker scroll by, I see the photoshop creations. Yes, I am
guilty of them, too, although at least I know that no one would believe my face
on Katherine Zeta-Jones’ body, so there is no point in taking the time to do
it. Lol cats and Sheldon Cooper’s Big Bang memes aside, why are we so obsessed
with, well, perpetrating continual lies about who, or what, we are? Do we
really see each other as such colossal idiots that we can believe in all these
perfect bodies and immaculate complexions? More importantly, as a woman of
advancing years, who am I supposed to believe? The make-up company that tells
me their products will erase the years from my face, or the magazine photos
that show me it can be done with a click of a button – as long as I intend to
never show my ‘real’ face in public?<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlyGHXlED42cOAhn9T8272SQuD_3B3LuJakevzGaOUJ-80nuPkRsoJS4_NlYS2ZPi_MDRGn_Y3y34cd3V58NCd3OM1dgVHMdYX3ti4UHuxKUBunFCLk98atQiF-rkeXCemyEg2PB609-xg/s1600/Richard-Nixon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="252" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlyGHXlED42cOAhn9T8272SQuD_3B3LuJakevzGaOUJ-80nuPkRsoJS4_NlYS2ZPi_MDRGn_Y3y34cd3V58NCd3OM1dgVHMdYX3ti4UHuxKUBunFCLk98atQiF-rkeXCemyEg2PB609-xg/s320/Richard-Nixon.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
Richard
Nixon’s wrinkle in time was proof positive that we can no longer believe what
we hear with our own ears. I wonder what he would have done before his big ‘I
am not a crook!’ speech if he had known he could also erase the lines from his
face and the bags from under his eyes. Would we have believed him more? Would
photos be the next tool in his arsenal of convenient manipulations? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0cm;">
No,
I don’t have a lot of photos of me around the house, because I don’t like what
they show me. I would rather know they are honest, than to have a hundred of
them stuck to my fridge, showing me what I want to see instead of what I am.
Perhaps that means I’m lazy, or perhaps it means that I don’t have the secret
service to do that dirty work for me (although, damn, looking at some of those
buff black-spectacled bods, it might be nice to see what they could do with me).
I would like to think it just means I am one of the few remaining wholesome
folks who knows, and accepts, that we grow older, that it shouldn’t be something
we’re embarrassed about, and that, at the very least, when I die people will be
able to say that my body was a bastion of brutal honesty. The truth isn’t
always pretty, but it certainly doesn’t deserve to be sacrificed on the
unattainable, unrealistic altar of perfection. <o:p></o:p></div>
The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-41909383267311986872013-10-16T12:48:00.000-07:002013-10-16T12:48:22.813-07:00I H8 This Nu Txt stuff!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-hRpPJIxfOArSLx7zIJw59-3cAD_w_dJAHO4ou7gQmckJczrnDnzfnjnNdJO9InjcT4LHFUmmBwD0oEqXRXcjHc8sZrqx_jham71H9VJk_Mbzlq-cpsS4BwStSXPHEd6q450jQvYKwwYc/s1600/texting2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-hRpPJIxfOArSLx7zIJw59-3cAD_w_dJAHO4ou7gQmckJczrnDnzfnjnNdJO9InjcT4LHFUmmBwD0oEqXRXcjHc8sZrqx_jham71H9VJk_Mbzlq-cpsS4BwStSXPHEd6q450jQvYKwwYc/s320/texting2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I h8 this nu txt
stuff. Perhaps that means I’m old, or perhaps it means that I am old-fashioned,
bordering on anal retentive, but when I have to spend twenty minutes trying to
think of what the newest combination of letters stands for, it makes me really
not give a damn about what is being said. This cannot be a good thing for
society. We already are indifferent enough to each other; writing all our
correspondence as if we were making vanity license plates could really lead to
disaster. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A guy collapses.
Someone screams that you should see if he has any ICE. Does that mean I should
run to the closest bar, perhaps toss back a few shots while I wait for them to
fill up my bucket of frozen water – not that ice would make a damned bit of
difference to the situation, but what the hell do I know? <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkHjUwd8uXFG6gfIamJDupzlS8yBCRsf7LO00GBtHa0SR5Z7ZH1siix2n9_YNUpiwdO262zoTkJDZXufZvh5FcauHQZalKuz7gL3kFGiNkCZa3CCJWP1_mMeLpofrBK9Ue-ifPHrq3_ew/s1600/texting+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHkHjUwd8uXFG6gfIamJDupzlS8yBCRsf7LO00GBtHa0SR5Z7ZH1siix2n9_YNUpiwdO262zoTkJDZXufZvh5FcauHQZalKuz7gL3kFGiNkCZa3CCJWP1_mMeLpofrBK9Ue-ifPHrq3_ew/s320/texting+3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With age, our
interpretation of these little language shortcuts will be vastly different. The
first time I saw a FFS, I was thinking ‘finally finished shaving’. Seriously,
it’s not such a simple task as we get older and have hair growing where it
shouldn’t be – and not nice hair, at that. As I am inundated with TWSS, WWJS,
IDK, AFK and the descriptive (although hyperbolic) ROFLMAO, I long for a simple
FUBAR and SNAFUs of old. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
While this was
challenge enough, now let us add the always-enjoyable auto correct for texting.
Taking us to places we never thought possible, in what is quickly becoming an
illiterate society, technology now makes us speak better, more correctly... or
at least gives us a few more laughs. As already discussed in a previous blog,
though, at our age sometimes those outbursts of laughter are not such a good
thing. How the little robotic brain inside these autocorrect programs can take plans
and turn it into a penis, is truly amazing, while having the added benefit of
creating some more than awkward situations. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Remember those days
when you wrote a note to pass in school? Even on a crumpled piece of paper that
had passed through ten sets of I-don’t-want-to-know-where-they’ve-been hands
was fully understandable when it reached the end of the line, or when the
teacher intercepted it. Remember when you didn’t have to scratch your head for
ten minutes trying to understand if your son was going to be home for supper or
not? There was also the old cork board on the kitchen wall for messages to be
posted – and you could read them, despite the chicken scratch, with no problem
even when the power was out or you hadn’t charged your batteries. <o:p></o:p></div>
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I can’t help but
wonder if kids even know how to hold a pen, or can read cursive writing
anymore. Why do they have to? Do they still teach spelling in school, or is the
language growing so fast, it is outgrowing us all? The great thing about it,
though, especially as senility sets in, is that we can get countless hours of
entertainment, trying to understand what our children just told us (while praying
that it isn’t a call for urgent help), and we can now make up any old letter
combination on the Scrabble board, because who is going to know if it’s a real
word or not? Certainly our texters of today won’t cotton on too quickly. Soon
we will all be talking a language totally foreign to our children, one with
words that actually mean something. My JFK will refer to the former president,
not that I was making a joke (with an expletive in the middle), and I will
never order anyone to STFU unless they are going to St Francis’ University.
I’ll leave all that other BS for the fast-fingered set. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-16883374876537815412013-10-10T21:55:00.000-07:002013-10-10T21:55:05.526-07:00I've Become My Father<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5XsqbysqDLwG9X0kbbNsRRKES-3_GhPOCPfM1X8CcsC7xn_19yV8Ta4wA175YzOarnFZl9RAwHt49UWs2K0aqfugYKUmMNcEXOwkdnFc3JCRV1rcYO87PvFLrnNRwyQdGxL3CS356KMk/s1600/all_in_family_11_archie_meathead-300x169.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL5XsqbysqDLwG9X0kbbNsRRKES-3_GhPOCPfM1X8CcsC7xn_19yV8Ta4wA175YzOarnFZl9RAwHt49UWs2K0aqfugYKUmMNcEXOwkdnFc3JCRV1rcYO87PvFLrnNRwyQdGxL3CS356KMk/s1600/all_in_family_11_archie_meathead-300x169.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don’t get me wrong –
my dad was a great guy, and I loved him to bits, but, well… he screamed at the
television set. *blushes* He did… sort of like it might listen to him, and
everything would change. He yelled at the politicians on the news, he would
shout encouragement to his team. He never cried at a sad movie (although he did
roll his eyes at a lot of what his four daughters watched). The greatest irony
of all was watching my dad talk to Archie Bunker as Archie yelled at Walter Cronkite.
Thankfully Dad refrained from giving Peter Mansbridge the raspberry (but I can’t
say the same about when Brian Mulroney showed up on the set.)</div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
When I think back, my
Grandmother used to talk to the television as well. For her, it was her 'stories' that she watched – The Edge of Night and Another World. She would whisper
secret warnings to Mac that he shouldn’t trust Rachel, and tell everyone who appeared on the screen that
they shouldn’t trust Sandy. She would ‘I told ya so’ and waggle her finger when
the truth came out. When were they going to learn? They should have listened to
her... or Doctor Welby. He was always right. If someone didn’t listen to him, she would
admonish them, and tell them what they were in for.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
They were both – my
father and my grandmother – very sane people (by my standards). That said, when you are fourteen years old and your friends get to witness
these performances, sanity is the last thing you’re thinking. <o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So, why do we talk to
the television? What is it that changes in us as we age, that says it’s okay to
carry on a conversation with the flat screen? I don’t talk to my computer.
(well, okay, it gets the odd expletive tossed at it when it decides to crash
and loses fourteen hours of writing). I certainly don’t talk to Adele when she
is singing on my stereo, but I do admit to a bit of drooling when Il Divo has
the stage. <o:p></o:p></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY627zhSI8yOaOV8dqg-XcGhNyCA8t2edSiGp_RoguFlUnFxuU7qFeM92jSv58mv2IH5tn-TXgFHpdc-CxiepeifrxkpYycQaCpKJslyW7I8GqRKS4F6irdKhXGjCc9ZDuixus4zfDjU6/s1600/the-good-wife-will-alicia-r.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="154" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGY627zhSI8yOaOV8dqg-XcGhNyCA8t2edSiGp_RoguFlUnFxuU7qFeM92jSv58mv2IH5tn-TXgFHpdc-CxiepeifrxkpYycQaCpKJslyW7I8GqRKS4F6irdKhXGjCc9ZDuixus4zfDjU6/s320/the-good-wife-will-alicia-r.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I blame... Alisha Florec. She had the
total lack of foresight when she kissed Will Gardner. Someone had to
tell her what an idiot she was, how it was only going to make a bad situation
worse. If that wasn’t bad enough, with that one kiss, she betrayed the alliance she had
created with the other fourth-year lawyers who had been totally bitch-slapped by the firm. How could she not see that? She’s supposed to be The Good Wife. The title of the show alone means that she
should be at least slightly smart enough to see how stupid she is being. Yes,
the character annoyed me… but not just because of what she did on the screen. I was mad because she made me yell at the set. It was something I promised myself I would never
do… just like I promised myself to never utter The Curse – ‘just wait till you
have kids of your own!’</div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
More recently, though,
the political scene on both sides of the 49<sup>th</sup> have taken a walk on
the wild (sic absolutely asinine) side. Frustration, disappointment, disbelief,
rage... they all boil up inside and in no time at all, the only thing that
separates me from Archie Bunker is the can of beer in my hand and the Meathead
on the couch. (Please note that I in no way compared our current palette of news
broad-casters with Walter.) If Dad cursed at the set before, I cannot even begin
to imagine how blue the air would be now as he had to watch these journalistic buffoons performing contortion acts with the facts.<o:p></o:p></div>
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<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
I have, apparently, reached one more milestone on this migration. While I have always wanted to emulate my parents,
because God knows they were good, honest people, there are just some things
that should not have been carried along in their genes. I now yell at inanimate
objects. I have become quintessentially ‘old’. I pray to God that bowel
movement discussions will not be next. I think my kids are praying for that as
well. <o:p></o:p></div>
The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-52330629284069441522013-02-13T10:41:00.000-08:002013-02-13T10:41:38.989-08:00Pa Cartwright, the Werewolf Edition
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX31TPlRIJlJ7zr2HxlbHN8gX0OpDg0Ab0p3DyleVIbqSlAixwEm-inY90E_XSU_tNkkZ36IT9twMoSO7MWpyazUexRPAltd-PBiTMPSexcf49WclnoUCKg59bLcHmnwBrrgn3EePRudRD/s1600/bonanza.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX31TPlRIJlJ7zr2HxlbHN8gX0OpDg0Ab0p3DyleVIbqSlAixwEm-inY90E_XSU_tNkkZ36IT9twMoSO7MWpyazUexRPAltd-PBiTMPSexcf49WclnoUCKg59bLcHmnwBrrgn3EePRudRD/s200/bonanza.jpg" width="159" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I think I have
determined what is to be the ultimate gauge of reaching that magical ‘age of
maturity’. I think... noooo, I am pretty sure, it’s that point when you say ‘Oh
please, not another vampire book!’<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">I find myself yearning
for something different, something without bloodsucking vampires or werewolves.
I want to see heroes and villains who do not have to spend a chapter trimming
the hair from between their toes, or who actually sit down to a real meal. Do
we need vampire sex to keep us entertained? Seriously, what is going to top
that? <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">It makes me sad that
my children can’t name a good western movie. They look at me as if I am from
another planet if I mention Zane Grey or Max Brand, and they believe that Louis
L’Amour writes... gasp!... romance. What was wrong with a western? No, they
weren’t particularly erudite, but come on... look at the books that are gushed
over right now and tell me they are about smart writing, then do it with a
straight face. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFByvUonIgHGo8DWX03phw-Q6m1ZQi1-6H42Hy8EobXfAn6Vvptyrt0HdMlLCC8xbblkO97t-dfhUEpEhn6pKHHZRbySyD5OwVii9P6LObJSUIUsAzjyVLL85U8SgARm2sl92BIzXg3CXB/s1600/startrek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="177" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFByvUonIgHGo8DWX03phw-Q6m1ZQi1-6H42Hy8EobXfAn6Vvptyrt0HdMlLCC8xbblkO97t-dfhUEpEhn6pKHHZRbySyD5OwVii9P6LObJSUIUsAzjyVLL85U8SgARm2sl92BIzXg3CXB/s320/startrek.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">In essence, wasn't Cpt. Kirk just Pa Cartwright in weird clothes?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">Perhaps we need to
recreate the genre. I mean, they used six shooters. *insert facecious eye roll
here* They had names like Festus, and Marshall Dillon and Miss Kitty. Perhaps
we need to put the Cartwright boys on Harleys instead of horses, arm them with
AK’s, have them sleeping in coffins at the ole Ponderosa. Maybe we need to have the women WANT to be tied to the tracks, instead of screamig for help. The classic westerns were
perhaps a bit hokey, but they taught us about enjoyment in simplicity, gave us contentment that good will triumph over evil. Caring about each other was good, helping without there being anything in it to benefit was better, lying was not cool, and people used reason, logic and respect instead of guns and ninja kicks to solve every problem. They allowed us to watch, or
read, then go to bed without having nightmares filled with blood and guts and
eyes that wear really strange contacts. </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">It feels sometimes
like we try to recreate the past, or maybe just ignore it. The truth of the
matter is, as any person who has researched a family tree can tell you, there are
some amazing, wonderful, brave, inspired stories from that time, and those
people ARE a part of us. They are not just pictures on a website or old yellow
newspapers in boxes tucked in cobwebbed corners of attics; they are real
stories of the stock from which we have sprung. Like all things ‘old’, we want
to disown it, hide it, cover it over with lasers and tazers and flying
surfboards of doom. We don’t need to put Lash Larue on Survivor island
(although, I have to say, he would probably kick some serious butt there). We
don’t have to create stories of people who suck blood for kicks. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUg9BOAjGC4mUK4fYrnbsZfGd2jFhv-3n5HQTXSzJ-_TWvZ3pr04MWc4zHn2iqGnwukMWg9FXv6T1v1vFFCvmo2RB56QaAI4KrIOat6egjshImRXc2EHQXZOUGl3g1QVmElDnGTOE_VTT1/s1600/Annie_Oakley_-_Full_length_photograph_circa_1899.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUg9BOAjGC4mUK4fYrnbsZfGd2jFhv-3n5HQTXSzJ-_TWvZ3pr04MWc4zHn2iqGnwukMWg9FXv6T1v1vFFCvmo2RB56QaAI4KrIOat6egjshImRXc2EHQXZOUGl3g1QVmElDnGTOE_VTT1/s1600/Annie_Oakley_-_Full_length_photograph_circa_1899.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">When you come down to
it, each of us, born on North American soil, has a story that stems back to
that time. Westerns are the stories of our parents, our grandparents, our ancestors
ten-times removed. Believe me, when you consider the hardships they overcame,
the progress they made, the gifts that they gave (including each of us), they
were pretty amazing people. The women worked, damned hard, at birthing babies,
hoeing gardens, cleaning dirt floors, and taking care of everything that came
along. They could handle a gun as easily as a broom or a team of horses in
harness, didn’t take bullshit from men, and certainly didn’t ‘need’ a vampire
man or a business man to prove their self-worth. They would scoff at the weak
women in Twilight, and would find the women of Fifty Shades of Grey to be
nothing but pathetic. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 0pt;">
<span style="mso-ansi-language: EN-CA;">There has always been
a desire in human kind to reach for the future, to have some grasp on what is
to come, speculating on the beyond and creating it as we would like it to be.
Granted, now it comes with more blood, more evil (because apparently people
throughout history have not been evil or cruel enough), but it’s still that
same quest that was started by the likes of Gene Roddenberry and Isaac Asimov.
There is much, however, in embracing our roots, celebrating where we came from,
acknowledging that while they weren’t battling vampires (well, with the
exception, apparently, of Abe Lincoln, who I mistakenly found out this summer
was a vampire slayer), they were battling the everyday hardships of life,
battles that should not be forgotten.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>There would be gold in them thar pages, if only we would let them be
seen. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-17139543186932358482013-02-07T10:34:00.002-08:002013-02-07T11:03:11.403-08:00A Little Patina is a Good Thing<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZIsrAcgxHolwPdbgN3zBQfP4qqsSuIs3Gjh-qdtjgfRX8qfpg1dUOxmHnIEeKWVLpgzgPaNt_fHiVfvOC271broEhcthd3aIY342pU-9Y_oegOIc3ZxwRR0smJTm37ayuojg3wuzuBzL/s1600/fingernails.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqZIsrAcgxHolwPdbgN3zBQfP4qqsSuIs3Gjh-qdtjgfRX8qfpg1dUOxmHnIEeKWVLpgzgPaNt_fHiVfvOC271broEhcthd3aIY342pU-9Y_oegOIc3ZxwRR0smJTm37ayuojg3wuzuBzL/s1600/fingernails.jpg" /></a></div>
“My fingernails look young. The rest of me looks old.” I paraphrase, but this
was the essence of a conversation I had today. It got me to thinking about
‘looking old’. Hypothetical: would you want to be rounding the curve towards
sixty, yet still look twenty? Yes, I admit to the odd twinge of regret when I
look in the mirror and see the headlights, even with adjustment, still shine
down on the road right in front of my feet, instead of brightening that long,
exciting road ahead. That could be in part a blessing, because between my eyes,
my coordination and my balance, looking down that road any distance would just
be a harbinger for disaster. Perhaps my headlights are focused right where they
need to be. <br />
<br />
I would have a lot of trouble if I had to dress like a
twenty year old. Sorry, but the clothes I wore when I was twenty would really
not work today. My body that looks twenty years old would be at constant odds
with my mind that can’t even see a shadow of twenty in my rearview. Six inch
heels now? My legs might say ‘hell yes!’ but my brain would be smacking the
little red emergency button. That whole business with wearing your pants so low
that your butt crack beams out at anyone behind you, and you waddle like a
penguin because your crotch is at your knees would be a decided
bad look with your incontinence garb. It would also be problematic with
navigating stairs, getting into vehicles, or, well, walking to the kitchen. Once
we give in to the clothes, can rap music be far behind? <br />
<br />
I’m not sure I
would want to look twenty when the person I love and have shared life with for
thirty-plus years looks his age. I am damned sure I would be more than a little
self-conscious (sic paranoid) if the tables were reversed, and he looked that
much younger than me. Yes, aging gracefully is a great thing, and there is no
reason to throw up your hands in despair, giving up at the first liver spot and
allowing all the forces of nature to have their way with you, but do we need to
be so consumed about it? Perhaps there is a reason we all go through the same
process... so that we can see the beauty in each age, in each stage, both inside
and out.<br />
<br />
All of this begs the question ‘what is wrong with looking old?’
There is a classic beauty to a vintage car. They have rallies for them, where
people gather around to listen to them purr. No one kicks the tires or slams the
doors at these events; the beauties have earned some respect. The value of many
antiques is in the treasured patina, the evidence of age, on the finish. To the
trained eye, the connoisseur, the evidence of age IS the beauty. They don’t want
to see the laugh lines of life erased from the face of a buffet, the little
scars sanded away from the table top.<br />
<br />
Perhaps we need to look at the
‘little things’ we do as aids to feeling beautiful on the inside, a means for us
to show that while we can’t stop time (or gravity, that heartless bitch), we can
still say ‘look at me’. Just like the vintage car still needs nice tires, so can
a nice pair of shoes make a world of difference to going out to lunch with the
ladies. So what if your nails look younger than the rest of you? They make you
feel good, they give you a chance to pamper yourself, take time that is for you.
Get your hair done, or get a massage, then go out and celebrate that you did.
<br />
<br />
Besides, if you think back to twenty, when your hair was thick (and on
the top of your head, where it belongs, instead of all those other places it
decides to migrate to with time) and your boobs were perky, do you really have
the energy for that? Sorry, I am all for taking care of oneself, but I am no
longer interested in making it a full time job. The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-58832962225797871292012-01-22T07:38:00.000-08:002012-01-22T07:38:56.648-08:00A TOUGH PILL TO SWALLOW<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN3h10LP0ihsrzgn7uxdaOVUlLGCM0CetEL6KG78xRqpw_nSO357pfSaTIbQc9EStYAjlEnyHRXGpCMxYokUDWgYYPDLvMLg0n3U46AOBKrFjgRBoM9AvND4DHfvvAEmmzZJkg31_lSQW9/s1600/drugs2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN3h10LP0ihsrzgn7uxdaOVUlLGCM0CetEL6KG78xRqpw_nSO357pfSaTIbQc9EStYAjlEnyHRXGpCMxYokUDWgYYPDLvMLg0n3U46AOBKrFjgRBoM9AvND4DHfvvAEmmzZJkg31_lSQW9/s200/drugs2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">At what point in life do we automatically become walking pharmaceutical reference manuals? This seems to sneak up on you. One day, someone makes a comment about their dose of Lipitor, and you actually know what they are talking about. Not only do you know what it’s for, you wonder if it’s something that should be in your morning arsenal of tablets and capsules. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I never noticed my parents doing this when they were my age, but then again, I would have been ten, and who cares at that age about what weird things your parents discuss. There are some things you just do not want to know about, and while the contents of the medicine cabinet might not be at the top of the list, it’s definitely in the top ten.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUM2CIxYzT0fpamn3ZYMjBW-jZRyD6Qv9DisqjpobIC87iJimKoDHk0aWRiP7OtjpFkQee4raNDSih6J-pDAPhUUkhcwyqA7693BkQyJgpLD_MNLS94vejF7tIXDxzp77Gs9EoRU8pEGd/s1600/drugwarning2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpUM2CIxYzT0fpamn3ZYMjBW-jZRyD6Qv9DisqjpobIC87iJimKoDHk0aWRiP7OtjpFkQee4raNDSih6J-pDAPhUUkhcwyqA7693BkQyJgpLD_MNLS94vejF7tIXDxzp77Gs9EoRU8pEGd/s320/drugwarning2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">To be fair, part of our ‘knowledge’, and I use that term loosely, comes from television ads and full-page spreads in golf and travel magazines. We are inundated with people telling us all day long what pills we should be asking our doctor about. The fun thing about that here, though, is that where medications that require a prescription are concerned, the drug companies can advertise, but they cannot use the name of the product and the condition it’s for in the same ad. We get to see the man skipping down the street, and the Viagra logo at the end of the twenty-second bit, but we cannot know what it’s for. All we know is we have to ask our doctor for it because it will make our lives so much better... despite the side effects of liver disease, kidney disease, loss of vision, incontinence, confusion, high blood pressure, body parts falling off, stroke, heart attack and death. Not to worry, though – they have pills for all those things too. Soon we will be like the Jetsons, and just pop a giant pill every morning and that will give us our medical and nutritional requirements for the day. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">But when does it happen to us? One day, we find ourselves sitting around the card table, sipping decaf because it’s after 11am, discussing drug names like we used to discuss rock bands or movie stars. Now we can’t remember the stars or what they did (and who watches movies anymore? They come on way too late), and the rock bands are just too damned loud, what with all that bass thumping in your ears. Yes, we’re boomers, and Viagra has become the new Rolling Stones in our world – definitely not a change for the better. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimqMbPRMRqPzzuteaYDVpxbR8KniPH-4ba0hfCCmYAki8AQYzcpzDvaZ22VUbVn7ZJIQFJ1UM15gGcDReSrQrgVl6XpLxO9Aa_CemlOKsmSDkPEgzj771MBm2L9mrEYHeTHW1ygEyRjWob/s1600/twisted+sister.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimqMbPRMRqPzzuteaYDVpxbR8KniPH-4ba0hfCCmYAki8AQYzcpzDvaZ22VUbVn7ZJIQFJ1UM15gGcDReSrQrgVl6XpLxO9Aa_CemlOKsmSDkPEgzj771MBm2L9mrEYHeTHW1ygEyRjWob/s200/twisted+sister.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">By means of protest, therefore, I propose that we toss caution to the wind. Let’s drink the good coffee, watch the movie and sing We’re Not Going To Take It as loud as we can every time one of those commercials comes on. We can do… the coffee will help. </div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-5108880085893284952012-01-17T09:08:00.000-08:002012-01-17T09:08:41.526-08:00THAT'S REVOLTING!!<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I didn’t shave today. I could have. I probably should have – if I was younger, but I didn’t. I stood in the shower, considered the Alberta field stubble on my calves and said ‘No! I will not!’</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjux_hvjiUFU9VhEg-8XM6OJ6mQMr3FOiSuyHyYXPiaEWucFMavPyap_xpESoH6rzqIBEM0zf0G7G5wZj27kC2hlYftF0NGvINBiUT3D2mz0PON0MNraT8QxvDcJNvgKjv6RwpiY7t8fFi9/s1600/cactus+in+snow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjux_hvjiUFU9VhEg-8XM6OJ6mQMr3FOiSuyHyYXPiaEWucFMavPyap_xpESoH6rzqIBEM0zf0G7G5wZj27kC2hlYftF0NGvINBiUT3D2mz0PON0MNraT8QxvDcJNvgKjv6RwpiY7t8fFi9/s200/cactus+in+snow.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I can hear you already, asking ‘But… Why??’ in that whiny ‘but why’ voice. The answer is simple. I am revolting! I am protesting first the fact that I live in what is supposed to be the warmest part of the country, but which is, in fact, experiencing AGAIN temperatures that are on the south side of -20. The joke here is that we pay a ‘Sunshine Tax’ for the privilege of living here, in the land of milk and honey, where the sun always shines. Well, where is the freaking sunshine today? I realize the sunshine tax yet your still in Canada thing is a bit delusional on our part, something that could be blamed on hypothermic hallucinations or permafrost of the brain, but come on! We do have a desert just 90 minutes from here, a little desert, the only one in Canada, but we all know what deserts are like at night. Imagine an icy desert night, then multiply it by the number of days that it does not get a chance to warm up in these frigid temperatures, and you have the makings of a new horror movie setting – sorta like my legs are right now. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Mz7EX__qQ0BoS8ymPb57qhE5CNrNwoZHiSM9CBbWcdDLKkgamct-DLW3HP616IkqrSDRqxV2yzLJ3Kgum-mXpph_em4VeeUcFvietpfVu6aUQvuPiO_lsCG9XzbjQlq7Aav4bvJqbUwj/s1600/muskox.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6Mz7EX__qQ0BoS8ymPb57qhE5CNrNwoZHiSM9CBbWcdDLKkgamct-DLW3HP616IkqrSDRqxV2yzLJ3Kgum-mXpph_em4VeeUcFvietpfVu6aUQvuPiO_lsCG9XzbjQlq7Aav4bvJqbUwj/s200/muskox.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The second protest is about the need for women to shave. Sorry, but as I age, warmth becomes a very precious commodity. Hair works for dogs and cats and musk ox (no, my legs are not quite that bad… yet), so why not for me? I think we should embrace the hair, wear it proudly (okay… maybe not in the armpits, because they are always the last place to get cold). I am even considering fertilizer for my legs, encouraging the hair to grow just to fight off the damned cold. Who is gonna know anyways? We hear heavy socks, high boots, long underwear, snowsuits… our legs are not gonna see the light of day for at least a couple months. If, by chance though, I find myself soaking up some rays in Maui or Malibu, I will perhaps take pity on those around me, and get out the weed whacker -- that’s what it will take by that time – but only if I know the temperatures will be warmer here when I get back home. </div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-83135068419591772752012-01-13T06:10:00.000-08:002012-01-13T06:10:46.552-08:00THE LEATHER OUTSIDE IS FRIGHTFUL<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihE_OvSOsLC3mLunWRBk3wqczzl_6Cfs_DVmevsieoXfSrFHM2f4UruvtcRh8cx14EPsHG37wUJoZbBs3-3gMltU5SjM0XsJMCnIm7bzNhgT8FwEaBHwvFwUSBlI9qZvpqLr2Ik8r2a6Iz/s1600/imagesCAUS8S7T.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihE_OvSOsLC3mLunWRBk3wqczzl_6Cfs_DVmevsieoXfSrFHM2f4UruvtcRh8cx14EPsHG37wUJoZbBs3-3gMltU5SjM0XsJMCnIm7bzNhgT8FwEaBHwvFwUSBlI9qZvpqLr2Ik8r2a6Iz/s200/imagesCAUS8S7T.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">No, I am not talking Christmas. I am not talking shoes, furniture, car seats or gloves. I am talking… skin; old skin, tired skin, skin that is definitely not like the skin I saw on the clerk at the store today. You know; the twenty-year-old goddess with the long flowing hair, perky boobs and immaculate, tight skin? Yeah, that’s her. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">There is a huge industry designed to keep our skin looking like hers. I know, because I’ve tried a bottle of just about every one of them. I have used cucumber peels, apricot pit scrubs, moisturizers, creams, lotions, you name it, and yet, when I look in the mirror, it still crinkles at the eyes and wrinkles around the edges. So far, we’re just talking about the face. It doesn’t get any better as you move down. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKVYzqoREa182aynGF-oJlM6EWLWCWQklcm-UIdFR-Afkr_t33Ws8JQKbqkUuq_4CzwgvS1It3NEKKRWvh8qZ5gVo2sIcs23vRhZWRxa_0U9mogdWcuMV5Y_zmLc9kZRvRstRvKbKmUaL/s1600/basset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="131" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKVYzqoREa182aynGF-oJlM6EWLWCWQklcm-UIdFR-Afkr_t33Ws8JQKbqkUuq_4CzwgvS1It3NEKKRWvh8qZ5gVo2sIcs23vRhZWRxa_0U9mogdWcuMV5Y_zmLc9kZRvRstRvKbKmUaL/s200/basset.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Have you ever noticed how your skin starts to look like crepe paper? I have no idea why. You do everything the commercials tell you to do, yet you still end up with basset hound skin – skin you can pick up by the handful, let go and watch cascade back down. Your shins have ostrich skin, your ankles have that turtle-leg texture, your heels become the moisture-starved cracked clay dry-season African river bed, and don’t even mention the knees. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GhxNZyGW4_DZjHVjX5KdybQWVh9OgupXeOlFI8qSPO4cKs2C9PStKdkM4oD9c35NWuJG-v3YOfb8k-6br0DqUif-7j85Ex-8F1C3PYpp38A1SFBG7DfIPyTvI_FVtlxKIXRlXFpI69AP/s1600/imagesCATFTLCE.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3GhxNZyGW4_DZjHVjX5KdybQWVh9OgupXeOlFI8qSPO4cKs2C9PStKdkM4oD9c35NWuJG-v3YOfb8k-6br0DqUif-7j85Ex-8F1C3PYpp38A1SFBG7DfIPyTvI_FVtlxKIXRlXFpI69AP/s200/imagesCATFTLCE.jpg" width="155" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">That said, you take some time to consider the skin. It is the largest organ of the human body. It protects everything inside, holding off the wind, warming us on a sunny day, feeding us vitamin D from the sun. It sweats, gets bruised, cut and mutilated on a daily basis. We cover it, rip hair from it, rub back our goosebumps, and, when we were younger, we panicked over it, examining daily for that sadistic Friday morning zit with the massive red circle and perverted sense of humor. Throughout its lifetime, our skin deals with every possible element, all the time fighting the valiant battle against womanhood’s arch enemy, gravity.</div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">So, there is nothing else we can do. Pour a glass of wine and toast your skin, wrinkles and all. Wear those blemishes with pride. They are a badge of honor for all of us, testament of a life lived. Besides, unless you are independently wealthy or can find a myopic sugar-daddy who will pay some surgeon to get out the can opener to crank that stuff back to where it belongs (adding a bit of starch to the cleavage at the same time), you just have to accept what Mother Nature has in store for your skin. You can definitely curse her, but I don’t think she listens.</div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-63316382030337043162012-01-12T15:29:00.000-08:002012-01-12T15:29:59.283-08:00Oh, My Bags Are Packed...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HHhSebbM3wpPf3cHjVbB8n1HMPvirxDc3TRAiayfkmS-cUhd_Raw7rkP_2-q7C_r_JnB997N947oomW4RdkSPfca8cbLriSLGRcnKRJnLQNSXd0ybrPKTYsJGPl24WRjolqS4kQP97VV/s1600/portmanteay.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_HHhSebbM3wpPf3cHjVbB8n1HMPvirxDc3TRAiayfkmS-cUhd_Raw7rkP_2-q7C_r_JnB997N947oomW4RdkSPfca8cbLriSLGRcnKRJnLQNSXd0ybrPKTYsJGPl24WRjolqS4kQP97VV/s1600/portmanteay.png" /></a></div>…And they’re sitting there, right under my eyeballs, sadistic black circles that make me look like I walked into the wall while holding up a pair of binoculars. In my younger days, I popped contact lenses in every morning, put on make-up and never thought about the portmanteaus under the peepers. It was devastating when I had to wear glasses on a regular basis, so not that long ago, in another of those ‘what was I thinking’ moments, I tried contacts again. I poked them into my eyeballs and stared, horrified at what stared back at me. This started my adventure.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Pb9MbOsXs17VYVf7XeoE_3vXnNHQZgM2zkpTwi8IxX9eQM8KaQ2BMx__qZqJZcTykbI08amNwYt4o9-djPebAq0Ztb6o77SpLlVAuSRd_3CJsuxObpAVeiFdKxPIZAVpFV-aHXMEnjM_/s1600/imagesCA1VKDNC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Pb9MbOsXs17VYVf7XeoE_3vXnNHQZgM2zkpTwi8IxX9eQM8KaQ2BMx__qZqJZcTykbI08amNwYt4o9-djPebAq0Ztb6o77SpLlVAuSRd_3CJsuxObpAVeiFdKxPIZAVpFV-aHXMEnjM_/s200/imagesCA1VKDNC.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">To be fair, florescent lights are never flattering, but still, the sight was earth-shattering. Considering myself to be a logical, reasonable adult though, I did what every other logical, reasonable adult would do. Somewhere I had read what ‘the stars’ do about this. Depends must be overflowing at the thought of how, based on a stupid article, someone would go running out to buy this magical potion that instantly cures black eyes. The article’s author giggles uncontrollably at the notion of women nonchalantly purchasing tubes of hemorrhoid cream. I walked with a strong stride into the store, that alone announcing to the world that I wasn’t the one with little bunches of grapes hanging from my bottom. For insurance I added loudly ‘I have to get this home right away for my poor dear husband. He’s in such pain’ then smiled my angelic smile just to make sure everyone knew it was not for me. I got home, ran into the bathroom, and started to smear the stuff on my face, knowing within seconds the black circles would be gone. No more glasses for me!</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mhO7W0XniXdwaKn1DQs8uPm9WDUrMqBxUPwFo8C2MG_N6_3fUq7KfqxCNfpbNu8MiBygdEzsGR04rMR7yLi6ZtSUAw72Ypyg_JkLZt8Rfe4OUVrTB2V2VUOF8k8o9a2z_WiHmXq3qACX/s1600/imagesCAPA1BPG.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7mhO7W0XniXdwaKn1DQs8uPm9WDUrMqBxUPwFo8C2MG_N6_3fUq7KfqxCNfpbNu8MiBygdEzsGR04rMR7yLi6ZtSUAw72Ypyg_JkLZt8Rfe4OUVrTB2V2VUOF8k8o9a2z_WiHmXq3qACX/s200/imagesCAPA1BPG.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">The problem with these creams, and there is no way to be delicate here, is that they are designed to stick where gravity insists nothing should stick unless it is practically glued in place. I dabbed it under my eyes, tried to rub it into the skin, cursing as my skin wrinkled and ran away. Who could blame it? So, with my other hand up there to hold the skin tight, I tried again. Being cheated on the coordination gene, both fingers end up covered with the pasty glue. That was when the doorbell rang. No one wants to shake your hands when you have Preparation H on your fingertips, and seeing it on your face does nothing to cement social interactions, although it can, and does cement your eyelids when you get it too close to the lashes. It does, though, leave the black circles intact. Thank God for glasses. They hide the black bags.</div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-51222741875704246772012-01-10T06:16:00.000-08:002012-01-10T06:16:14.975-08:00OH SAY CAN YOU SEE....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Zjf4ARfMu1is_V82BSNV6TWKZ9xwz5_gHna1tcTk4IpPmZH3XzNZRXwPnTqbO48YTi2alokZXfVKFyuwTnU4Qv8AKYkYIaF7qmvg63AHQfsY3KNTpoLuY9SF4JSoVy7ZkOAlHl8SJh98/s1600/imagesCA8BHFIN.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="173" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7Zjf4ARfMu1is_V82BSNV6TWKZ9xwz5_gHna1tcTk4IpPmZH3XzNZRXwPnTqbO48YTi2alokZXfVKFyuwTnU4Qv8AKYkYIaF7qmvg63AHQfsY3KNTpoLuY9SF4JSoVy7ZkOAlHl8SJh98/s200/imagesCA8BHFIN.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Okay, ladies, hands up if you remember the first time you had to ‘feel’ what you were shaving, rather than see it. You know what I mean, that day in the shower when you were doing your normal toilette and were sure that you had just taken care of every hair on your leg, but then realized that without your glasses on, and in the shower, with that really poor lighting that exists in every shower, that you didn’t see the damned hairs there before you started either. Next thing you know, you are running your hand across the leg, checking for stubble, hoping that despite the calluses on your fingers, they will not lie to you about something as obnoxious as a stubborn leg hair. </span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Of course, this is inevitably followed by, the minute you get out of the shower, the placement of glasses on nose to inspect the work, which is followed by the required curses indicating that of course you missed that great swath of grossness across your calf. Of course, this is no reason to go back to using your Epilady, that apex of the self-mutilating torturous hair care products some asshole told us would change our lives (they did... they made us want to pin down the sucker and remove every inch of his hair with the damned thing). It still, though, is an issue that required addressing. </span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7NtKfuUD6mWqBtzVNS7UB0GGL7ICBfUN4k8BwfRoGZP9_fFq8N5UYEV99f3NoOT8oW3RjhHOZYSbWCV4SMbysG8IAtzSTV4_ywVj8SSTrvFJcDS3LDDuSv1l8kisNyE1T2YZOUPpqJCV/s1600/imagesCASK3BXW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf7NtKfuUD6mWqBtzVNS7UB0GGL7ICBfUN4k8BwfRoGZP9_fFq8N5UYEV99f3NoOT8oW3RjhHOZYSbWCV4SMbysG8IAtzSTV4_ywVj8SSTrvFJcDS3LDDuSv1l8kisNyE1T2YZOUPpqJCV/s200/imagesCASK3BXW.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">There is no cure for this problem. We can’t hold our legs out further, like we might a newspaper. We can’t adjust the angle they are attached to us, and we can’t just sprinkle Majik Hair Remover on them that will solve the problem for eternity. We could get electrolysis, or go for waxing, because who doesn’t look forward to hot wax being dumped on your skin for the sole purpose of ripping out all the hair by its roots? We could ask our significant other to help with the razor, which might create some fun extracurricular activities, but it certainly is not the most expeditious way to deal with the problem when you’re in a hurry. (Not to mention, his eyes could well be as crappy as your own for this sort of detail.)</span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8WDddouz4ZK-4RIysjFt9bRkemos73Hy9f9Ljkq7Vq5JWMJJprEF3OrcXNJl4eYtdCcbRXBqJAxLbJM89YiTYqdUjakgKUNeEjEXI8mF9Tb1ewEe8dKVZj1fMr_P2svA5Tsygl4WDQQq/s1600/imagesCALWC107.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhx8WDddouz4ZK-4RIysjFt9bRkemos73Hy9f9Ljkq7Vq5JWMJJprEF3OrcXNJl4eYtdCcbRXBqJAxLbJM89YiTYqdUjakgKUNeEjEXI8mF9Tb1ewEe8dKVZj1fMr_P2svA5Tsygl4WDQQq/s1600/imagesCALWC107.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">All of this, though, begs one stunningly simple question that could well be the answer to the problem. If you can’t see the hair on your legs, and your significant other can’t see the hair on your legs (without adjusting his glasses and pulling out a spot light), perhaps there is no hair there to worry about? It could be easy to convince ourselves that yes, it did in fact miraculously vanish, and other than for a quick blind touch-up every couple of weeks, you’re fine. No worries! Even if you are fooling yourself, though, take heart in this one simple fact: even Magilla Gorilla gets lucky once in a while. </span></div><br />
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</div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-9179714414109493442012-01-09T13:04:00.000-08:002012-01-09T13:04:18.246-08:00Bite Me!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HntGGO08gJh3BbrWCbI6I6uzvc5dM7Rl40jXOE75cuc9Q1R-1zYISh3aYdPCerSOBiLEhMzb2TCrl6bRrLjCRWUq0MWMDbg0bnWM8RbCHcVHgFMGn_oV7I7AWGaUwlWyviuPOWeFEg3e/s1600/imagesCA0QAVT0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8HntGGO08gJh3BbrWCbI6I6uzvc5dM7Rl40jXOE75cuc9Q1R-1zYISh3aYdPCerSOBiLEhMzb2TCrl6bRrLjCRWUq0MWMDbg0bnWM8RbCHcVHgFMGn_oV7I7AWGaUwlWyviuPOWeFEg3e/s200/imagesCA0QAVT0.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="color: black;">‘Well, there I was yesterday in the grocery store. Now, because I am such a hip and with-it senior, I usually pay with my credit card with it's magic chip. However, I was not getting much and decided to use cash. I instantly became the dreaded senior that used to be in front of me (that we all experienced and all hated and all rolled our eyes at) counting out the exact change. It never even dawned on me that I had graduated to the ranks of the penny pincher until hours later.’<o:p></o:p></span></i></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;">I found this in my email, sent to me by Ethel. The image it created in my mind made me both shudder and laugh hysterically. It also, however, made me realize something else; something not freaking funny at all. Think about it… who else fiddles with coins at the tills? <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFEjv97zuFzg34LO8qec4bfwNNMX11RS82z1kTO0rwBS_F5DpTa1WkwwhgxCI8V6irr6VIFViFEwJeMHFlTVMbHdzNiwlM7lsZmtn2khlHQZ6VO_8S56C4_3VMu9rXMx0u84PZUom7PZN/s1600/imagesCAQA5G62.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="114" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwFEjv97zuFzg34LO8qec4bfwNNMX11RS82z1kTO0rwBS_F5DpTa1WkwwhgxCI8V6irr6VIFViFEwJeMHFlTVMbHdzNiwlM7lsZmtn2khlHQZ6VO_8S56C4_3VMu9rXMx0u84PZUom7PZN/s200/imagesCAQA5G62.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;">I remember watching the grubs walk into the store with their piggy banks, hoping to cash in their coins for paper money. After much eye-rolling, the clerk finally agreed and dumped the change into a machine that sorted and counted it. I was more than a bit annoyed, because I assumed she was going to have to sort and count the stuff, and it was the time commitment she was a bit pissy about. Nevertheless, the kids had their money, and knew the beauty of digging change out of a pocket to pay. For something important, handfuls of coins would be dropped into the clerk’s hand – for that, she did have to count and help them find the right amount, the line of shoppers behind clearly not impressed.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;">(Don’t you just love when you have a huffer behind you in those circumstances? You know, the one who shifts feet like she is standing on hot coals, and huffs a huge sigh every twenty seconds just to make sure you know she is waiting, and her time is precious. I used to linger when there was a known huffer behind me. Now, though, they scare me. They can run faster than I can, and god only knows what damage I would do… to myself… if I tried to kick someone’s ass.<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHSGiW1BXwqCwDtQ1gI5pY4Dd4p5zhQoAt4v0piQQGbGHlSNRnu9XgF3lywak-WNLyViuQ3g_77rlxdw_1SW134UC9TiQ4SeG-TVCsdIAAato6ai0Ap7cXZdpmiPg4rrocTg7UF3GpvX9/s1600/imagesCAX2PPL5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiHSGiW1BXwqCwDtQ1gI5pY4Dd4p5zhQoAt4v0piQQGbGHlSNRnu9XgF3lywak-WNLyViuQ3g_77rlxdw_1SW134UC9TiQ4SeG-TVCsdIAAato6ai0Ap7cXZdpmiPg4rrocTg7UF3GpvX9/s200/imagesCAX2PPL5.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;">Lately it feels like, as we grow older, we become more childlike. Maybe that’s a good thing, but I still am not convinced it is. We start to need help more often, relying on our kids to reach what we can’t, or carry what’s now too heavy. I think it starts with the ‘oh, can you remind me...’ thing then slowly washes over our entire life, until our children are cutting our meat for us, helping us to the bathroom and tucking us in at night. I’m not really so sure I want to be having the grubs cutting my food for me; they might try to slip something in there, like spinach or broccoli, payback for the things we tried to sneak past them. When we did it, we simply wanted to keep them healthy. When they do it, it will be because it makes them laugh to see our dentures get stuck in something crunchy and not boiled into mush. This is not something I am looking forward to. <o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHLEDdYyxAZRGLLpPOj6_R8KIE25JLdkuSAQ0TBakw34v8nTZLj3_eMqTwit28f8VrHmGTUJrBPioUZr-pfUcSUV9nRjKi_uk4pN4TWUtz6JH4YfU72ajhdfv5pEDrM2DUnfjtv3q6svkx/s1600/imagesCATL3AOZ.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHLEDdYyxAZRGLLpPOj6_R8KIE25JLdkuSAQ0TBakw34v8nTZLj3_eMqTwit28f8VrHmGTUJrBPioUZr-pfUcSUV9nRjKi_uk4pN4TWUtz6JH4YfU72ajhdfv5pEDrM2DUnfjtv3q6svkx/s200/imagesCATL3AOZ.jpg" width="175" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><span style="color: black;">Yes, I suppose I could step up the care I take of my body now. In some regards, it might just be a tad too late. But either way, that day is coming. For now, though, I think the next time I have a huffer behind me, I might just take out my dentures, hand them to her, and say 'Bite Me'. </span></div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-34830555497724260822012-01-08T13:44:00.000-08:002012-01-08T13:44:43.258-08:00BOOOOOOORRIIIIIING<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Yup, I am, and to be honest, I’m fine with that. </div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGQ4xjDac6E8iPruNGiHoRfK_kDsWE44vd3dQTvAia3bNryiWLrh6PfMKoS_3tIHQYVg5kn4Spwt1y_bbu4dajCrCYibUx7lk3Nj1QxtxPqgAGVAwUWUFf-mzmePz0pkYq8ksx8tTI6da/s1600/a-jon-stewart-pic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFGQ4xjDac6E8iPruNGiHoRfK_kDsWE44vd3dQTvAia3bNryiWLrh6PfMKoS_3tIHQYVg5kn4Spwt1y_bbu4dajCrCYibUx7lk3Nj1QxtxPqgAGVAwUWUFf-mzmePz0pkYq8ksx8tTI6da/s200/a-jon-stewart-pic.jpg" width="143" /></a><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Someone mentioned the other day about going for a drink after work on Friday. I tried to think of how many years it’s been since I did that. I ran out of fingers and toes for counting. You see, now to go out on Friday, I have to check the bank account, check the television schedule, factor in time for the news, think about what I would wear, and how we would get there and how we would get home and if I could have a glass of wine. I don't want to drive impaired, but more to the point, I have to guard against that damned heartburn as well. The thing is, I am not so sure I even want to go for that drink after work on Fridays. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLitEk1L1Sxx7glg2PlITaW6fVr8AvQo8SsPDZrn_hNlNuJ98BdIjgK3MT_odqXjl8rF89piwFyV4ukzDcn7w50BKXoHfiDKcdx-dGx5p11Mq0hYi-iJKIDcuyuUzz-WM5f92869QGsDW/s1600/imagesCA693ZKI.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheLitEk1L1Sxx7glg2PlITaW6fVr8AvQo8SsPDZrn_hNlNuJ98BdIjgK3MT_odqXjl8rF89piwFyV4ukzDcn7w50BKXoHfiDKcdx-dGx5p11Mq0hYi-iJKIDcuyuUzz-WM5f92869QGsDW/s200/imagesCA693ZKI.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Back then, the drinks started about 4pm, when work would wind down. Sometimes it meant beer brought into the office, other times it meant we went to the beer. Either way, it resulted one table being pulled over, then another, then another as more of us arrived. It required jugs of beer then some appies at the peanut bar, and about four hours later we would decide we need to get something to eat so we would stumble down the street to one of the four restaurants in town. From there, we would jump in our cars and head across the tracks to the Sundance, the only place in town with a dance floor and music (and no, it was not disco music, but they did have the crazy color-changing psychedelic lights all over the place). It was always a late night, always a costly night, but it was fun, and I never regretted doing it… okay, Saturday mornings sort of sucked, but what the hell. Some aspirin and the hair of the dog, and you were set. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLNaNx_FL1j8SW3vJ_92KlqXSQ2c6VH7QNat75N2ZzJvkwEFu0lTjeYUpgnDsLfucujyEq1GhBaintx-y7jCiObSO59mogrF5GVtJVkM8CuMYmxlb3SQoNLSGNA75DSw-XmWKJjPWX-4v/s1600/imagesCARICH8Z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="149" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiLNaNx_FL1j8SW3vJ_92KlqXSQ2c6VH7QNat75N2ZzJvkwEFu0lTjeYUpgnDsLfucujyEq1GhBaintx-y7jCiObSO59mogrF5GVtJVkM8CuMYmxlb3SQoNLSGNA75DSw-XmWKJjPWX-4v/s200/imagesCARICH8Z.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Then kids arrived. Kids meant paying for babysitters, and kids meant you did not want to wake up with a hangover. You had to make sure they were fed dinner too, so no more running amok, at least not every Friday night. You couldn’t drive everyone from one place to the next without taking out car seats and inevitably when you were just sitting down to eat on those rare nights you did go out, the waitress would say there was a call; one of the kids is puking or bleeding or something that required an early end to the day… but we still tried, and we persevered. It just meant that those nights out were more special when they happened. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXGOQh2DrKq99OsMogeUoeEPN1XT0lcUOC6edhXsYWfCrHSJRFlrnjwKAVmn2BFRjwDq-8SN3YPPFBlw9eFVxGmVnvZORnI5IEnbeZdZCoqiLPf93bQ3uOv16tMtB_dWtDGXsONma3QOIq/s1600/harryslaw2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXGOQh2DrKq99OsMogeUoeEPN1XT0lcUOC6edhXsYWfCrHSJRFlrnjwKAVmn2BFRjwDq-8SN3YPPFBlw9eFVxGmVnvZORnI5IEnbeZdZCoqiLPf93bQ3uOv16tMtB_dWtDGXsONma3QOIq/s200/harryslaw2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYVDg4L_riIS56XnDBba4cTfdHliJSbuOPJVvhvtoeYWLNykpWOoFsL8G8CjvK3fJXdRvLmhUiIDrkhWgAWLws2F181tuOtT1mX9CRXornRVkl4QHdmT-TWdDgX72OBJN-wnwhWWmlE56/s1600/brad-meltzers-decoded.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="148" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOYVDg4L_riIS56XnDBba4cTfdHliJSbuOPJVvhvtoeYWLNykpWOoFsL8G8CjvK3fJXdRvLmhUiIDrkhWgAWLws2F181tuOtT1mX9CRXornRVkl4QHdmT-TWdDgX72OBJN-wnwhWWmlE56/s200/brad-meltzers-decoded.jpg" width="200" /></a>Now the kids aren’t an issue. Grandkids aren’t an issue either – yet. Drinking and driving is an issue, cost is an issue, roads in winter are an issue… but mostly, we like being home. Here comes the boring part: the days are comfortable with the coffee maker brewing good morning, and Jon Stewart saying good night. The news is required, and watching the newest episode of Decoded or Harry’s Law takes precedence over drinks with the guys. It’s a treat to order in pizza, and I don’t have to put on good clothes or touch up my face to do it. Touching up one’s face at this age is not something that you just run in and do in a minute anymore, so now the factors and the effort has to be weighed against the quality of the meal and how late in the evening it is. </div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">My parents, when they did this, were fuddy-duddies and bores, a real yawn-fest. It’s not that anymore though; now it’s just comfortable, and I don’t apologize for it one bit. In fact, I treasure it. </div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-44764675756686797412012-01-06T22:12:00.000-08:002012-01-06T22:12:23.200-08:00“IF YOU SHOUT LOUDER, THEY MIGHT ACTUALLY HEAR YOU”<span style="font-family: Calibri;">I am not talking about the grubs, although they certainly have selective hearing. I am talking about, sadly... the television set. </span><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDU3Iq4EZPhIqF90Cqj2fYTfP06XCOFkLJ1uGKouqZvmHmUfIOYTrWmE9MdXNmhlQjEUV2NQUIMW-DUoszC-cf5FevCR53D6ZA3QcHeIjd3XZjWs9VdVnLF7DI97vJENCmKEiQK7J_KL9Z/s1600/imagesCA1FNTLV.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="144" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDU3Iq4EZPhIqF90Cqj2fYTfP06XCOFkLJ1uGKouqZvmHmUfIOYTrWmE9MdXNmhlQjEUV2NQUIMW-DUoszC-cf5FevCR53D6ZA3QcHeIjd3XZjWs9VdVnLF7DI97vJENCmKEiQK7J_KL9Z/s200/imagesCA1FNTLV.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">I remember growing up, watching my dad watch television... well, ‘watching’ might be the wrong word. He would yell at it. He would correct the news anchor about the proper pronunciation of a name. He would tell the quarterback what play to make and who to make it to. He would call the weatherman an idiot. I even remember, yes, him gathering us around the television set, demanding absolute silence, on August 8<sup><span style="font-size: x-small;">th</span></sup>, 1974, to listen to Richard Milhous Nixon resign as President of the United States. He demanded absolute silence... from us. Dad, however, made sure the errant POTUS was perfectly clear about the truth as Dad saw it. How do I remember this? It was just one of those things that was permanently stamped in my brain, but I also have a cassette tape with the speech on it, taken while I had to hold the little microphone up to the set through the whole damned thing, wishing the stupid asshole would just say he was a crook and a criminal and he was pulling the pin. My dad knew this would be a historic moment. He had no idea that, forty years later, it would be available to anyone at the touch of a computer key. </span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKzv6xNyYunGKu14J1VN_PgURt4h4eu1jGihYGI5hrk0P27QRFyP9WYftQDlSrXlza7r4y8csRpt3ca-5YIS2jgVLY_Nl_ki5m9IMN1U7zlKoNLPNpjA20QJEwwneEhPfIYlSyVrs-Nax0/s1600/imagesCA71UYOF.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKzv6xNyYunGKu14J1VN_PgURt4h4eu1jGihYGI5hrk0P27QRFyP9WYftQDlSrXlza7r4y8csRpt3ca-5YIS2jgVLY_Nl_ki5m9IMN1U7zlKoNLPNpjA20QJEwwneEhPfIYlSyVrs-Nax0/s200/imagesCA71UYOF.jpg" width="134" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Now, don’t get me going on politics. When Dad watched politics on the television, it was just safer to go in the kitchen and start washing the dishes, or folding laundry. You did NOT want to vacuum floors... because he couldn’t hear over the vacuum to know what to yell at them, although something tells me he would have managed. My dad was passionate, and he had expectations, and television brought into his living room the epitome of stupidity every night. For me, however, there was no need to make a sound when watching... because you might miss something that one of Charlie’s Angels said as they solved the case, or you might not hear the cheap shot that Hutch was taking at Starsky. Television was to be watched, absorbed, and treasured, because you only got an hour or two a day, if there was anything worth watching on those two precious channels. I knew, though, without doubt, I would NEVER talk to the damned set. </span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5LgUVzFk99vtiRU8l5lz3POMKvcWU8SGNbn034mH8wbNs0AT8uK2KjQB2irCWXTDfYraXSqYESe-zyAIgvdaJJF4lNBe3dbCh0FQqDP_pa5ffmOrxYU6s6RSTB0Qrsu2ZnToH-CRrAky6/s1600/RobertAnnaGH.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="118" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5LgUVzFk99vtiRU8l5lz3POMKvcWU8SGNbn034mH8wbNs0AT8uK2KjQB2irCWXTDfYraXSqYESe-zyAIgvdaJJF4lNBe3dbCh0FQqDP_pa5ffmOrxYU6s6RSTB0Qrsu2ZnToH-CRrAky6/s200/RobertAnnaGH.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">Televisions have changed. They are bigger and flatter and clearer, and Lord knows, we have a lot more channels, which equates to a whole lot more crap to watch. I am not sure if it was during those pregnant years, when you have your feet up and General Hospital on the set that it happens. One day, you are quietly watching something on the old idiot box, and the next, you are screaming at Holly to not trust that bastard, Robert, because he is sleeping with Anna and she is nothing but trouble. “Don’t do it, Holly! He’s a slime! Hot... but a slime just the same!” It sneaks up on you... a comment at a soap opera, then the weatherman telling you to expect sunshine, while little rivers run down the picture window pane. How can you NOT scream at him for that? ‘Open your god damned window, you moron!’ </span></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkq7j_ti23euhJN-KW741r7dFzWnRAhhL41jEVbGiBpGKYPEdmtIe3lM6Y-EHor3oTM16NaI5vGGIgDakWCo2Hdw4VNNFPC_rdNTvbTEgbmISteza840Y7hSK-k4guWBlVVCHUrL4fD2t/s1600/imagesCAXTXOSW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDkq7j_ti23euhJN-KW741r7dFzWnRAhhL41jEVbGiBpGKYPEdmtIe3lM6Y-EHor3oTM16NaI5vGGIgDakWCo2Hdw4VNNFPC_rdNTvbTEgbmISteza840Y7hSK-k4guWBlVVCHUrL4fD2t/s1600/imagesCAXTXOSW.jpg" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0cm 0cm 10pt;"><span style="font-family: Calibri;">To be fair to my father, I know he was concerned. He cared what was happening. He wanted his politicians to be honest, his bankers to be fair. He understood the intricacies of political debate and campaign mud-slinging, which, at my delicate, innocent young age I simply could not grasp. Now, however, I grasp just fine, and I have to say, those idiots on the television drive me crazy. The stupid crooks, the lying politicians, the slime-dogs and whore-wanna-be starlets who flash their panties at us, and i cannot leave out those incredibly annoying Viagra commercials and the Cialis bathtub shit (what the hell is that about anyways)... it is impossible to watch and NOT scream at them. To be totally honest, with the wisdom we have now gained, the insight, the retrospect, the chops we have cut, those stupid bastids should start listening to us. If they listened, they would hear the answer to how to fix the economy, they would know to put some decent clothes on that don’t show the crack of their ass (because seriously, it ain’t all that attractive, unless you are talking Antonio Banderas), they would know it was a stupid time to bunt, and that umpire would have made the proper call and not the dumbass one he did make. The grubs laugh, or roll their eyes, or make their smart little digs, but I know better. I know that soon enough, they too will be screaming at the set, and sharing their wisdom. It’s inevitable. </span></div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-6964909401652556392012-01-06T11:15:00.000-08:002012-01-06T11:16:37.351-08:00AGE: Mother nature’s way of saying<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXbgRvxKSSJ46Tg4FbucSpfy46W17L1fxIyI-Yex0KzP_3OhPfnn0fb4uYTCXsS1Gya_L7t4R1OZuiPSe4RRnKD15OSunAxmaHhY3VGcZl2G5SS4HT1I3VjIJ5y5I637kRmQvfAVxQv50/s1600/Duct-Tape-Toilet-Paper-20139.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaXbgRvxKSSJ46Tg4FbucSpfy46W17L1fxIyI-Yex0KzP_3OhPfnn0fb4uYTCXsS1Gya_L7t4R1OZuiPSe4RRnKD15OSunAxmaHhY3VGcZl2G5SS4HT1I3VjIJ5y5I637kRmQvfAVxQv50/s200/Duct-Tape-Toilet-Paper-20139.jpg" width="192" /></a></div> ...“Ahhhhhhhhh fuck you"<br />
(contributed by Paula Blois)<br />
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Did you know duct tape is the gift of the silver gods? Sure, we all know it’s great for little repairs around the house. Hell, even MacGyver never tapped it’s full potential. Sagging boobs? Not an issue; duct tape those puppies where they belong and no one need know they have begun to migrate south faster than a flock of pigeons in January. Need an instant butt lift? Yep, you guessed it; Duct Tape is your friend. Don’t worry about coordinating with your now defunct wardrobe of khaki, black and white. This sticky substance of wonder comes in an array of colors ('colours' for some of my extremely stuck-up northern friends). I have ordered a case of 56 rolls in a variety of colors. I am experimenting with another use this product, especially for the very vain. You see, I’ve noticed my knees don’t like to cooperate with me lately. I’ve been in talks with the research and development of Duct Tape International, we should see a line of 'nude' tape on the market soon. Can you imagine never having to wear pantyhose, tights or stockings again? Double win, because when you rip this shit off of your legs, shaving will never be an issue again.The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-72918783809324918392012-01-05T17:32:00.000-08:002012-01-05T17:32:19.422-08:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">RED HOT CHILI PEPPERS.... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">and other things that come back to bite us in the ass</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">(Contributed by Dave Smith)</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LnmLoB8VJ-A/TwZO3NvBkSI/AAAAAAAAACk/2q2pp3iWFRA/s1600/imagesCAW4AWU0.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LnmLoB8VJ-A/TwZO3NvBkSI/AAAAAAAAACk/2q2pp3iWFRA/s200/imagesCAW4AWU0.jpg" width="176" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">So the new fifty-five is really forty-five, right? Sixty-five is the new fifty-five? I wonder if this is because as I grow into that age, the 65 one, I realize in truth that gas is simply a result of eating some flagrantly piquant Mexican delight? No, not that kind of delight; rather the edible kind. Hell, that is not correct either. It is always a question of the sauce, right? Well, not really. You see, at this age, I remember on rare occasion the fact that as an adolescent, smell… well, smell was in the hinter regions of my mind. If it swelled, which was constantly, then what the hell had smell to do with it? I admit to the sweet smell of a young lady, that it was intoxicating, brilliant plumage in my nose which went straight to my loins. That I admit to, however, not the stink of a sweaty piece of old meat. Harsh, you say? We all ripen with age? I suppose so. Problem is that at this age, other so readily useable passages being in decline, why is it that my smeller has taken over my damned body?<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c1p_R43wU0s/TwZNxryCztI/AAAAAAAAACM/Ng2_QxSQMlM/s1600/imagesCA4T2UGA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-c1p_R43wU0s/TwZNxryCztI/AAAAAAAAACM/Ng2_QxSQMlM/s200/imagesCA4T2UGA.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Speaking of my body, which I consider to actually be in reasonable shape, the delusions of age coming with perhaps too much squatting on the shitter, tortures me constantly. Perhaps it is my mind, which seems to be still in the effervescent river of my past that is causing the substitution of wish for reality? I arise each morning full of myself then I stand naked before the unfortunately placed full-length mirror by the bed – built-in closet and all that. The wife likes the sliding doors and the space. I have come to realize that it is actually a dastardly thing to do to a man who, the previous evening, ran full out for around an hour and a half. Not bad, right? No matter; the aged dissolve. The skin sags, the knees have curtains; it is, however, fair to say that I take no external medications or supplements, so what the hell can I expect? Thing is, I have expectations which fly away the minute I stand before the mirror. Understand; it is built-in. I said that, however, repeating it is important. Yes, it is the mirror's fault. You see, it never lies. It stares you in the face regardless of expectations from the night before. Enough of that!<o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VB-XPJ-hFOY/TwZN8LT9DiI/AAAAAAAAACY/VveU9ZS80Rs/s1600/imagesCA5FU2OM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="130" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VB-XPJ-hFOY/TwZN8LT9DiI/AAAAAAAAACY/VveU9ZS80Rs/s200/imagesCA5FU2OM.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; margin: 0in 0in 0pt; text-indent: 0in;"><span style="mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">At this age, with my life experience, I consider God a terrible plague on humanity. Yes, yes, one can argue it is a case of organized religion, however, I do not think that is the crux of the matter for me. I have stood on Mutter's Ridge, full of the glory of God and country. I was young at the time, full of the things that slip quickly into the night. It was not well worth it; the blood, the guts, the wailing of men. Yes indeed, it was a fine thing we were doing. Let me explain: Mutter's Ridge / Mother's Ridge -- it is a metaphor for all those who love God and country, which was a righteous thing at that age and for many it still is. I think most of us have stood on a Mother's Ridge, staring over the precipice, hoping, praying that it was them not us. I certainly did… then had to deal with the guilt. Years and years of said bullshit! I was wandering as I often do, had the mutt with me. I looked down at him. Unconditional love stared into my gut. I would say soul but that would be hypocritical of me, right? I realized that there was no God. Why the hell do I capitalize the word? Interesting programming, I should think. It was a strange place to come upon the fancy that we are born, live and die. When the computer is shut off, we are simply gone. How can I be sure? Christ, who is sure? Not me. You see, this is an age thing. Speaking for myself, it was just that simple spark of time when for some reason the synapses in the brain snap, the chemistry kicks you in the ass. I replied out loud "What the fuck!" then went on my merry way, understanding everything and realizing nothing at all. So it is, you see: The age thing -- everything and nothing. Makes perfect sense to me; then again, why not</span><span style="color: blue; font-family: "Arial","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="color: black;">?</span></span><span style="color: #2a2a2a; font-family: "Tahoma","sans-serif"; font-size: 10pt; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><o:p></o:p></span></div><br />
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</div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-42633664195298584062012-01-05T12:45:00.000-08:002012-01-05T12:45:05.750-08:00BUT ARE THEY COMFORTABLE?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LHDy5ms2_X0/TwYK9WeY7OI/AAAAAAAAABc/pnBDcb1eICk/s1600/41YozThKWbL.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-LHDy5ms2_X0/TwYK9WeY7OI/AAAAAAAAABc/pnBDcb1eICk/s200/41YozThKWbL.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Yes, I asked that question of myself while looking at… shoes. Granted, it was always a consideration when I would shop for shoes, but never the number one priority. Back in the day, the way a patent pump molded the foot, the inches a stiletto added, the number of outfits this wedge would go with, and how many people the damned things would make jealous were of much more importance than ‘are they comfortable’. Hell, if they were awesome shoes but my size was sold out, I would even buy them in almost the right size, because what’s a little pain if you are smoking hot!</div><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hvUJzBWdK2k/TwYLKCWAJVI/AAAAAAAAABo/PHuLdtnEyGs/s1600/cariddi-in-white.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-hvUJzBWdK2k/TwYLKCWAJVI/AAAAAAAAABo/PHuLdtnEyGs/s200/cariddi-in-white.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">I had one of those very fleeting moments of insanity not that long ago when I saw it – a totally kick-ass pair of shoes. They had the four inch heels, the laces that wrapped up the calf, done in fuchsia leather. I actually, while in the midst of the brain fart of the century, considered buying the damned things. Then I realized the problem. What would I do with them? I sure as heck wouldn’t wear em. For starters, to where? The market or maybe my next appointment with the massage therapist? That would be cute, but handy. Even though I would be late arriving there, because it took me two hours to do up the damned laces on the shoes, she would stand there, eternally patient as she always is, watching me struggling to get the shoes off, then finally pulling some garden shears from my suitcase… ooops, I mean purse… so I could cut the suckers off. That would be the cute part. The handy part would be having her there to help me try to stand up again after twisting my back while walking in them, falling off them twice and messing up my ankle. She would adjust, massage, work away the pains, all the while adding just that right amount of gentle touch to my seriously bruised ego. We baby boomers love our massage therapists. </div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_g_X36WZjRw/TwYLeWA0nPI/AAAAAAAAAB0/YwpeKHeN_Wg/s1600/2589679-legs-of-a-woman-with-feet-near-a-fireplace-wearing-warm-big-pink-fuzzy-slippers.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_g_X36WZjRw/TwYLeWA0nPI/AAAAAAAAAB0/YwpeKHeN_Wg/s200/2589679-legs-of-a-woman-with-feet-near-a-fireplace-wearing-warm-big-pink-fuzzy-slippers.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">Our priorities have changed. While car shopping, we are now looking at the one that gives us the best mileage and will fit into that tiny space in front of the health clinic door. We look forward to Friday night, because we know the kids will be out and the house will be quiet, so we can fall asleep in front of the television set while watching reruns of Murder, She Wrote. Grocery shopping, we opt for the fiber and roughage aisles, and…. *gasp*… we clip coupons, because you know the economy is going in the tanker. We have to watch our money now. I call this being responsible. My son, who just dropped over a grand on a new laptop that will do everything for him but pump the gas in his car, calls it being anally retentive. It cannot be stressed enough how important anal retention can become as we age. He will learn… and I will be there smiling as he does. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7819138248693302824.post-2069115496550680402012-01-04T18:47:00.000-08:002012-01-04T20:09:59.192-08:00The Great Hair Migration...… and other self-realizations as we grow older. <br />
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Two days before my mother’s 88th birthday, I was with her in the hospital. She was weak, she was tired, and she had been terribly alone since my father had passed some years earlier. In the midst of her surrendering to machines and strangers to help her do the things that we all take for granted – those things we all assume we will do for ourselves forever, things which makes us completely human and vulnerable -- she started to laugh. It was the first ‘real’ laugh I had heard from her in a while, especially since she had gotten so sick. In the middle of what we would normally consider an earth-shattering, mortifying personal hygiene crisis, my mother laughed and said ‘God sure has his ways of keeping us humble’. Her laugh was contagious, and her words lingered. Two days after her 88th birthday, she went to meet The Big Guy herself.<br />
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Since then, I have held her words dear to my heart, and I find strength in them, especially as I start this ‘aging’ thing myself. While pondering this, I realized that each age we reach has its own perspective of time and age. Once I was potty trained, I really didn’t give any thought to bathroom issues anymore. At that point, milestones were being able to walk to school alone and being old enough to play with Barbie dolls. Daylight savings time was a cruel trick. Christmas seemed to always take forever to arrive. In my teens, high school graduation was the holy grail. We focused on leaving home, getting a drivers license, that first kiss and our biggest hygiene concern was the latest hairstyle and hiding a new zit that erupted on Friday morning. In my twenties, it was pretty much about me. I was on top of the world, with tight boobs, flat tummy, gorgeous thick hair, a killer smile. At the end of those years, kids entered the scene and toilet issues jumped back on the front burner, but aging was something that was not even on the radar. Fifty was as good as dead. Thirties and forties? We had a better idea of what old age was, but we were NOT anywhere near it. We couldn’t be. It wasn’t possible. <br />
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Then we hit fifty. Once again, a shitty day becomes more than just a metaphor. We see our friends aging, have lost some along the way, and by some magical twist of God’s wrist, we swap roles with our parents. They become our concern. We watch their aging, we see their challenges, and we wonder what age will hold in store for us, and if some amazingly brilliant scientist will come up with a way to prevent it. So far, that hasn’t happened, and thus begins… <br />
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<a href="http://www.funny-cats.us/wp-content/plugins/wp-o-matic/cache/c6502_funny-pictures-squirrel-has-ear-hair.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://www.funny-cats.us/wp-content/plugins/wp-o-matic/cache/c6502_funny-pictures-squirrel-has-ear-hair.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
THE GREAT HAIR MIGRATION<br />
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Hair: For many, there is that first lock from that first haircut, safely and lovingly stored away between the pages of a book. Used bookstores probably throw out bushels of precious locks, long forgotten in books that, for years, served no purpose other than to help boost up that duff leg on the table. As parents, we long for that first haircut, that first milestone in the life of a baby. We laugh as their hair grows, the more unruly, the better. Then those precious darlings hit their teen years, and we pray for them to do something about that damned greasy mop on their heads. Hair becomes a symbol of independence, a source of pride and power, our first means of defiance.<br />
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Many years ago, while at the home of a new acquaintance, I was looking at a stack of old pictures taken from the weddings of people I had not yet met. In the course of looking, I set them out on the table in proper chronological order. It wasn’t magic, or the gift of some inner vision. I didn’t look at the leaves on the trees, the color of the sky or the girth of any one waist, because those weren’t true indicators. The one undeniable tell-tale of the passing years was in the hairlines of the men as they inched further and further back. <br />
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Here’s the great lesson for the day: natural hair never lies. With it, we can look at someone and determine their age, health, social class, living conditions, diet and lifestyle. Someone undergoing chemo may have none. Movie stars have long full thick flowing locks that are always perfectly done. For a soldier, the telltale hair means business and dedication, nothing to hide at all, because from the moment he steps into boot camp and hears those buzzers, his life is not really his own anymore – defiance and rebellion fully contained. For a politician, millions will be spent on hiding the truth behind a good head of hair; it’s the price of power.<br />
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Men’s hair never really just ‘falls out’. It moves. Some of it slips down into their eyebrows, even to the point of requiring hedge trimmers to keep them under control. Some sneaks off and hides in their ears, or up their noses. I defy you to find me a twenty-year-old boy checking his ears for hair to pluck. The hair on a man’s chest starts the great trek north, over the shoulders and down the back. I have no idea if men obsess the way women do. On them, it’s a sign of wisdom, maturity, like a fine blend of herbs now allowed to infuse the whole dish. <br />
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As I stood in the shower this morning, undertaking the usual routine, I contemplated this issue of age. I checked to see how much of my hair is falling out. Does it feel more limp? Thinner? I would love for every other aspect of me to be thinner, but not my hair. It’s not fair that it always volunteers first for that duty. My hair has been braided, styled, curled, permed, straightened, conditioned and colored… but now I am just glad it’s still on my damned head. With age, however, I realize that men are not the only victims of the great hair migration. Twenty years ago, it never entered my mind that I might have to wake up early in the morning because I want to wear sandals that day – so I better shave my toes. Before, I used to spend time trying to find the ultimate way to keep the hair off my legs. Well, it tends to not be such an issue there… because it seems it too has migrated north -- to my face. Now I spend time in the store searching the shelves for a way to color it, remove it or at the very least style it, since it’s right there on my mug, for all the world to see. I think of the old milk ‘wear a moustache’ campaign and thank God it’s no longer on the television – because it might just mean I would have to kill someone. <br />
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We’re talking hair here. Does it never stop becoming an obsession for us? Then I think of Mom, in that hospital bed. She would wake up and ask me to comb her hair for her, so it was ‘presentable’. Never once did she concern herself with the sparse hair on her legs – her back was too painful to allow her to bend over to see it anyways. Hair on her toes? Who could tell when they were tucked in slippers, on feet that had seen 88years of hard labor and now showed that undeniable wear and tear. Armpits? She never lifted her arms anymore, so who would care. She was neat, clean, presentable, and she was Mom. She had more important things to worry about… chewing her food with store-bought teeth, trying to hear what you were saying because she couldn’t afford the hearing aid she needed. Her concern for the day: wondering what her kids, and their kids, were doing, what challenges they were facing that day, and how they would overcome those challenges to go on and face the next. Hair on her toes? That was for amateurs. <br />
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Baby Boomers, Unite! We shall overcome... or not, but we should at least have some fun in the process. Look at yourself, at the events of your day, and share with us your realizations and perspectives. Seriously, it will make this old age thing maybe not so unbearable after all.The Great Hair Migrationhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16155524028753279300noreply@blogger.com1