The Joys of Aging

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My mom was the strongest woman I’ve known, not in physical strength, but in fortitude. Still, in 1985 she was diagnosed with six months to live. But being who she was, it didn’t surprise me she lived another 19 years.

My mom had inoperable small cell lung cancer, congestive heart failure, and severe osteoporosis. Although challenging for her, she never complained; her will to live was amazing. She simply refused to die until after my dad passed, then she joined him a week later.

How my mom managed with her condition is beyond me; she just accepted what comes with the joys of aging. I, on the other hand, will likely keep griping. However, toward the end of her life she said, “Janie Mae, getting old isn’t for sissies.” Now that I’m 71, I’m beginning to understand what she meant.

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FDA, is Jardiance Really That Swell?

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If ten years ago you read my blog post titled, FDA, How Stupid Do You Think We Are?, you’ll know my belief in them, or lack thereof, hasn’t changed a whole lot. Let’s just say I don’t have a ton of trust in their decisions to approve certain drugs.

If you watch television or listen to the radio, I’m betting you’ve seen or heard the abundance of commercials touting any number of drugs for any number of ailments. Sure seems to be an epidemic of ailments, don’t you think?

Anyway, I saw a particularly disturbing commercial last week, so I started paying better attention. At the end of it, a narrator quickly reads a list of the not so great side affects, probably hoping nobody was paying attention— except this nobody was.

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Down Memory Lane

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Last week I had occasion to visit the neighborhood where I grew up in Santa Venetia, also derogatorily known as Scabo. I’m not sure what that stands for but since it’s an ugly word, I’m guessing it wasn’t known as the most desirable place to live. But I beg to differ.

Santa Venetia

Kids don’t know they don’t live in a mansion. I certainly didn’t. We had 4 bedrooms that weren’t much bigger than some large walk-in closets and closets not much wider than a refrigerator. Now don’t get me wrong; I didn’t care one bit. I had what I needed and that was enough.

our house
Our little house

To me, our Doughboy Pool was the bomb (better known as groovy back then). Other neighborhood dads helped my dad install it. That’s how it was; neighbors helping neighbors. On summer afternoons, being in that pool or playing ping pong on the patio were my favorite places to be.

me in pool
Even as a teen, still in the pool
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Live To Fight Another Day

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Well my friends, the hits just keep coming. As you know, if you read my post, The Fly Swatter, I had a fly infestation in my home recently that nearly drove me nuts. Not a good look, me chasing flies around my family room, swinging the swatter like a mad woman, which I was. Mad, that is.

The good news is, I must have scared them away but instead, fleas have taken their place. Let me proclaim here that I absolutely despise fleas. I’ve had pets in my home since 1984 and although my dogs and cats have had fleas on occasion, thankfully none have hopped around the house or onto me and guests.

Now don’t get me wrong; my luck has changed. Thirty-nine years being flea-free and that incredible streak has come to an abrupt end. What could have caused this to happen? Well…

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The Art of Cursing

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Originally posted in 2021

I never swore until I was out of my teens. Pretty shocking, huh? Let’s just say I was a good girl with my verbiage for most of my early years. As a kid, I never had to suck on a bar of soap like my sister did after being busted for swearing. I did, however, thoroughly enjoy watching her do so. Actually, I shocked myself the first time the word shit slipped from my lips. It felt wrong while at the same time strangely satisfying.

Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not some potty-mouthed person who is addicted to swearing. Please! I’m a nice Catholic girl who attended Church twice a year (Christmas and Easter) and now only for weddings and funerals. Hey, I never said I was perfect.

Having said that, there’s something satisfying about cursing. When someone cuts me off on the freeway, darn it! just doesn’t cut it, you know? In the privacy of my vehicle, where nobody can hear me, I say what I imagine a truck driver might exclaim under similar circumstances. I’m guessing it’s pretty much a regular occurrence in that occupation.

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