Rocking the Boat

Last week I wrote that the older I get, the less I care about how I’m perceived by others. I’m noticing that also goes for voicing my opinion, good bad or ugly. Apparently this whole aging thing has dulled my sense of concern in regard to what slips out of my mouth.

Rarely silent

Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not condoning being rude or hurtful. Not at all. I’m just saying I no longer feel the need to remain silent when something strikes me as wrong, or to temper my response to please someone when I’m asked my opinion and it happens to be different from theirs.

Generally speaking, I think women (more than men) struggle with confronting friends when they have a criticism, even if it’s constructive. My women friends avoid this scenario at all costs because they don’t want to hurt someone’s feelings. Continue reading

Even-Tempered and Happy-Go-Lucky

I want to scream. I’m talking the kind of scream where I throw myself on the ground like a 5-year-old having a tantrum, legs kicking wildly, arms flailing, red faced and near tears. THAT kind of scream.

screaming-girl

So what could cause me, a normally even-tempered, happy-go-lucky gal to feel this way? Two words…a dishwasher. God help me (and everyone around me) if another of my appliances bites the dust. I’m at the point with this Bosch dishwasher that I’d throw it through a window if I could lift it. Which I can’t. So I won’t. Continue reading

The Great Escape

So I recently relocated 4 young ferals as mousers to a property that on the surface seemed perfect. Still, I entertained little nagging doubts about the owner of the 700 acre ranch, winery and B&B. Yes, he said all the right things but was it because he thought it’s what I wanted to hear? I wondered, but ignored my hunch because the place seemed perfect for feral mousers. And it was. But HE surely wasn’t.

trust-your-gut

We acclimate cats for 3 weeks in cages before releasing them. But when Mr. Jackass admitted he let the cats out after 10 days, he confirmed my reservations. Still, he assured me they were fine, eating a lot, everything’s hunky-dory…blah, blah, blah. So yeah, I wanted to believe him.

A couple weeks later I returned to collect our relocation supplies. That’s when I saw the magnitude of ignoring my hunch. Basically, the cats were starving. Turns out he barely fed them in the erroneous belief they’d be better hunters (the opposite of what I instructed). However, nobody can tell this guy anything so I immediately formulated a plan to recover the cats, knowing he’d resist.

whats-the-plan

Continue reading

A Little Poking, Prodding and Squishing

MEN ARE BABIES. Uh, let me rephrase that so as not to lose any male readers.

MOST MEN ARE BABIES. How’s that sound? Well, probably not much better. What about this then…Guys I know will not visit the doctor unless they’re bleeding from an orifice one should never bleed from and/or something is amiss with their Johnson, if you know what I mean. And I think you do.

Anyway, I bring this up because for me summertime is not just about enjoying warm weather. No, it’s also the time when I go for my annual poking, prodding and squishing of body parts in determining the overall health of this old body.summertimeWhat I don’t understand is why so many guys refuse to get checkups, whether annual or every 5 years. What’s that all about? When you compare what we women go through during our yearly visits, men having a gloved finger placed up their butt is a walk in the park if you ask me, which you didn’t. But there you have it.

When women visit a gynecologist (the ultimate pokers) not only do we get the finger, so to speak, but we also get a long metal device, sort of like BBQ tongs with a trigger, inserted into our baby making parts. speculumI can think of a thousand things I’d rather be doing than counting ceiling panels, my feet in stirrups while the doc inserts that Popsicle-cold speculum, followed by an unusually long Q-tip placed into my cervix, where cells are scraped for testing.stirrupsNow guys, doesn’t a gloved finger up your butt pale in comparison to all that?gloved fingerAnd it doesn’t end there. I also had a mammogram last week. Again, something men usually don’t need to experience. Hey, I’m just grateful there’s a test for abnormal breast cells. But seriously, is there no other way? One that is less squishy perhaps?

The Squisher

The Squisher

I wonder if this type of contraption would be in use to diagnose similar abnormal cells in, let’s say, testicles. Something tells me the method of detection would not include men willingly placing their family jewels onto a machine that smashes said jewels into dollar-sized pancakes. That would be one empty waiting room. I’m just sayin’.dollar size pancakesWe women stand against a giant metal machine like something NASA would build, while a clear glass plate lowers onto first one breast then the other, squishing them not simply into pancakes but crepes. And believe me, there’s a big difference.

See what I mean?

See what I mean?

The technician turns a knob that incrementally lowers the plate, smashing said boob flatter, then flatter some more. All the while she smiles and says, “Feel okay?” I’d prefer to respond, “It feels like my breast is in a flippin’ vise and if you turn that knob one more time I might have to hurt you.” But instead I say “Sure, doin’ great. Thanks for asking.”

Now don’t get me wrong; I realize these tests are a necessary evil to help us stay healthy. I actually don’t mind a little poking, prodding and squishing if it means peace of mind. To me that trumps the following —what you don't know That only counts when you’re being gossiped about. And not the good kind like, Isn’t she the nicest, sweetest person you ever met? Otherwise it’s a load of crock.

So buck up, you guys; don’t be babies. Get your butt and all your other body parts into the doc’s office. Do it for your family and friends, if not yourself. I’m here to tell you a gloved finger is the least of your worries. Besides, it’ll be over before you can say, “Doctor please, I hardly know you.”

What might happen if you don’t go for that checkup is much scarier, don’t you think?

Last Wednesday I was poked, prodded and squished again, so I couldn’t resist reprinting this posting from 2015.

Get Smart

Wrong Get Smart...

Not exactly what I meant

Did you know there are 7 hobbies that will make you smarter? Neither did I. Guess I’m not that smart. Therefore it might behoove me to bone up on these particular hobbies because, let’s face it, at some point our brain cells start diminishing about as rapidly as Matt Lauer’s hairline.Matt LauerAnytime we learn a new skill or have new experiences, scientists say we create more neuron pathways in our brain, making our grey matter work better and faster. And who doesn’t like being better and faster? No one, that’s who.

Since we aren’t born with a given level of intelligence, we can always improve in the cranial region. My feeling is, the more neurons I have, the longer it takes before Alzheimer’s strangles my memories, devouring precious neurons like I devour chocolate. Not a pretty sight… Continue reading