I can be a bad ass.
You don’t believe me, do you? You think because I’m a diminutive 63-year-old that I sit at home and knit every night, a cup of tea and a cookie on a table next to my easy chair. Oh how wrong you are.
First of all, I don’t particularly like tea. In fact, if I didn’t think it was healthy for me, I’d never drink it again. Secondly, I don’t knit. It’s not my cup-o-tea. (Wink, wink.) Thirdly, I’d never have just one cookie. Who can have just one? Seriously, I wouldn’t care to know that person.
Now don’t get me wrong. By “bad ass” I’m not saying Marin County police have memorized my name. In fact, my criminal life consists of two traffic violations. (Yawn.) One I blame on my friend Sharon when, at her urging, I drove straight in a right-turn-only lane. What can I say…we were running late. My other crime was speeding. Yes, I admit I have a lead foot.
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.
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 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.
Even as a teen, still in the pool
My 45th high school reunion was this weekend but I didn’t go. Why? Let my 40th reunion tell you…
I went to my 40th high school reunion Friday night. Hard to believe that much time has passed. Even harder to believe I decided to go. You see, it’s a fact I have no memory and haven’t seen most of these folks since I was a pimply-faced 17-year-old. Odds are I wouldn’t recognize a soul.
It might have helped if everyone wore a photo of their senior portrait. Still, for me that wouldn’t have been enough. Their name needed to be included. Those little tricks might have increased my odds to a 10% recognition factor. Continue reading
Here’s a post from May, 2013 that I barely remember, so I bet you don’t either. Give it a go…I’m just a week or so away from penning a new post. Until then, enjoy reading about Nellie…
Since you’ve met the rest of my furry family, why not meet the whole brood? Last, but certainly not least is Nellie, my 8-year-old Greyhound. She’s my sofa zombie. Many people think this breed is hyper, but those people would be wrong. Greyhounds are also known as 45-mph couch potatoes. Continue reading
Previously posted in 2013
This week, when my younger friend Hilary told our ladies’ tennis group she needed “less mature” friends because we oldies are struggling with injuries, I quickly fired off an email to that healthy show-off, explaining what she’s missing by not being an interesting 50+ year old…
My “young” friend, Hilary
My Dearest Hilary,
Let me set you straight. Younger friends are boring. They have nothing to complain about as far as body parts aching. What is there to discuss if you have no wrinkles and therefore can’t debate the best ways to disguise them? What could possibly replace the topic of whether it’s better to use a color rinse or permanent dye when trying to cover gray hair? Continue reading