Originally posted in 2013
I was in my early 40s, waiting in a drugstore for a prescription, when I decided to use those 15 minutes and have my wrist scanned to determine my bone density. It was either that or shop for light bulbs. Decisions, decisions…So I get in line with a half-dozen women in their 60s. Confident I’d pass with flying colors, I hoped the technician wouldn’t embarrass me by his excited announcement (within ear shot of the others) that I had the bones of a 25-year-old.
Shortly thereafter, my fantasy faded and reality slapped me to my senses. Not only did I not have young bones but I was pulled aside and advised to speak with my doctor about getting a full hip and spine scan. Apparently, the results showed my bones were under the mistaken impression I was 65. Continue reading
So here’s the situation. It’s 8:00 p.m. on Saturday night. I just spent the day cleaning my garage. Loads of fun. I’m grimy, dusty and full of chili because after I spent the day cleaning my garage I made a pot of veggie chili. Then I made macaroni noodles to put the chili on because that’s how my ex’s family did it in Kansas City. So since 1982, when we married, that’s how I’ve eaten it and now I can’t eat naked chili.
Anyway, now I’m stuffed. I also fed my animal crew and my foster cat, all of whom I assume are stuffed as well. My foster cat is nameless because I don’t permanently name them until I know they’ll be adoptable. I foster feral kittens and semi-feral cats. For some reason it’s harder for me to have to relocate them to outdoor homes (if they’re too feral to be adopted) after I’ve named them. Weird, huh?
So when I enter the room in which I’m housing a big orange tabby female, I say ‘Hey Boo Boo.” No reaction. Sometimes I say, “Hey Monkey.” But again, no response. I’ll try on a bunch of names during the time I’m fostering but once I realize that cat or kitten will be adoptable, a name will suddenly hit me and that’s the one that sticks.
Remember a few weeks back when I blogged about my cat, Tippi, who had a major personality change? (When a Cat Loves a Woman.) Being a tortie, she can be a bit of a bitch if you want to know the truth. Now don’t get me wrong; she’s a good bitch. Tippi holds her own among my 7 other pets and she’s the tiniest of them all, so it’s essential she not be a pushover.
Tippi probably weighs 7 lbs soaking wet, although she’s never soaking wet. Since I value my life, I’d never give a tortie a bath. Do you think I’m an idiot? That’s a rhetorical question but I suspect you were quick to answer. Still, my 7 lb. kitty has absolutely no fear and I just love that about her.
You should see Tippi in action. My cat, Fat Jack, who causes all kinds of mayhem by frequently pouncing on my other two felines, Savannah and Oliver, always gives a wide berth when strolling by Tippi. And he’s twice her size. She scares the bejeebers out of him…just another thing I love about her.
Why he’s called Fat Jack
A while back I was blogging once a month about things I find ridiculous. And let me tell you, I find LOTS of things ridiculous. So I had to give the posts different titles. After all, I couldn’t exactly title them all, Don’t Be Ridiculous. Well, I guess I could. But I didn’t. (Click on the title to read that posting.)
Now don’t get me wrong. You may think I’m shamelessly promoting those past postings, urging you through not-so-subliminal suggestions to click away, thereby increasing my readership. How dare you think that! Would I do that to you? Well friends, as a matter of fact, yes.
Anyway, some of those ridiculous posts, so to speak, are Are You Kidding Me? and That’s Ridiculous, Chapter 4, to name a couple. Hey, I warned you I find the ridiculous in many places. But since I haven’t complained in a while concerning this topic, it’s about time I did again, don’t you think? Continue reading
Busy, busy, oh so busy…therefore please enjoy this post from 2013 and I’ll be back next week…
Last year, after my 56th birthday, I began to understand what the phrase, “feeling your age,” actually entails. What caught me by surprise, however, is how it looks.
Evidently, my appearance has betrayed me. Strangers no longer refer to me as “miss.” At some point, I stepped over that invisible threshold into a new reality. I am now known as “ma’am.”
Apparently this is how “ma’am” looks
Aging is sly the way it sneaks up on you. There are no bulletins to announce its arrival. It suddenly appears when you aren’t paying attention. Looking in the mirror one day, you wonder whose face is staring back. Personally, I never saw it coming. Continue reading