Another Winter Sign

So, last week in the 20-ish temps, after arriving home from work at 9:30 PM, I decided to take the trash out in the snow to the road.  I fell into the front yard snow, and could not get up.  I normally cannot get up from falling, but I tried, and tried more.  I pushed up from the garbage can, but could not stand. My feet in my canvas slip-ons slid.

No, I did not have my cell phone.  I yelled, “Help!”  No one in my neighborhood seemed to be awake at that time of the evening. I continued to yell.   No cars came down the road.  I realized my fingers hurting meant I could get frostbite, but I had gloves in my pockets.

After trying to stand up more, I thought going to sleep would feel good, but I knew that was a bad sign.  I didn’t actually feel cold.  I decided to roll, like a snow whale, through the snow to the front porch.  I still could not get up using the slippery surface.  I tried.  I knew the school bus passing in the morning would not pick me up.

Finally, after an hour in the snow, the neighbor came home at 10:30 PM from the airport.  He heard me, came over, and dead-lifted me so I could stand.  I am fortunate he heard me and had such strength. I feel blessed. I didn’t want to be garbage, or in the snow. I don't like Winter.  This must have been another sign of a bad winter … or a klutzy me … or both.

 

For Twitter's DRoad1's Group

 

For Twitter’s DRoad1 group:

DRoad1’s group may be interested to know that 20 years ago I was diagnosed with depression.  If anyone knows how serious a verbally abusive partner can affect a relationship, then you will understand my bad, second marriage resulted in depression for me.  Depression was my mind’s way to handle everything bad.

I saw my family doctor and he referred me to a therapist.  I was put on sick leave at work.  I didn’t know what to do as I had two children and I wanted what was best for them.  The first visit with the therapist made much clear.  I needed a divorce.

Worried about telling my children, I discovered they both wonderfully understood.  They said, “Mom, you should have done this a long time ago.”  They were right.

Once the black clouds descended closer, I discovered writing, indeed, is therapeutic.  I took my son to his marching band performance at a Memorial Day parade, and took writing materials.  While I waited, I started a poem.  I worked on it all weekend. It felt good to write about the depression filling me.

When I gave this poem to a close colleague to read, she said, “Oh, Cindy, it’s wonderful, but this isn’t how you feel, is it?”  I said, “Yes, Dale, it is.”  She stared at me, and then repeated the same comment, “This isn’t how you really feel, is it?”  I had the same answer as before.  Much hides inside, so here’s my first poem I gave my friend to read.

Depression

                                                                                                Cindy Sterling

                                   

The Dark Knight --

Intensely Male,

Exuding strength and power,

Character and charm beyond compare,

Entices me with his inviting smile,

A smile radiating all the magic of romance.

 

The Knight extends his arm

Up through the inky, bottomless pit of depression,

Reaching toward me,

Seeking me out,

Beckoning me,

Drawing me closer and closer to his waiting hand,

His arms ready to enfold me,

 

Slipping into mindless oblivion in the black abyss

With the Dark Knight welcoming me

Would be so simple, ever so easy,

Painless, comforting,

And, above all, peaceful.

 

With confidence glowing in his eyes,

And gentleness and strength inherent in his touch,

His hand and mine join together

In ageless, unspoken harmony.

I step into the dusky mist,

Which swirls about my ankles

And rises to caress me.

 

My whispered name on his lips is seduction itself,

Drawn ever nearer by the sweet murmurings,

The melody enthralls me,

And I go willingly into the safety of his arms

Which promise protection from the outside world --

I only want to belong to him.

 

I feel his muscular hardness pressing against me,

The tenderness in his kiss;

Captivated by his mouth

And by him.

I open my mind to him,

Accepting and trusting him,

The darkness and the warmth envelop me

And I no longer have to think.

Fly Away!

 

How do flies get inside? Do they hang out beside door frames in the heat? Why? Isn't there some place more pleasant for them to be?

 

Are they waiting for A/C? Do the dirty deviants want food? Or are they waiting for people to fall asleep so they can walk on folks' faces with their germ-infested feet? Do they infiltrate to spread cow pies in someone's house so they can laugh? What??? 

 

How did four flies get in my house???

 

 

Parent Practicals

 A few weeks ago when the podiatrist placed a death grip on my sore toe, I gritted my teeth.  I wanted to jerk my toe away.  As soon as he felt me tense, the doc calmly said, "I'm just going to look at it."  I snorted.

My dad always made that exact comment during my childhood.  I knew that meant my dad, and now the doc, planned to 'look' at the toe, first, of course, but that they each planned to proceed 'operating' without telling me. I've had numerous splinters removed with a needle by the art of looking.  The thought of my childhood and my dad made me smile.  I knew this trick.

Traveling down Memory Lane, I remembered my favorite expression Dad used to say during children's arguments -- "I don't care who started it; I'm going to end it."  The arguments presented to Dad by each kid who blamed another sibling for causing a problem, always ended quickly.  I smile now realizing how well Dad ended any commotion.  He didn't have to be a judge listening to cases.  He simply banged the gavel, ending each case with his saying.

Sure, all of us siblings knew the occasional reminders we received during childhood -- "Don't bang the screen door," and "Turn off the basement light," but we also heard, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."  If any of us pouted, a parent or even grandparent, would say, "Go to the garden and eat worms.  Big, fat  juicy ones, and little, squirmy, skinny ones.  Oh, how they wiggle when they squirm." 

Mom's warning which came to us during serious times, "Wait till your dad gets home," always struck fear into my heart if my crime seemed that severe.  I knew if Mom directed that comment to me, I faced big trouble, and I probably needed to do what my middle brother used to do -- put on all my underwear as padding in case my dad would find it necessary to take his belt off and beat my butt. 

Maybe comments from your parents have stuck in your minds, too.

Baby Toad Gallivants!

(*The first three snippets about Baby Toad are on my FB May, 3, 20, and 21 if you need to catch up.)

 

 Pulling "Zombie," my car, to the garage door last week, I discovered Wart, the baby toad, catching early evening air.  Yep, he had sneaked out the hole under the garage door and must have decided to party with the wild, yard rabbits, and catch a few bugs for his bedtime snack.

 

Wart did not hop to get through the opened garage door to safety when he saw me, so I directed my conversation to him, and snapped.

 

"Look, Buddy!  You are on your own.  I've tried putting you outside several times after you showed up in the garage in the late Spring, but you refuse to go hang out with your family.  I won't be looking for you every time I come in or out.  I have things to do.  Do you understand?"  

 

No ribbit response from Wart.  

 

I continued.  "Just so you know, two summers ago, I backed over one of the four toads in my garage.  Hop, Skip, and Jump's cousin croaked.  I left his body on the garage floor for a week to make sure Cousin was dead.  Don't let this be you!  You're safer outside!"

 

Wart smiled and ignored me as I slammed the garage door shut.  Evidently, he decided to pull an all-nighter.  Toads must have guts.

 

 

To: Uncontrollably-crazed Huggers

I am not a hugger. Never have been. Don’t need to hug. Don’t really want to hug. Find hugging gross. Yes, gross. 

 Bandwagon masses advocate hugging as a way to communicate. Even though I did not grow up hugging, I do like touching by cuddling, hand holding, patting on a shoulder, touching an arm, flirting, and intimacy. Hugging is a different story. 

 I do not want huggers pressing their hot, sweaty, oily, and stinky bodies on me. I do not want anyone to rub their deodorant, perfume, or cologne on me. I do not want someone unleashing their bad breath on me. I also do not want to smell a hugger’s personal, lingering body odors. Farts and vaginal odors are not welcome. Please do not, as a bear hugger, engulf and implant my face into a shoulder while cutting off my breath. I also do not need a hugger to imprint their saliva kisses or bed bugs on me. I do not like hugging.

Talk to me instead, Hugger. Use your words to communicate.  Words are beautiful. Write to me if you need to do so. Hugging does not increase your communication of care and support for me, so please do not hug me ... unless you're Javier Bardem, Tom Selleck, Harrison Ford, someone intelligent in my age group ... which is another story.

Dinosaur Ages

 

As I've entered the Dinosaur Ages, I notice medical/health people are nipping at my heels and barking.

What? I need a bone density test every two years? Oh? My colonoscopy is every five years instead of 10 because the doc removed a few, non-problematic polyps? My dentist wants my teeth cleaned and checked every six months? Crap. I need a mammogram every six months because I have calcium deposits? The endo doc wants to talk to me about parathyroid surgery? Again? More x-rays and ulta-sounds? Checking again on kidney stones? A pap test again? Labs? Lots of Labs? Eek!

I know these medical professionals are protecting me and keeping me safe. But all this biting and barking makes me want to turn into a cheetah instead of a dinosaur so I can run ... fast! 

 

 

Surname Concoction

The recent plethora of creating hyphenated/compound surnames makes me wonder how far this tradition might go.  Do people like adding extra surnames to be important and give themselves social status?  Do parents want their child to be reminded of both of them?  If there are no male descendants, will the surname become extinct unless it is automatically added to others’ surnames? 

If Linda Kemper marries Tony Rosato, does she decide to add her last name to his and become Linda Kemper-Rosato so she can be equal, or not forget her family history?  Or, should Linda and Tony save adding a name for their unborn children?  Therefore, if Linda and Tony have a child, Nicholas, does the child become Nicholas Kemper-Rosato?

What if the son, Nicholas Kemper-Rosato, meets Kinsey and they decide to marry?  Does Kinsey Worthington-Marshall now become Kinsey Worthington-Marshall-Kemper-Rosato?  Would her married name, instead, become Kinsey Kemper-Rosato after she throws out her maiden name to just have the traditional two hyphenated surnames, or does she drop one of each?  Which ones would she drop? 

What about Nicholas and Kinsey’s child, Natalie?   Does Natalie now have two or four surnames?  Does she receive one name from each parent’s side, and have a brand new surname, or does she simply take her father’s last name?  Is she Natalie Marshall-Rosato or Natalie Kemper-Rosato?  Or…. Is she Natalie Worthington-Marshall-Kemper-Rosato?  There seem to be no rules.

Personally, I would be confused by all the hyphenated names.  I’ve seen people looking for another person, yet the seeking person doesn’t realize the importance of using both names, or remember them.  When looking for Susan Brown-Johnson, no one will find Susan under “J.”   She’s alphabetized under “B,” not “J” now.

In addition to much mayhem, what happens when divorces are thrown into the surname mix?  Should some last names be discarded then, or confusingly changed into another new hyphenated name?

Why not let a newly married female keep her maiden name rather than change her name to her husband’s?  Why not let the children use their father’s last name?

I think a kid would rather write a name quickly, like Ginger Allen, rather than the poor, encumbered kid who has to write or sign, Alexis Reavely-Henderson, a zillion times. Heaven Forbid!  I could be Cynthia Bachmann-Todd-Beckert-Hartmeyer and that’s without the marriage/divorce crap, or middle names, thrown into the mix!   It sounds far less complicated to me to simply be Cindy Hartmeyer.

My New Car Makes Me Cuss!

My new car makes me cuss!  Yes, the CRV makes me cuss.  The CRV may only be a year old, but cuss and wilder words pop out of my mouth each time I’m behind the wheel.  The CRV simply smiles.

Loaded with modern electronic equipment, the CRV makes the driver’s language not easily controlled.  I’ve even had the dealer turn off most of the annoying electronic features, as possible, but cussing occasionally wafts the vehicle air. 

Soon after my purchase, an LOL (Little Old Lady) in front of my vehicle decided to turn right, and elongated her excruciatingly slow turn into 45 seconds on a 35 MPH street.  The CRV flashed “Brake” and then another "Brake" at me, before barking a beeping warning.  I yelled aloud to the car, “I don’t need you crabbing and flashing at me!”  He smiled again, and I directed my yelling to the LOL and her car in front of me.  “Get that piece of bleepity crap off the road, you stupid blanket-blankety Dumb Bleep! You don’t need a century to turn right!”  I probably should have been patient, and probably didn’t need to cuss, but I felt satisfied.  My car smirked.

Maybe other drivers are smiling, but try driving in the computerized CRV when a snow squall bombards the vehicle.  When this happened to me driving in front of Sam’s Club, lights and symbols illuminated the dashboard.  I refused to pull over, and finished driving myself home, muttering and cussing under my breath.  “Hades Fire!  This car is new, and it has problems?”  Once I pulled into the garage, I looked up weird car symbols in the driving manual, and then had to call the dealer.  According to him, when the radar sensor on the vehicle gets blasted by poor weather conditions, symbols and messages flash and turn on.  No wonder I cuss in the car.

Maybe some people think they already know the plethora of modern vehicles’ acronyms?  No, I’m not referring to the easy AWD or ABS, and if anyone thinks ACC refers to Air Conditioning, that is incorrect – ACC means Adaptive Cruise Control.  I love these newer acronyms – LKAS, BSI, LDW, ROM, LSF, SMS, CMBS, VSA, and TPMS.  Ha! Do I also need a new driving feature showing a coffee cup symbol so the steering wheel vibrates, beeps, and sends a message if driving lasts more than 30 minutes and the car thinks my attention is lacking? To reset this feature, the driver has to pull over, stop, unbelt, and open the car door.  Do I need a vehicle so complicated now that I can’t drive it without hassle, pain, and cussing?

I’ve named my CRV.  His name is “Zombie.”  On one occasion as I drove, I could have sworn the vehicle flashed “Brains” at me, like he might eat the brains of the car and/or driver in front of him.  I realized moments later that he flashed “Brakes” at me rather than “Brains,” but the vehicle made more sense with the misreading message.  Zombie and I both cuss now at the pissy drivers near us.  We should eat their brains, but Zombie and I are afraid we’d overeat.  In addition, we’re not sure many of the drivers and their vehicles have “flipping brains.” 

Driving down the “main drag” makes Zombie freak.  He often warns me the other drivers are bird “brains,” flashing “Brains, Brains, Brains.” Obviously, he makes me cuss.  Maybe it’s a good thing that no one can read our lips as Zombie and I travel.  “Don’t pull in front of us, you crazy Dirt Ball!”  “Stay in your freaking lane, Nut Case! Can’t you drive?”  “Get off your cell phone, bleepity Soccer Mom!” “Passing a line of cars on a double line, you flipping Punk?” #@&$%*...  Yes, my CRV, Zombie, smiles.

Salad, Salad, Salad

Perusing packaged salad and lettuce at the grocery today, I finally selected the “Drunk Bunny Salad,” commonly referred to as “Spring Salad Mix.”  A few weeks earlier, after my adult kids served me a new salad they made one night while visiting, I innocently asked, “What is this?” at the dinner table.

I should add that a number of years ago my son’s heart probably stopped beating momentarily when he realized I served iceberg lettuce as all my salads.  He explained then that the popular iceberg lettuce I had grown up with in the 50’s had little nutritional value.  It was mostly water, he explained. 

He determinedly tried again years later to upgrade me into choosing Romaine lettuce, and preferably, a Romaine blend.  I only half-hearttedly purchased Romaine then because I still liked iceberg lettuce.  I thought Romaine appeared too many times later with bad news updates about safety while being pulled from shelves and restaurants sporadically. 

After my original question,"What is this?" both my son and daughter-in-law explained that night what a healthy salad choice this new mixture in the salad was.  “The Spring Salad Mix contains spinach, arugula, chard, and other good things, plus it has nutritional value.  It’s balanced,” they explained.

After taking several bites, I commented on the salad.  “This looks like green stuff from my back yard that resembles the stems seen hanging out of drunk bunnies’ mouths as they drink dandelion wines, party, and cavort happily around my yard most nights.  This seems to be a drunk bunny salad.”

Thus, this salad mixture was appropriately named.  My kids now know it as such, and if someone does notice bunnies gallivanting around a yard with stems drooping from the sides of their mouths, or in people’s mouths, they will know the bunnies and humans are eating healthily.

Now, it seems my millenials are even more knowledgeable about better, more nutritional food choices.  That’s why today I actually picked up the spring salad mix at the grocery … defiantly, and brought it home.  I do try to adjust my dinosaur attitude into a more modern one … at times.  Maybe I should just have a little wine with my Drunk Bunny Salad and the stems that could hang out of my mouth as I eat  this week, eh?  Riesling, or Sauvignon Blanc, or Chardonnay, or ….

Sleep in Heavenly Peace

One morning my church's congregation took turns choosing Christmas hymns for everyone to sing.  As expected, one delusional music lover chose a song, considered popular, but it was simply a common song -- "Silent Night."  My hands started shaking and it felt like hives were under my skin's surface, soon to emit in allergic reaction to my intense dislike and the singing of the song.  Occasionally rebellious, and almost allergic, I sat quietly and "silently," and did not join everyone in the singing of "Silent Night."  I do not like "Silent Night." 

I cannot fathom why so many believe what so many others profess -- "It's the most beautiful song." No, it's not.  Even the lyrics don't mean much except there was silence, sleep, and a baby boy.  As a child, I always liked "The First Noel,"  "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," and "We Three Kings" as Christmas hymns.  They told stories, and their music sounds appealed to me.  I can't say the same for "Silent Night."  "Silent Night" was never on my list as "interesting."  The lyrics were written several years before being added to quickly written music with a guitar as the organ was broken.  The organ was the only thing silent.

Silent nights do not exist unless someone's deaf, or someone's using a headset.  "Silent" nights do not exist.  If you listen any evening outside, you will hear numerous, natural sounds -- an owl's cry, the wind whispering through the tree branches and leaves, the chirping of a night insect, water soothing and lapping, or even dripping, the rustling of grasses as something moves, and the thud of a nocturnal prey taken.

There was no "silent" night.  Mary was certainly not quiet or silent giving birth to her baby boy.  Labor is physical work, including moans and grunts.  I don't think Joseph would have been silent either.  Supportive words and murmurs would have helped.  Even Jesus would have made baby cries. 

Silent nights must be some frequently tired, sleep-deprived person's dream.  This music and some repeated lyrics seem so boring it might put other folks, including even a baby, to sleep.  Sure, that will bring peace and silence to folks as the slowly boring song puts them all to sleep.

As an adult, I do have to wonder why "O Little Town of Bethlehem" doesn't receive more adulation. What about "O Holy Night"?  Even "Hark the Angels Sing" and "Joy to the World" are far more energy-filled and interesting than "Silent Night" can ever dream it can be.

Please don't choose "Silent Night" when you have a choice.  Sing it in your shower if you must, and torture yourself.  I wish you all  a "silent" night.  Be bored, holy, and peaceful.  Enjoy your sleep.

Old … Old … Older … Bam! Dinosaur!

Numerous thoughts, conversations, and incidents on aging have imprinted themselves into the tangles of my mind in the last year, and I find myself mulling many intricacies of aging.  My mother just turned 91, and I am approaching dinosaur status, so these seem relevant issues for me.  This week when my son and daughter-in-law came home to clean the basement and garage for me, aging came to the forefront of our conversation, uninvited, I might add. 

My son held up a leather bag, asking what it was. 

It had my bowling ball in it.  “The ball was made especially for me,” I said.  “It is a 13 pound ball, and it was made to fit my fingers.  It’s just right.”

This explanation did not satisfy my kid.  “It’s too heavy for you,” he replied.  “When’s the last time you went bowling?”

I couldn’t answer his question.  I didn’t know.

My daughter-in-law chipped in.  “When do you plan to go bowling again, Cindy?”

I couldn’t answer her question.  I didn’t know.  But it did sound like a good idea, and loads of fun.

Going back to my son’s previous comment, I defended my bowling ball and me, “The ball is not too heavy.  It’s just right for me.  You can’t find 13 pound balls most places.”

My son returned the attack.  “You need to build up to throwing a ball that heavy.  You should be using a lighter ball, Mom.   Bowling alleys have lots of 12 pounders, as well as 10 pounders.  Those would be better for you.”

The kids were relentless, and placed my bowling bag, shoes, and ball in the bag to go to Goodwill. 

Were my kids right?  Was I becoming too old and fragile to throw my own bowling ball anymore?  Egads!  Were my bones aging?  Am I really getting that old? 

Conversation about aging appears everywhere.  Three women sitting next to me in Starbucks as I type this are discussing plans about the future.  One suggested the other one write a best seller and buy a big house for everyone.  The second woman replied she needed to move and write in Florida because she cannot do winter here in Ohio anymore.  “I’m afraid of slipping and falling,” she explained.  Yep … falls and aging.

My 90-year old mother fell (for the umpteenth time) last summer, breaking her ankle while I was on vacation with my sister.  My mother has spent the last year in assisted living for her own safety and well-being.  She’s also had major surgery and lots of physical, occupational, and speech therapy.  She now walks with a walker, although for a couple of periods of time, she had to be wheeled everywhere in a wheelchair.  Currently, she’s eating a minced diet and drinking nectar-thickened liquids, as well as constantly chewing invisible gum.  Research says swallowing issues are related to aging and dementia.  I don’t want to fall.  I don’t want swallowing issues. 

Assisted living, on the other hand, has appeal.  I’ve been telling one of my brothers that we need to consider that as an option.  We could each have a large apartment, our own parking space, and even a pet if we wanted.  We wouldn’t have to do grocery shopping, would have a staff to cook our own meals, wouldn’t have to pay electric, water, trash, or sewer bills, and wouldn’t have house insurance, or upkeep on a house.  We wouldn’t have to do yard work or pay for it either.   There are planned activities and entertainment as well as two free alcoholic drinks on Fridays.  In addition, there’s a button to push if you need help, and nursing staff available for emergencies.  Someone else cleans your apartment and empties your trash.  There are folks around if you are lonely, and if you want to be alone, you can.  What’s not to like?  We could paint wheelchairs orange like the Dukes of Hazard car and race each other down the hallways.

My 91-year old mom has been drawing eyebrows on in two different places.  (At least, she cares about her appearance.) One evening I asked my son and daughter-in-law if I drew my eyebrows on in two different places, one up high and one down low when I was 90, if they would tell me.  They laughed, and responded, “No,” in unison.  At this rate, who knows what I might look like or do at that age.  Scary.

For several years now, my knees have been non-cooperative, arthritis aliens.  It takes me a few extra seconds to get up, and get my sea legs back if I have been sitting for any extended length of time.  My ortho doc told me several years ago when I couldn’t take the pain anymore, I’d be back.  Since then I have been taking an osteo-bioflex pill which he says won’t make my knees better, but might help keep them from getting worse.  I don’t want knee replacement.  I have too much to do to be out of commission and in pain for any length of time. Why do body parts have to wear out? 

Last summer I took myself to one of the local cemeteries to check on prices for a plot after several friends had family members pass away.  I purchased a “space” and whatever goes with it, and am making payments on it.  I figured this way I would be on top of the game and my kids wouldn’t have to worry about this detail.  My daughter accepted it matter-of-factly, but I think it freaked my son out a wee bit.   I really don’t want to croak right now.

 In my job, I see so many elderly folks with physical problems, and so many lonely ones with no family or friends.   My heart breaks for them.  Aging is not for the weak.

Three years ago my iron dropped down to a low 22.  The doctor said I was severely anemic, but tests did not show a bleed anywhere.  When my son found out, he asked, “What have you been eating?”

I remember standing in the kitchen and answering, “Peanut butter, cheese sandwiches, and waffles.” 

His face froze momentarily, and in a shocked voice he said, “Waffles, Mom?  Really?”

“If it doesn’t go in the toaster or microwave, I can’t do it, Matt.  I’m too tired.  I barely have the energy to eat, let alone fix something to eat.”

Since that time, he asks repeatedly what I ate for dinner, and also if I have eaten  any broccoli.  I think he’s simply worried about me and is trying to encourage me to eat right so I stay healthy.  One night after work when he called, he asked what I had eaten.  I proudly said, “Carrots and celery sticks,” thinking that would calm him, but he responded, “Those are cruciferous vegetables, Mom, and full of water.  You need to eat broccoli, asparagus, brussel sprouts, and cauliflower.” On another occasion when I ate out with a friend, I took a picture of the broccoli I ordered with my steak, and sent it to him with the caption, “See, I’m eating my broccoli.”  I thought that might put his mind at rest.  Silly me.

I have always looked far younger than my age.  I have been cast opposite someone who was 20 years younger in a community theatre production.  I remember asking my teen-aged daughter if it didn’t look weird.  She said, “Mom, you look a lot younger, and Mike looks older, so you two look good together as a husband and wife.”   My son has even used me at the state fair for the carnies to guess my age, knowing they would probably be wrong and he would win a prize.  In the past year, however, I notice I have wrinkles and lines I never had before.  Maybe I should use some kind of cream to help me look better instead of just my morning moisturizer.  Aging is not my favorite wrinkle in time.

I bought a new couch that’s easier to get up from … for my older guests.   I also recently did a bathroom renovation.  I try to be cognizant of all I need to do for my own safety.  I had the old, slippery tub taken out (besides the new drywall put in), and I had a walk-in shower with grips installed in its place. While the guys were still working on the bathroom, I stubbed my toe on the metal grid along the bottom of the shower the first time I got in.  I may be aging, but I still retain my klutziness.  I guess age can’t change who I am.

In a month or so, I will be flying out to see my daughter in another state.  I’m not as capable as I used to be.  I’m not able to walk far distances with ease in the airport anymore.  Dang!!  Is that called getting older, too?  Soon, I’ll be at Dinosaur Status.  Ack!  As a dinosaur, I plan to do whatever I like.  As a raptor, I will be constantly flying up and around in spastic, wild abandon, doing my own unique but ancient activities.  Despite my birth day belying the fact, I’m not old yet … just older … more mature … and wiser.  Rooooaaaaarrrrr!  

Restaurant Frenzy

You want me to drive where, and go to dinner where? 

My answer is, “No.”

“No?” you question me.

“No. No way.”  I am adamant. 

My sister thinks I want to drive to the next county down to have dinner beside the river.  Why would any sane person want to spend a couple of hours on the road to go and have dinner?  Why would I want deer jumping in front of my vehichle as I traveled to and fro? 

It’s basically a burger type of place.  Heck!  I can find a good burger in town, or even in my kitchen.  It’s not that the particular restaurant she wants to dine in is all that special despite her claiming, “But it’s really good.”  No, it’s not.  It’s average … and quite a drive. I'm tired after I eat.

I won’t be sitting beside the river there. We have restaurants in this town beside the river. Besides, if I want to sit by the river and dine on a patio outdoors, as well as drink wine, I can go the opposite direction to a winery and restaurant in a different county.

“Let’s all go to a certain Amish restaurant in Amish country.” 

“No.”  Do I have “stupid” stamped on my head?  It’s a long drive, to and fro.  If I’m already there, I will stop, but I am not driving there just to eat.  I can find plenty of equally good, if not better, food, right here in town. 

What?  It’s Mrs. Miller’s Kitchen?  I don’t care. 

“But the buffet is really good.” 

What’s on the buffet that makes it so special?  Chicken?  Beef?  “No.” I can find chicken and beef right here in town at a good restaurant.

Is going to a restaurant in another town or county a status symbol of some sort?  “No, I don’t need to go so I can tell everyone, “Oh, hey.  I went to Smith’s Restaurant in Timbucktoo with friends.”  I don’t need to try and make others feel I’m special and I can only eat at out-of-town “special” restaurants.  Heck!  Who am I kidding?  I love simple, peanut butter sandwiches. Besides, I’m already special enough.

Does this out-of-town place have something unique about it that I can’t find the same right here?  If so, what’s so special about your special place?  Ah, there isn’t anything.  Exactly. 

Yes, I do like trying new things, and yes, I like being with friends and family, but my answer is still, “No.”  This small town offers steak, seafood, Italian, Chinese, upscale, and down-home cooking. Do I need anything else?  “No.”

I don’t have to constantly being searching for happiness.  I don’t need to drive miles and miles to find somewhere good to eat, or to find happiness. (I can actually invite my son and daughter-in-law to cook special meals for me occasionally here at my own house, or drive to theirs. They are awesome chefs.)  I’m an already happy person. Why would I want to drive to some out-of-the-way restaurant?  I don’t need to get out of town.  I ‘m not on the run.  Do I have the time for special trips to drive and eat?  No, not really.   :)

Ink Pen Mayhem

Do I need to wear shirts with pockets?  No. Do I need a pocket protector for my ink pen. No. Will an ink pen suddenly turn into an ink ninja, blasting ink in a 360 degree circle?  No.  Should I place the cap back on an ink pen or click its button up?  No.

Do you cap and click pens beside a sign-in sheet or in a multiple-user work place because you're trying to impress me?  You're not.  Do you think you're saving the environment by keeping the ink of the world from drying out?  You're not -- the pen will run out of ink first.  Do you recap the pen in the bank drive-thru's tube because you think the ink will get on something?  No, it lays sideways in the tube.  Instead, you're hurting the arthritic person who has trouble removing the cap.

I write with my pen. That's what most folks do with their pens.  Please don't add unnecessary actions to my day.  Please don't force me to uncap or click a pen when there's no need to do so.  Please don't force me to shake some sense into you. 

Use your brain.  Save someone's sanity. Leave the pen ready to use. Stop capping and clicking.

Help Needed

Stressed and frantic from all the commotion in my life this week, my brain stopped working. I couldn't figure out the new diabetic meter..Yes, it was a mechanical problem again. I couldn't even turn on the meter to get started. Logically, I knew that meant I should check and see if there were even batteries inside.

To open the battery compartment door was not a piece of cake. Even though I pushed the little latch thing over and over again, the door did not open, so I found a baby screwdriver to help me. I pried and pried to no avail, and finally used brute force to open the compartment door.

I discovered danged plastic strips around the batteries which evidently needed removed.  I pulled to no avail.  They didn't peel off.  What was I to do?  I didn't want to break the new meter and have to pay for another one, so I called the pharmacy and decided to go in for help.

As I whipped the bag with the meter, all the supplies, the baby screwdriver, and directions up on the counter, I noticed the writing on the bag at the same time Karen from the pharmacy did, and we both started laughing.  Obviously, I needed help.  Who else but me would throw all of her diabetic supplies into a sack marked “Coblentz Chocolate Factory”and head for help?

Bear Watch

I love bears.  I always have. Bears are fascinating creatures. I even like Nabisco'sTeddy Grahams.  I won't, however, be heading to the movies this month to see Paddington Bear 2.

I know the masses (old and young alike) ooh and aah over what they consider to be a wonderful Paddington bear and movie.  For me, though, Paddington Bear is about the most annoying, clump of a bear I've met. I don't know what it is about him that sets me on edge, but I'm simply not fond of Paddington Bear.  I think there are other more captivating and endearing bears.

Cartoon bears are far more fascinating and funny than Paddington could ever dream to be.  Some of the first bears I encountered and still love today are Yogi Bear and Boo-Boo. Ranger Smith had his hands full every episode with those two hungry bears. Even minor characters like Cindy Bear had personality.  The Hillbilly Bears certainly had character, too. I loved Paw's mumbling as he was forced to deal with the rest of the family, usually from his front porch rocker or traipsing after Maw, Floral, and Shag along the rocky path.  The Berenstain Bears are also adorable Bear County folks, entertaining and teaching important lessons that everyone needs to think about in their lives. Paddington, on the other hand,acts like a lump of down-trodden coal buried in the mud compared to all the other bears. Paddington has no personality.

Acclaimed writer William Faulkner wrote "The Bear," one of his best-known and fascinating works. "The Bear" is considered one of the best stories from the 20th century and deals with the complexity of soical problems and the loss of the wilderness. Interesting true accounts along with shows like "The Life and Times of Grizzly Adams" and "Gentle Ben" have appeared for the pleasure of many. The classic and awesome Winnie the Pooh offers so much delight and insight into Life. Winnie and all of his pals are phenomenal characters. Paddington, however, should just disappear... for good.

Boyd's Bears designed hundreds of bears throughout the years for kids (and adults) to love. Teddy Ruxpin captured the heart of many.  Even Smokey the Bear is way cooler than Paddington.

So,as you may be able to tell, I won't be seeing Paddington Bear 2 at the movies. I'd rather stare at a blade of grass for a couple of hours, instead. Paddington Bear simply needs to go away before anyone's brain is harmed by his boring nothingness..

Ack! My Ears!

I heard this on the local television news broadcast tonight -- "could of went" and "what we have saw." 

Ack!  I need to take deep breaths.  There's no sense in calling or e-mailing ... again.  Calm down, Cindy.  No one cares. Evidently, people graduate in broadcast journalism and no one corrects the students' non-standard grammar nowadays. It must not be important for a professional.  Expecting good communication skills on air is rather silly, I guess.

(Did you know that America is currently ranked 24th in Reading, 38th in Math, and 24th in Science on PISA -- Programme for International Student Assessment?  I wonder why.)

Ack! My Eyes!

*First, let me make this clear: This blog entry is not intended for those who wear leggings responsibly. The comments in this blog are directed, instead, toward a select group of legging wearers who insist on wearing leggings several sizes too small, and who also choose not to wear longer tops with the leggings.

I know I'm starting a firestorm here, and easily offended fashionistas will rant they can wear whatever they want, and that no one has to look at them if others don't like their clothing choices, but, dang it! Sometimes it's extremely difficult not to notice certain sights.

With that being said, do you really think you look good wearing leggings that wrap around and mold each individual butt cheek like Saran wrap? Do you have a need to wear leggings so tight that the seam amazingly disappears up into the unknown darkness of your butt crack, where no sunlight shines?  Those leggings are too small.

What stops you from wearing the tunics, adorable little dresses, or longer tops and sweaters that were designed to go with the leggings? (You do realize these are not pants, Gals; they're leggings. There's a difference.) 

Do you not realize leg, tummy, and butt fat jiggles when you wear skin-tight leggings, drawing everyone's eyes to the shaking motion?  Do you not know the bold, highly unusual, and extremely colorful and bright designs printed on some of these leggings will draw anyone's eyes ... even in dim lighting? 

Not every fashion trend is right for every person, just like not everyone looks good in the same colors. Some people really should not wear leggings, just like some people do not look good in turtle necks or look their best in midi-length skirts. Individualize. When your leggings look like you're naked and you're only sporting tattoos, I can't help but notice. Recently, when an older woman seated next to me at work, whispered, "Look!  That girl has matching tattoos on her legs," I whispered back, "No, those are leggings."  Yeah, anybody with eyes will notice, and their eyes will burn like wildfires afterwards from the sight emblazoned in their memory.
  

Yes, I know people feel they can wear whatever they want, but that is only within reason.  You don't have the right to submit others to your boobs or butt or private parts unless you are at a naked beach or nudist camp.  When your rear seam disappears somewhere up inside your nether regions, however, it can't be comfortable to wear those too small leggings, and I have to wonder if you've looked in the mirror at your backside. It's not the best look.

Save the floozy, painted-on look for home or the bedroom. I don't want to see your camel toe.  Even pajama pants in public would be a better choice.

Please save my eyes, and the rest of the world's; dress appropriately in public. It's said that if you want to attract a man, it's what he can't see, and can only imagine, that drives him crazy.  Extremely tight leggings with short tops leave little to the imagination -- the leggings are just a different color than your skin ... most of the time.

To Facebook Noodleheads:

And, for Pete's Sake, stop telling me to copy and paste. If I want to copy and paste something, I will ... without you telling me to do so!!!

(You know you can just copy or re-type part of the post you like without telling everyone they need to copy and paste, right?!)

I beg you to please stop your annoying, juvenile, anal copy-and-paste behavior before I lose total control, show up wherever you are, and shake you until you come to your senses!!! I don't want to end up locked in the Crazy House. If you can't refrain, then please just delete me -- I can't take anymore.

The Case of the Mysterious Beeping

As most of you who know me realize, there's always some craziness in my life -- I like to think it's just because I am an exciting person :).

 For the last three months, however, my computer has been beeping at precisely 1:09 A.M. and 3:09 A.M. every night. It beeps 14 times each time and then stops. No one seems to know why these mysterious noises occur.  I have been having trouble with Time-Warner's e-mail, so I thought initially it was a problem on their end, but lately I'm afraid some hacker, or possibly an alien, has decided to use my computer for unexplained purposes.

The weirdest thing in this nightly beeping saga occurred, however, while I vacationed in Vermont at the beginning of September. Even when I turned my cell phone off  in the hotel room at night, unexplainable beeping occurred at 1:09 and 3:09 A.M. each night to wake my cranky sister and me up.  Was my cell phone talking to my computer back in Ohio?

Saturday, Matt, my son, finally came down from Columbus to see if I had lost my marbles, or I, indeed, heard beeping in the middle of the night.  He decided to sleep on the living room couch so he could be on the scene to check my computer in the middle of the night. He set his alarm so he could get up at 1 and 3 and be ready at the computer to find whatever was causing such chaos in my life.

I fell asleep in one of the recliners so I could help if needed.  When the computer began its usual beeping, I saw him looking at the monitor and clicking on a couple of things, before swinging around in the computer chair. He picked up an object off the table, tilted the object toward his ear, and asked, "What's this?"

Surprisingly, I could see in the dim light he held my blood sugar monitor which I keep beside the computer. It took a moment for my sleep-riddled brain to think.  It couldn't be the battery as the low battery light would display. There are alarms on a blood sugar meter? Who knew. Not me.
   

Matt sighed.  I sighed.  It all made sense.  My computer didn't beep; my blood sugar meter in the sack beside the computer did.  My phone didn't beep in the hotel room; it was the meter in my purse beside the phone.  Somehow I must have bumped the buttons on the meter in a certain sequence to set two different alarms on the meter?

Matt googled how to turn off the alarms so all the crazy, pre-dawn commotion would cease.  Back to sleep for both of us. Dreams of Donald's Donuts were in the air.  Case of the Mysterious Computer Beeping solved.