Today I am grateful for unexpected pictures. Sometimes I write the blog and then find the picture. Sometimes it takes longer to find the right photo/graphic than it does to write the piece. Sometimes I see a picture and write the blog. And sometimes I see a picture and the blog writes itself.
Like today. I have no idea when or why Himself took this selfie. He doesn’t take selfies. Ever. I’m sure he didn’t know he did it.
He probably had no idea he was even holding his phone, not to mention that it was on camera. . .and reversed to do a selfie. He might have thought it was the remote control, or checkbook, or a slice of his perpetual toast, based on the shadowy, confused look on his face.
But when I found this picture that had somehow transferred to my phone, so near to when we experienced the solar eclipse, I just howled. A perfect, unexpected picture of the Total Kitchen Eclipse of Himself, in the diamond ring phase! You’re welcome! BING! Heartprint.
Today I am grateful to give swim suit advice. Oh boy. Talk about beating a spandex horse! But I really feel it is necessary to do a service to those of you who don’t want to wear a swim suit, but still want to enjoy the water.
I have seen people my age or above in bikini’s, blouson, and full short spandex outfits. Sure you might not want to wear the full short thing at the beach, but hey, why not?
The durable swim suit I wore for over a year, finally bit the big one. All of the inside spandex-keep-that-stuff-in-place stuff was gone. Disintegrated. And it felt wonderful! It was easy to get on & off and I hated to give it up.
But it was literally not containing the “girls” so it was time. I wouldn’t want to injure anyone during water aerobics class, cuz I get it going pretty good. But with that saggy, baggy, non-boob holding piece of loose fabric, everything wasn’t going in the direction it was supposed to. Yikes.
I remember getting a new suit years ago and wearing it to the community pool, where I met my friend. I put it on at home and it looked as great as any suit could on a fluffy old woman.
All was well driving the short distance to the pool. All was well taking my coverup off and walking down the ramp to get in the pool. Then we started walking and swimming.
What the serious hell? The bottom of the suit started crawling up like a golden retriever who wants to sit on your lap. . .slowly, discretely, determined. But it didn’t crawl up in front. It crawled up in back, until it was wedged like no grade school wedgie was ever wedged. I felt like I was dangling from a tree by a nasty, industrial strength thong.
I had to tell my friend. We laughed hysterically. While we were in the water. But I literally did not have the strength to dig that sucker out of my ass crack without throwing out a shoulder or breaking a thumb. She had to get out first, get my towel and hand it to me while I was still in the water, so I could cover up before letting any part of that nightmare out of the water. There are children in that pool. Respect.
So, if you are choosing a swim suit, be sure you bend over at the waist and touch as close as you can to the floor. If it stays out of your butt crack, you should be good. If not, fugetaboutit. Choose again.
Also, for the fluffy girls out there, be cautious of the “thigh-cut”, which means that it is cut high at the leg. While this might seem like it’s made for you, it wasn’t. It was made for someone who has no hip at all, even if you found one in a size 82! Don’t be fooled. This suit will either injure or embarrass you, probably both.
Next, when you find a reasonable suit, probably tummy, ass, boob and everything but rent-control, save yourself when you are crawling into it. First, go to the bathroom because as soon as you start shoving yourself into that nightmare and get it all the way up, you will need to “go.”
Trust me on this one. I tell Himself that if I am ever in a medical situation where I am unable to go to the bathroom, especially BIG bathroom, he should wave my swim suit in front of me and I’ll shit like a goose! Sorry, not sorry, for being gross.
Take a deep breath! You’re going to need it. As you pull that “new” suit up, don’t let it bunch. Pull it straight up, piece by piece, section by section, tucking in each flarby part of yourself as you go. Or is it just me? Don’t let it clump up. If it starts to roll, it will cut off the blood to your extremities and you will be frantic to find a scissors!
When you are done with the pool and taking it off, peel it down like a banana, pulling one section at a time, freeing all of the parts that have been held by the tourniquet that is a new, spandex swim suit. Again, don’t let it roll! It will snap at your knees, cut off the blood and send you flopping on the ground like a demented goldfish that escaped the bowl.
Since I will do anything to be able to go in the pool, I don’t care how difficult or even disgusting it is to pour myself into a new suit. For what it’s worth, learn from me and take my swim suit advice. You won’t be sorry. BING! Heartprint.
Today I am grateful for what works. I know that I’ve stumped like a southern preacher on the travelling circuit about how well a little bit of kindness works. But it does work and now a lot of my friends are playing along and noticing it, too.
I love days when Himself gets back from whatever errand and says, “You know, I was ready to smack someone in the store today, but then I changed my thinking and it turned out to be a great moment for everyone around me!”
It’s happened more and more for him. And that makes him want to try it more and more. And that’s how it works.
A friend at water aerobics told me about an experience she had at the Dollar Tree. “This woman had to put back two boxes of cereal because she didn’t have enough on her government card to pay for it.” My friend had a BING moment, bought the cereal for the woman, and gave it to her outside of the store.
When she was telling me about it, both she and another friend insisted it was because of me and the blogs I write about how a little kindness goes a long way. Of course, I poo-pooed them, but they wouldn’t let me and insisted that both of them were better people for the awareness. How cool is that? And a little embarrassing.
Still, in my brain I felt like it was no big deal. Then I realized that when I first switched up my attitude, I sometimes had to struggle to find the good in way too many situations. Don’t get me started on tech help anywhere!
Now, after practicing and championing so frequently, it has become second nature. And I believe that’s how the world changes and hatred is diminished. With one little kindness at a time. The opportunities are everywhere.
Like the other day, also at the pool, which is my happy place, after class, there was a young woman on the deck with her client, a fully grown, hairy chested man with special needs. She gave him some instructions, I presume rules, but didn’t know for sure. Then he jumped into the deep end with glee and a tsunami splash felt in Cleveland.
Several of us were chatting in the shallow end and mentioned how much fun the man was having. The aide worker was doing her best at directing him from the deck. That did not stop him from standing on the cusp of the deep end and squealing and splashing like a baby who just learned how much fun water was. It is rare to see that kind of pure joy.
When I finally got out of the pool and was sitting on a bench, I said to the aide, “He is having so much fun! How refreshing!” She turned to me so quickly I thought she might topple into the pool.
“Oh! How kind! Thank you soooo much!” she said, nearly in tears. “I am having the absolute worst day and I really needed that. Most people just yell at me about him splashing.”
“I have never understood people whining about getting their hair wet in a pool!” I said. “You’re in a pool! If you want totally dry hair, go into the gym.”
I gave her a hug and felt the tension leave her body like a passing storm cloud that decided not to explode. Then I left. And to me it was over. Until yesterday, when I saw her, with the man in the pool again. This time she was also in the water. Her face lit up like a kid facing their birthday booty when she saw me. And the warm, fuzzy feeling of kindness given, received, and remembered, surrounded me again. And her, too, because I could feel it.
So, I’m done poo-pooing the importance of sharing these kinds of moments. They are not inconsequential. They are not the useless ramblings of a fluffy lunatic, with chin hairs and big mouth. They are validation for what works. And kindness works. Every time. BING! Heartprints!
Today I am grateful to look in the mirror. Oh boy. Mirrors. What those suckers show on the outside is frightening. Fluffy flesh, wonky eyebrows, unruly triple-chin hairs, beady eyeballs, blemishes, bruises, and what not! But that’s only if you look on the surface.
I had my comeuppance last week when a picture was taken. . .and posted on Facebook. . .of me and two water aerobic instructors wearing our pool Easter bonnets. And me in a swimsuit. Full-on. Which I have not allowed since I was two. And it smacked me right in my own righteous, opinionated, self. Ouch.
What an eye opener for someone who has made a blog career over encouraging people to be exactly who they are. How enlightening for me to have to eat my own words, choking on the truth of them, when I am the one gob-smacked by harsh reality.
I knew almost immediately that I was being an asshole for being bothered by that picture. I felt shame at people seeing me as I am, fluffy and didn’t see the fabulous part.
I jokingly, (sort of) told the picture taker that she was supposed to crop that sucker. I might have called her a bitch, but in a nice way. Ha-ha. We had a laugh about it and she said she never even noticed I was full-on in a swim suit. I believe her. Because others don’t see us as we see ourselves. And she has come to her own conclusions about acceptance of her own body, which is great.
So have I. Until I see a picture of me in a swimsuit, I guess. Isn’t it one of the greatest ironies of my life that I have always loved being in the water more than anything else. . .and yet I’ve always had a body no where near ready for a Sports Illustrated Swim Suit Edition or even National Geographic?
I know many women who will not wear a swim suit. Ever. I can’t be like them, because I would miss the water too much. I tried the cover-up suits with long skirts, but during water aerobics I would feel like I had landed in the pool wearing a parachute that I couldn’t untangle from.
I tried two-piece, large bottoms and longer tankini tops, but during class that top rolled up like an old canvass window shade. Annoying.
So now I have a regular one-piece, industrial strength, tourniquet-like spandex number that stays put when I flop around kicking and jumping and acting the fool in aerobics class. It holds my sagging parts together so none can escape to hurt someone. You’re welcome.
I don’t think about what I look like in that suit. I don’t care. Until a picture is taken. Yikes. Here we go again. And then I thought about it, really thought about it, for a solid week before writing this.
And I took this picture of me in the bathroom mirror, straight on, no make-up, hair not quite done, and hand cramping while trying to keep my phone away from my face. I looked deeper.
Did I see all of the crap mentioned in the first paragraph? Sure. I’m not blind. But I am also able to see more. I see a woman who is almost 74 years old, who has lived a full life. Too many of my friends have not been so lucky.
I see a child who tried to make everyone laugh because she was in so much pain herself. I see a young girl who struggled terribly in school because no one knew until she was in eight grade that she had a reading disorder, so they accused her constantly of not doing the work or reading the chapters, which she had, but they didn’t stick in her brain. I felt stupid and lazy. And now that same girl is a writer. Go figure.
I see a hippy (physically) teenager who loved singing and dancing, but felt insecure, like so many do, and covered it with that learned humor. I see a young adult who had married too young and had two boys by C-section, probably also too young, but hey, it is what it is. And I wouldn’t have done it any differently.
I see a single mom on welfare. I see a hairdresser and a friend and a daughter and a sister. I see a near death experience with a ruptured appendix and double knee replacement, hysterectomy, hernia operations along with countless other illnesses and surgeries.
I see a dog lover who doesn’t have dogs anymore. I see a cat lover who doesn’t have cats anymore. I see someone who has been married to an amazing man for almost 42 years, when many said it wouldn’t last a year!
I see all of my grandkids as extensions of me, even if they are from step kids. I see a grandma who can’t understand why anyone would not want to be called “grandma”, because it makes them feel old. I am happy with old, because I made it to old. And being a grandma is the best job I’ve ever had.
I look in that mirror and my life passes before me like a film on fast forward and I never see a skinny person. Not ever. Sometimes I’ve been a little less, sometimes a little more, but always just me. Even in that damned swimming suit that was posted on Facebook, with my legs looking misshapen like bad balloon draperies.
Imagine if I had hated myself all those years because of my outward appearance. I might have never dug deeper to become the kind, empathetic, talented, humble (ha-ha) person I am now.
So, I’m getting over my damned self and celebrating who I was and who I’ve become. I will improve my attitude and my thinking and accept what doesn’t seem to change. It is a choice to be happy, just like it is a choice to be kind.
I am going to look in the mirror with a new-found respect for what it took to get me to this point. I’m going to see more than the physical form standing there.
And if I waffle, you have my permission to virtually slap me back to reality, like the friend/bitch who took the swim suit picture did. What about you? Do you see the true you when you look in the mirror? BING! Heartprint.
(P.S. I wrote all of this heartfelt stuff, then realized that if I’m being honest, I HAD to post the picture of me in the swim suit that I’m talking about, too. Shit! That took a little self-lecturing, which seems to be what I do a lot of these days. I also would not post without permission from Vicki, who took the photo, and Lisa and JoAnn, who are in it with me. They agreed, so I’m out of excuses. I hate when that happens.)
Today I am grateful for first responders. But I am getting sick and tired of them being put in harms way because some idiot decided to take a short cut and fell off a crumbling cliff.
I know that sounds harsh. But remember this blog is chocked full of MY opinion and no one else. And that’s my opinion. People need to stop doing stupid stuff and then expecting our first responders to save their cookies!
Look, I get it. Some people are thrill seekers. Their life isn’t full of enough drama and excitement. The nightly news isn’t enough to raise their blood pressure, though I can’t understand why. Didn’t they have parents like mine who said, “If you do something stupid you better figure out how to get out of it.”
I read books and watch movies that take me all over the place an put me in all sorts of precarious situations that scare the crap out of me. I don’t have to find a steep cliff to see if I can scale it like Tom Cruise on steroids!
But many people jump over barricades and past warning signs, then go too close to the edge at the Grand Canyon. When they fall off, they are so grateful that someone hauled their stupid asses off a rock ledge with a helicopter umbilical cord. Lucky, lucky, stupid them! When we were there the ranger told us children die every week so someone can get a picture. Many of them sue, trying to get compensation for their own stupidity. What the hell is wrong with people?
On a lark they jump into cages in zoos; get selfies in Yellowstone with wild buffalo; and try to pet alligators in Florida. And we’re supposed to all go, “isn’t it too bad they had to kill that gorilla?” Or, “Oh those poor folks. Look at how many stitches they had to get when that WILD buffalo charged.” Or, “Didn’t that alligator look like he was sleeping?” You wake up, instead of trying to wake him.
Or, like what happened this week, they decide to take a different path to climb back to wherever, they are shocked when the rock surface crumbles underneath them, leaving them clutching to the one stuck rock on a bloody cliff so they don’t plunge to the surf below. Waiting for rescue.
Come on, people. Wake up. Pull your head out of your asses and stop doing stupid shit. If you even think someone might have to rescue you when it goes wrong, you probably shouldn’t be doing it. When you make the decision to be an idiot, you put others in harms way!
First responders are meant to rescue people from unexpected accidents. They shouldn’t have to waste their time and resources with your entitled, high-risk nonsense! Knock it off! BING! Heartprint smack!
Today I am grateful for the Netflix movie, “Mending the Line,” which was recommended by a good friend. Holy cow! What a film.
It took a little coaxing to drag Himself away from basketball games, but by the time I asked if he’d watch the movie with me, I think he was getting a little tired of them anyway.
Five minutes into it he was engaged. So was I, but I tend to engage quicker than he does, so that’s not a shock. I sometimes look over at him when we are watching a movie and when he leans forward, I know he’s been caught in the story. He leaned forward for the whole movie.
I’m not going to share what it is about or ruin the story for you, because I want you to watch it and feel your own emotions. Just know that it is well written, emotional, beautiful, and honest.
When the movie was over and the credits were running, we didn’t stop them to move on to something else. We sat there, both of us, staring into the screen until the last word scrolled away. Then we sat there longer. Silent. Absorbing what we had just witnessed, wiping the tears from our faces. Yes, Himself, too.
Why aren’t more movies like this made? You know, the ones with really, really good stories that unfold slowly, and make your heart flutter like the fresh beauty of clean sheets on a clothes line on a warm spring day.
Watch “Mending the Line” on Netflix as soon as you can. I doubt very much that you will be sorry. BING! Heartprint.
Today I am grateful to be a keeper of secrets. The bottom line is that you can’t trust someone who can’t keep a secret. We have probably all known someone who betrayed our confidence.
This is probably at the top of my mind because of the broo-ha-ha over the Duchess of Windsor’s medical issues. I can speculate privately, like everyone else. But the truth is, it’s none of my bloody business. And royalty and wealth notwithstanding, it’s never easy to share scary stuff with your kids. You have to put your own terror at bay. I feel for her. And I hope she has people near her she can trust.
Just like you can trust me, as witnessed by the five or six people who have told me things in confidence in the last month. What an honor to have people trust you. What an honor to know you can be trusted. What an honor to be chosen to carry precious secrets.
These confidences are nothing serious, or illegal, or life threatening. I’m not even going to hint on what they are about, because quite frankly, sometimes after I’ve been told something, I forget about it, way to fast. Some of that’s age, probably, but also a desire to place it someplace where it won’t pop out of my pie-hole unexpectedly.
Everyone has issues with something, including me. It could be family, kids, husbands, wives, step-kids, grandkids, finances, illness, medical stuff, family stuff, friend stuff, all kinds of stuff that weighs on them and causes them to fret. That’s where I come in.
I can listen, take it in, carry it, put it someplace in the periphery of my brain, and keep my big flapping mouth shut! Honest. If someone says, “Please don’t say anything to anyone.” I don’t. Not even to Himself, who probably wouldn’t hear me anyway.
If someone says you can tell (whomever) but not (whomever) I still don’t tell anyone, because what if I get the (whomever) wrong? I’m not that bright and not taking any chances.
I am not lobbying for anyone to share their own secrets. So many things are no one else’s business. They are private and personal and many like to keep it that way and that’s okay. But if your burden is heavy and sharing would help, I’m here, ready and willing to be the keeper of secrets. BING! Heartprint.
Today I am grateful for a satisfying surprise. We were on grandparent duty last Wednesday and, as always we had a blast.
These days we don’t just have to be there to collect her from the bus. Now the process has morphed into hauling her to tutoring at the library and she has also just started to play lacrosse, which happens right after.
Last week it was Pioneer Day at school so not only did we need to pick up her lacrosse equipment from the house, I also had to find sports clothes. For a picky kid. Aren’t they all picky?
It was easy. There was a pair of black shorts on a chair in the living room, which worked for me. Hey, I didn’t take the pink ones! She balked a little about them, saying they looked like boy’s underwear but I did a tap-dance about how they were athletic shorts, for sporty kids, because of the logo. Hey, she bought it.
Upstairs in that girl’s nightmare of a room I scrounged around and found long pants, a T-shirt and a long-sleeved shirt. Absolutely nothing matched, but it was the best I could find in her self-imposed clutter. They coulda been pj’s and I didn’t care.
Later, while she was changing in the library restroom, she declared, “Grammy, I’m not going to wear pants.”
“Really,” I said. “Don’t you think everyone will look at you funny running around the field in underwear?”
The kid gets my “humor” which is refreshing. She meant long pants, of course, a decision I think she regretted later, when the winds whipped up on those skinny bare legs.
When I had climbed the stairs earlier, to collect her stuff, I noticed the book that I wrote and her big sister illustrated. That happened long before she was born and was a created as gift for her cousin at Christmas. I did all of the page placement and assembly myself and took it to Staples to be published @ $20 a copy. High tech all the way. And no, it is not available anymore. Sadly.
But there it was. Resting on the step to be brought back upstairs. I left it there. And I’ve been tickled about it ever since, because it means she’s been reading it! Talk about a satisfying surprise! BING! Heartprint.
Today I am grateful that you feel my pain. I’m not talking about physical pain. I’m talking about technology pain. Oh boy, here she goes again! I’ll try to be brief.
The group of pulmonologists I see for CPAP supplies has gone out of business. Not just changed providers or whatever, but folded completely. Swell. They sent a letter with possible new places to go. Some only do lung stuff and don’t do CPAP stuff. Geeze.
I finally found a group, called, explained my plight and made an appointment. They casually told me to get my records from the other outfit. Too bad it wasn’t a video call because they would have seen my eyes glaze over, my tongue hanging out and a really stupid look on my face.
“How on earth do I do that,” I asked. You can imagine how I asked that in my brain, using the colorful language I am notorious for.
“Oh, it’s easy,” she said. “Just call them and they’ll send them over here.” In a perfect world!
So, I called, but their out-of-office voicemail reminded me that they don’t exist and I had to contact another outfit to snatch my records from and they would snatch $35 from me for the honor of doing this service for me to send them in an email. I could have spent $50 and had them sent to me via snail mail.
There was a strong warning to not keep checking on them because that process would cause delays. You know that just because they said that, I wanted to check every day for the entire month I was supposed to be waiting! I didn’t. Not once. But I did not have a lot of confidence I’d get them.
The records were emailed to me in a PDF file late last week. Since my appointment isn’t until April, I waited until I had the time to call the new place, find out how to get the records to them and send them out. Sounds so simple, right? Today was the day!
A quick phone call got me the email where to send them easily enough, punched it into my own email, attached the PDF document, which I felt so smug and smart about because I had remembered to save it. I wrote a nice note, and hit “send.” And got a quick response. YOUR FILE EXCEEDS THE SIZE LIMIT AND CANNOT BE SENT.
I tried everything I could think of to make it happen. First, I converted to WORD. Tried sending again. Same bullshit. I went back into the file, copy and pasted a chunk of it into a new file, figuring if I broke that sucker down, I could send it in 27 different emails if I had to. TOO FRIGGING BIG! Are you kidding me? Ten pages are too big! What the hell is in this thing?
I went back and saved the original PDF into my photo file, figuring it might send better that way, in full. MUTHER. . .TOO BIG TO SEND, ASSHOLE! The file screamed at me!
Now I was getting pissed. Something that should have taken 5 minutes was taking over an hour and I had no idea how to fix the problem, other than calling the new place and whining and bawling like a toddler told to finish her broccoli that, “. . .I just CAN’T DO it!”
So, I stopped. Listened to some of my own past advice and breathed. Went into my search agent and typed. . . “How in the serious hell do I send a file that my stupid email server says is too big to send, no matter what I do to the sonofabitch!” Or words to that effect.
Gmail! They said that large files can be sent through Gmail. I vaguely remember opening a Gmail account a billion years ago for whatever reason, so I grabbed my Granny Cheat Book and looked for the address and password. VOILA! There it was!
I dusted that sucker off, typed it in, attached the file, (it had to do something to it to shrink it, I think, but I don’t care) wrote a less than charming message requesting that they get back to me via my usual email, my cell phone, carrier pigeon, and/or by sending a plane over my house with “WE GOT YOUR FILE” on the tail flag dragging behind it.
Trust me, I’m not getting rid of that file, just in case. And I won’t be confident it sent until I hear back from them. But it sure does help to have all of you out there to feel my pain! BING! Heartprint.
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