Unicycles & Homemade Skateboards

Thursday, at an office luncheon, some of my table mates were discussing their childhood, the way they were raised, and the toys they had that made them happy. Horses were spoken of and I told them that I rode a unicycle that I dearly loved. They turned and quietly looked at me - so, I added that I was a poor child and could not afford the whole bike. I also mentioned that homemade skateboards were very popular when I was a kid. I explained that they were just scrap wood with old metal skate wheels carefully attached (screwed on by hand – we did not have the new fangled battery operated screwdrivers waaayyy back then). These boards did not have the sophistication of the boards kids buy today; they were not pretty and were very difficult to maneuver. Part of the excitement of riding very fast down a steep hill was not hitting mailboxes, parked cars, or, slow moving pedestrians as our friends watched us. I flew off of my share of homemade skateboards by just hitting curbs…and the occasional mailbox or parked car.

When I went to bed last night my mind wandered; I reviewed the week and remembered the conversation at the luncheon. It then wandered on to my lack of having something to do on a Friday night and it suddenly struck me that my lack of a love life and old unicycles and homemade skateboards have a lot in common. With a unicycle you ride alone – you cannot share a ride unless you hold a circus union card, and I was never quite that talented. With a homemade skate board you look until you find a suitable piece of wood and change it (we women like to change things). When adding the wheels the screwing part is important - the age of the wood is a factor - and you can eventually run into obstacles that knock you down. When you are knocked down too often it gets harder to get back up. Traveling uphill after a fun ride can make your chest hurt. 

If how you play as a kid is going to turn into the life you lead when you are older, I regret that I did not learn to play the banjo. Damn. I could be pickin’ and grinnin’.

Limping Along

I have recently had the misfortune, and difficulty, associated with limping due to an issue with my right leg. When you are an elderly, zaftig, woman with a limp, there are some realities that you absolutely must face:

1)      Hunched over, while pushing a walker really does make your butt look bigger.

2)      It is very important to wear a good bra; swinging to and fro will throw you off balance.

3)      Swinging to and fro will remind you of the song, ‘Do your boobs hang low, are they swinging to and fro?’ As hard as you may try, you will not remember the rest of the words to that stupid ditty, but the tune WILL be stuck in your head. Forever.

4)      It is impossible to hold in your stomach and limp at the same time.

5)      If you really need to pee your leg will hurt worse.

6)      On a bad leg your knee high stocking will drop down and pool around your ankle. You will not give a damn.

7)      With a bad leg, sitting down in a bathtub full of water will remind you of Sea World.

8)      With a bad leg, getting out of a bathtub full of water will explain the phenomenon of beached whales.

9)      With a bad leg you do not have to comb the back of your hair because anyone behind you is just going to be noticing that your butt looks bigger as you slowly push your walker.

10)   And finally, if you have a bad limp, no one really wants to hear your explanation of why, unless you smile and say, ‘during sex’, at the beginning of a huge lie.

Lighter Load

Anyone who walks with a cane, walker, or, steps gingerly for any reason, knows that any object carried can offset the balance and ease of safely moving forward. Last Friday afternoon I could not complete the walk to my car when leaving the office. My rescue involved someone else carrying my purse and opening my car door.  After giving this some thought, I decided to lighten my load; my purse was where I started (I never begin a diet when I do not feel good, or on any week that has a Monday in it).

I have carried this particular purse for one short month, but the weight of it has become a burden.  I sincerely hope the person who carried it for me last Friday does not have any lingering aches and pains, or a hernia. I dumped it out in an effort to lighten the load.

Items dumped:

A three pound piece of petrified wood I promised to give to my great nephew, Gabe.

A large Leatherman in a genuine leather case.

A huge wallet, which carries every coupon I ever clipped and forgot about, gift cards (all empty), watch batteries, car key fob batteries, earring repair kit, old driver licenses, expired insurance cards, receipts, grocery store discount cards, pictures of hair styles I have desired (and never received) and thirty seven cents.

Seven peppermints (also petrified).

Makeup bag, approximately five pounds.

105 loose nickels.

110 loose dimes.

127 loose pennies.

16 loose quarters.

Two weeks of mail; Spring catalogs for Home Depot, Finger Hut, and Catherines included.

I dark chocolate Hershey bar.

4” X 4” square flashlight.

1 Bottle of muscle relaxer and two bottles of ibuprofen (100 count).

Two sets of car key rings which also have a house key, and 8 unknown for what keys attached.

Four sets of earrings.

3 french fries (also petrified)

I began to carefully reload my purse. When I was satisfied that I had lightened the load I had two french fries, four unknown for what keys, one week of mail (catalogs included), two tubes of lipstick I no longer wear, one piece of petrified wood, four sets of earrings, two peppermint and one Hershey bar wrappers, and sixteen expired coupons sitting in front of me. I was hesitant to leave out the petrified wood.

I realize that I need to make some more adjustments. I am going to use the loose change ($19.67) to buy a bigger wallet. That should do it.

Cat-astrophe

The morning started out rather normal. I hit the snooze alarm more times than I should have and was running behind by about fifteen minutes. I usually leave the house one and a half hours before I need to make the seventeen mile trip to work - just in case of bad traffic or a long line at the donut shop.

About two thousand feet into the drive down my street I heard a cat meowing. It appeared to be coming from under the hood of my car – so I stopped and popped the trunk (don’t ask). Since a neighbor saw me stop and pop the trunk I had to open the trunk and look in it. I did not find a kitty and was no longer hearing one, either.  I got back into the car, started it up and began to drive. The kitty began to holler again.  I went another five hundred feet or so and stopped again. This time I popped the hood and got out and looked. Nothing…and no meowing.  There are about four miles of country road from my house to town and I stopped every half mile. There was no sound when I stopped, but as soon as the car would start moving the cat would begin making pitiful sounds. I called a friend who laughed his ass off and gave me no support but provided a multitude of innuendoes about ‘kitties’, although he did not use the word kitty, and told me I had no choice but to drive on.   When I arrived in the metropolis of Haslet I stopped at a new home construction site and three Latinos were working on the foundation. They walked over and gave me a, “Que paso’, and I replied, ‘El Tigre de nada vamoose.” For those of you who do not speak Spanish they asked, “What’s up, good looking?” and I replied, with much gesturing, “There is a damned cat under the hood, it has been with me for ten miles, and it will not get the hell out of my engine compartment!”  They were of no help, but smiled a lot (obviously impressed with my Spanish) so the cat and I drove on to the 7-11 about another mile away.  People pumping gas heard the cat when I pulled up but everybody was in a hurry and no one even looked under the hood, except me. No noise erupted while the engine was off. That damned cat was playing games with me. I called my boss and told her the cat, and I, were having so much fun that I was thinking about taking it to the zoo next. I pulled out and, sure enough, the yowling began. I even changed the radio station in case it was objecting to talk radio. Nope. I spotted the fire department ahead and pulled in.  They like to rescue cats, right? And they would not even have to climb a tree!  I noticed as I pulled up that there were a lot of vehicles behind the station so I know there were firemen in there just ready to rescue me..uh..the cat.  I opened the hood and walked around the car, patting the sides of it and talking sweetly to the kitty. Evidently, firemen can look out a window and if they see a chubby old lady hunched over and patting her car and talking to it they do not find it reason enough leave the building. I waited about twenty minutes and started to dial 911; I figured that would get somebody’s attention! Just as I hit the last 1 a Constable drove slowly by and I waved him down. He pulled up, rolled down the window, and asked, “What seems to be the problem, ma’am?” I told him there was a kitty in the engine, I could see it but could not get to it and no firefighters were in the mood to help. He rolled the window up, called his dispatcher and then laughed robustly. I rapped my knuckles on the window, he rolled it back down, grinning. I told him I knew what they were saying and had already heard all of the innuendos and did not find it funny the first time!  He was still smiling as he got out of the car. Being as he looked like he enjoys doughnuts as much as I do, he could not get down and look under the car either. It would have to be jacked up for him to crawl under it. I take that back…it would have to be on a lift. We could now see a small gray kitty sitting on the frame under the engine near the left front tire. It was just sitting there and blinking at us. The Constable took a stick and poked it and it jumped to the ground and just sat there. The officer told me to start the car and slowly drive backwards; he KNEW neither one of us could reach under and grab the kitty.  I told him that if I ran over the cat after all we had been through for fifteen miles (okay, I exaggerated a little about the distance) and stopping every half mile, I would hold him responsible. He said not to worry. He could tell I was agitated because my hair was standing straight up and my eyes were beginning to roll wildly. I’m hoping he did not notice the drool. As soon as the car was no longer over that sweet, baby, gray, kitty it ran into the bushes by the front door of the fire department. The Constable and I looked at each other, smiled, and quickly agreed that it was now the responsibility of the fine Haslet Fire Department. He told me he would call them and let them know about it and we drove off. I was late getting to work, and fretted over my wild hair issues; nobody messed with me. I was also exhausted. I cannot remember the last time I got in and out of my car twenty times on a single morning, unless it was that neighborhood garage sale I found in Saginaw a couple of years ago.

I sent the fire department an email. I told them who I was and thanked them for their help (not!). I suggested they name the cat Smokey.

I probably should not have signed my name.

Fake Parts

When I first got mine I felt so different! How could such phoniness make a woman feel so sexy, so noticeable, so empowered?  I just loved to show them off and was very dramatic in my fashion choices to make them more noticeable. Sure, it was a big expense, but the results were fascinating!  People stared and some folks even commented about them. I loved the attention! Unfortunately, after several years they became a burden, my aging did not help - they pointed in different directions. I eventually had them removed and in doing so I felt a little less feminine and, at first, going out in public made me very self conscious about the lack of flamboyance they had previously inspired in me.

When my sister got hers they were not as flashy as mine, nor as big. When Mom (MOM!) had hers done I was kind of surprised, but like my sister, she went with a smaller, less noticeable, set.

I have been considering doing it again. Not as ‘out there’ as before, but just as a subtle lift to my self esteem.

It is really quite amazing how fake fingernails can change the way a woman feels about herself.

Naked Saturday

My favorite day of the week is Saturday.  On Saturday mornings I begin a ritual of a day of nakedness that I have lovingly named Naked Saturday. It is a wonderful day of freedom from the ‘bindings’ of the work week.  Here are a few rules and tips:

• Socks are allowed in cooler weather – but only on your feet.
• If you order a pizza for delivery you will need to provide a HUGE tip.
• No ironing! Nipple burns do NOT heal quickly.
• Kittens are forbidden pets.
• Do not fry bacon (same reason as in no ironing).
• In the winter time, folding clothes fresh from the dryer may create ...uh…warm feelings.
• Stay away from mirrors!
• If someone asks you to do something on a Saturday that you do not want to do you can honestly reply, “I’m sorry, I have plans on Saturday.”
• No drinking of alcoholic beverages because it is highly possible that you may take the trash out without thinking about it… or move a water sprinkler…or lock yourself out of the house.
• And most importantly; if visitors should unexpectedly arrive you must be prepared to never see them again.

 Easy rules and great tips! Try it out! Let me know how it works for you.

I just LOVE Naked Saturday!

60 is the New 50 - Only MUCH Worse!

·           If a mustache on a woman is a joy of aging I guess the fact that my age and my hips being the same number should make me exuberant!

·           The joy of aging defines an ‘afternoon delight’ as a nap.

·           The joy of aging keeps me from driving after dark, or on the freeway, or with my left blinker being on.

·           It’s a good thing I am a natural blonde or the joy of my aging would make me look like the missing link.

·           With the joy of aging ‘doing it '3 times last night’ now refers to peeing.

·           With the joy of aging you do not have to count sheep to fall asleep… you can count the Presidents that have been elected in your lifetime.

·           The joy of aging is discovering you can’t dye the gray hair ‘there’ because it burns!

·           The joy of aging means understanding the value of titanium.

·           The joy of being happy when you get older requires only a minor adjustment to your medication.

·           You actually start looking like the Troll dolls you used to collect.

·           The joy of aging can keep you busy for hours trying to figure out the meaning of the abbreviations the youngsters use in their Facebook posts.

·           With the joy of aging I can read a best selling novel four of five times a year because I cannot remember how it ends… or that I ever read it.

·           The joy of aging is first believing in Santa Claus and then having his figure...and maybe a few of his chin hairs.

·           The joy of aging makes looking for your car in the Wal-Mart parking lot the old folk's version of Looking for Waldo....Looking For Volvo.

·           With the joy of aging you get to remember when your belly button was not in the middle of your cleavage.

·           The ‘Golden Years’ is a crock. It’s more like the ‘Stiff, Leaky and Smells Funny Years’.

·           To me, my joy of aging is not just saying what the hell I want and getting away with it.  It is not remembering that I said it and getting to say it again.

·           To me, my joy of aging is not just saying what the hell I want and getting away with it. It is not remembering that I said it and getting to say it again.