Thursday, August 27, 2015
Friday, October 12, 2012
My youngest began his clerkship (or, as it’s called in the U.S. and on medical television shows, internship) this fall. His first placement is with the Psychiatry Department of a local hospital.
I overheard him talking with one of his brothers – he’s ACTUALLY spent some time considering diagnoses that might be suitable for me!! His dear sweet mother. I’m not quite sure whether to be touched by his concern or pissed off that he thinks I’m nuts. Or borderline nuts. It’s one thing for me to admit to a certain (minor) level of craziness – it’s another to be labeled certifiably so.
He couldn’t find one! Apparently, my (few) obsessive traits, astounding leaps of logic and quirky uniqueness don’t even come close to being considered a medical condition worth labeling or diagnosing.
“So far,” he noted. Ominously.
“Best watch yourselves,” I responded. “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Actually, there’s no way it possibly could unless there was a fierce wind, but anyway, apples falling from trees might land on your head so be careful in apple orchards. And always listen to your mother.”
They exchanged glances and grins. I grinned, too. I was just messing with their minds. Truly.
The fact the above makes perfect sense to me? I’m not telling any of my kids –particularly son # 3. I happen to think complete sanity is highly overrated. I’m also going to start keeping some of my thoughts to myself.
photo credits: google images
Wednesday, October 03, 2012
If forty is the new thirty, fifty the new forty, sixty the new fifty and so on – when do you ever get a chance to relax? To age gracefully with peace and dignity?
If the above are rallying cries for holding on to one’s youthful spirit and enthusiasm - great. But if they’re merely in regard to appearance? Then I find them oppressive, time consuming and ridiculous.
I’ve decided to embrace aging. Not to the extent of finding each wrinkle endearing and letting everyone know its origin (“…and this one was created when I accidently dropped my second son over a cliff…”) but in the sense of withdrawing from the battle, the laying down of weapons. Which isn’t particularly difficult to do since I’ve never been fully engaged in the battle. My only weapon has been hair dye.* However, I’ve always been very aware of that not-so-subtle pressure to RETAIN YOUR YOUTHFUL LOOKS. I’ve finally had enough. I’M NOT LISTENING ANYMORE.
I don’t count basic moisturizer a weapon, I don’t wear make-up (skin sensitivity) and I’ve never had “work” done. Truly. Unless you count wart removal cosmetic surgery. Which I don’t and nor should you. A wart on the bottom of your foot really, really hurts – but I digress…
As for those five lbs. that keep coming and going? Well, they’re welcome to stay. I’m not fighting them any more. Those determined little buggers can take over the areas they’ve been coveting for years – my belly and hips. I don’t care. Mi casa es su casa.
If my sisters and certain friends are reading this, I promise I will not let myself go completely. I will maintain certain standards and you’ll still be okay being seen with me in public. I just might look like your mother rather than a contemporary. And I’ll be wearing an always-in-fashion, ageless, contented and happy smile.
an unretouched photo depicting a DIY wrinkle remover gesture by a crazed woman
*Confession – a bit of vanity remains - I think I’ll give up the hair dye next summer – have my head shorn - retreat to the cottage and see what appears…
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
The above? Fridge magnets given to me as gifts by those who know me well. The sentiments expressed in each are rather close to home but not quite all the way there. Yet.
They may be verging on “sad but true” but since they’re all so spot on in depicting certain aspects of my life (with some exaggeration) the humour factor trumps any “poor-pitiful-me” factor. Each one makes me smile.
And isn’t that what humour is all about? Its origins in reality and truth – its laughter and smiles in the exaggeration.
May I never be too stressed, too preoccupied with pain – or too forgetful – to smile and laugh.
Credits: I scanned two of my magnets but the other one is at the cottage – so I used Google images – hence the wording on that image
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
If you identified the objects embedded in my tire as porcupine quills, you’d win a prize. If there was one. Which there isn’t.
Perhaps the fact I find this picture amusing brands me as hard-hearted and insensitive. If so, my immediate family shares the same affliction(s). If you’re offended by our amusement, let me assure you we do not find the death of any living creature laughable. It’s the existence and location of the undisputed evidence as to this particular porcupine’s demise that struck our funny bones.
I’m not the guilty party – nor will I identify which of my sons is the porcupine assassin. He feels badly enough for having smoked that critter. (Last summer another of my sons was responsible for the death of a wild turkey on the highway. We left a blizzard of feathers in our wake.)
Further amusement was provided for my sons courtesy of yours truly. When they began pulling the porcupine quills out of my tire, my worry-prone tendencies (crazies?) kicked in.
“Hey, don’t remove them – my tire might deflate!”
Eye rolls, grins and groans of, “Oh, Mom…”