Winter, Be Gone

Winter, be gone
And don't come back soon
Spring is coming
And not a day too soon
She has flowers
And green grass to share
All you have to offer
Is cold and dry air
I don't mean to be mean
It's not my style
It's just that springtime
Makes me feel like a child
And you, Mr. Winter
You make me feel cross
I don't like the snow
And I dislike the frost
So winter, be gone
I'll see you next year
You're no longer welcome
To stay around here.

Occupy This

For the last several weeks I've been trying to figure out what the "Occupy" movement is really about. Is it a grass-roots reflection of economic frustration in our country? Is it a project undertaken by bored, attention-seeking citizens to kill time? Is it a viable movement that will influence the outcome of the upcoming presidential election? I dunno. I've been watching the television news coverage of the gatherings of protesters in various cities in the United States, trying to get a feeling for what it is they're trying to accomplish, and I'm still not sure I get it. Maybe if my husband were to be laid off and we were not getting his healthy paycheck every two weeks, I'd be more inclined to feel camaraderie with the "ninety-nine percent". Maybe not. I have a few friends and relatives who think the Occupy movement is a great thing, but to me, seems  too diffuse, disorganized, and disruptive to be taken seriously.  As a writer and free speech advocate, I fully support the right of people to protest peacefully, Occupants included. However, when they choose to hold protests at hotels or ports or other locations where big businesses conduct their daily operations, the people who are hurt most are the employees of those businesses, not the executives, and that to me is at odds with what the Occupy movement claims to stand for. And I don't think I'm the only person who feels this way.

Don't Take Candy From Strangers - Unless, Of Course, It's Halloween

Why is everyone so seemingly surprised that there's an obesity problem in our country? I mean, we do live in the land of plenty. Why shouldn't we be allowed to celebrate our wealth and abundance with a little overindulgence? Especially during the holiday season. Beginning with Halloween and continuing through New Year's, food is all around us, and not much of it is of the healthy variety. Have you been to Target or Wal-Mart this week? There's more Halloween candy, cookies, cakes, etc. on the shelves than produce. And that, my friends, is not necessarily a bad thing. We may be overweight in the United States, but at least we're enjoying our sweets. If God hadn't meant for us to enjoy sugar, she wouldn't have made our tongues with an entire section for tasting sweet foods, now, would she? I for one plan on eating my share of candy corn and chocolate mini-candy bars this weekend. Why should kids have all the fun? Yes, I'm 50, and yes, I should know better than to eat too much junk food, but the way I figure, if I've been getting away with it for fifty years, it must not be THAT bad for me. I don't have diabetes. I still have my teeth. And my friends always know they can count on me for a chocolate fix when they need one. And, well, if it does kill me one day, I'm gonna die with that proverbial smile (and a smear of Dove chocolate) on my face. Please don't pray for me to see the error of my ways and start eating healthier. If I go to Hell for overindulging in sugar, at least I'll be surrounded by kindred spirits.

Working Girl

After being unemployed and doing volunteer work for the better part of three years now, I'm not sure I'll EVER find a job again. I've had a few interviews during this period, but no offers. And it's not like I'm not applying for many jobs. I've probably sent/emailed/faxed more than one hundred resumes for a variety of jobs, all of which I was sure I was qualified for. It's quite discouraging.
I'm currently an "on-call" employee for the county library system, which means I work when regular staff are out sick or on leave. While I do get paid for this work, I hesitate to call it my job. My schedule is erratic, and there are stretches of weeks when I don't work at all. I guess anyone who's been a temp or a substitute teacher can relate to my predicament. I always try to do good work when I'm filling in for staff, but I have to admit that I'm not very motivated to do great work - I mean, where's my incentive? Doing great work won't get me a raise or a promotion. So I've settled into doing good-enough-for-government-work work. And it seems to be, pardon the pun, working for me. I get paid, I get called for shifts when they're available, and I now have a reason to get out of my house other than going to the grocery store. I have lots of free time for writing and house projects, and since my husband works and makes a good salary, we're not hurting for money. Still, I can't help but feel there's something wrong with this picture.
When I worked, I enjoyed bringing home a paycheck. I also enjoyed interacting with my coworkers and customers and getting to know them. And I had a schedule that gave structure to my week. In my current situation, it's hard to make plans and appointments with certainty because I'm never sure when I'm going to be working. I'm not entirely out of the loop with regard to who's who and what's what in the library, but I'm sure I'm missing out on a few things that would give me a clearer idea of what's going on with "the bigger picture."
I'm pretty sure I'll find a job sooner or later. I live in Northern Virginia, the land of plenty when it comes to jobs, so there's bound to be one with my name on it. I just hope that when I get the offer, I won't be so used to this on-call lifestyle that I turn it down. You'll be among the first to know if I do.

Let Go of Your Ego

I was sure that wrinkles and gray hair were the worst aspects of my frightening descent and bumpy landing on that rocky terrain known as middle age. But that, my friends, was before my colonoscopy last week. Yes, that humbling  rite of midlife passage, the one that so much has already been written about by humorists much more humorous than I. Since so much has already been said about this procedure and its effect on the body and mind of those who have had it done, I will try to keep this brief and only moderately self-pitying. But there are a few things I've learned from this particularly unpleasant medical exam that I'd like to share with you. First, I will never, ever drink a clear, lemon-flavored beverage again, for as long as I live. Even if I have to have another colonoscopy. That's how much I hated drinking it. Not only did it make me poop every twenty minutes, I felt like I was gonna throw up. (Luckily, I didn't, but even writing about it now I feel my stomach churning.) Second, I will never, ever complain again about a short bout of diarrhea. There's nothing like running to the toilet every twenty minutes all night and morning after drinking said lemony laxative to eliminate colorless, malodorous fluid from one's bowels to make an occasional  loose stool seem like a walk in the park. And lastly, and perhaps worst of all, was the part of the process when I was lying on the table being briefed about the procedure by my gastroenterologist and I realized that his jokes about colonoscopies were way funnier than anything I've ever said or written. To add insult to injury, I couldn't come up with any witty comebacks for him. Oh, the horror! I was so preoccupied with trying desperately not to fart that I had no mental energy  for bantering. 
Now that the procedure is behind me (sorry) and I am feeling good, I try to convince myself that it really wasn't that bad, and if I had to do it again I'd be fine. But that's a big, fat lie. Those forty-eight hours of preparing for the procedure, getting it done, and recovering from it seemed like forty-eight years. Hmmm...add that to my real age of 50, and I'm the equivalent of 98 years old now. No wonder I'm so tired today!

The Thing about Thongs

I was walking down the street the other day with a younger, hipper friend of mine when two lovely, leggy young women strutted past us wearing jeans that appeared to have been painted on their taut, curvy booties. With a mixture of envy and judgmentalism, I turned to my friend and said, "Okay, where are their panty lines? Haven't they heard of underwear? I mean, as cute as their little pre-baby-birthing butts are, do they really want the whole world to see them under their jeans?" She replied matter-of-factly, "Oh, they're probably wearing thongs. That way they won't have panty lines under their jeans. It makes their butts look nice and smooth." Duh! I hadn't thought that they might be wearing thongs. People my age don't wear thongs. Or at least we shouldn't wear them. Even our significant others don't want us to wear them. They just point up how saggy and flat our butts have gotten. I grew up in the pre-thong era (this was the era just after dinosaurs became extinct on the historical timeline) when panty lines were inevitable under tight clothing. But it wasn't a problem  because everyone else had them too. Nowadays, if you have the dreaded VPLs, you're showing the world not only your underwear, but also how clueless you are about making the most of your ass-ets. Well, at the risk of being labeled a prude or an old fogey, I'm going to have to say no thanks to thongs. Not only am I too "mature" for them, they're uncomfortable, they necessitate more shaving, and they don't sell them in multi-packs at WalMart, so I'm not buying them. I'm saving my money for my next pair of Spanx, thanks.

F-F-Fifty is not the new Forty

Take it from someone who just turned 50- you can just forget you ever heard that  pseudo-comforting phrase, "Fifty is the new forty." I celebrated my half-century mark on September 24th, and let me tell you, ain't no way 50 is anything like 40. The two ages are as different as Jon Stewart and Rick Perry. Nothing in common, nada, zilch, zip. Turning 40 was, for me, not such a big deal. I didn't really look or feel significantly older than I did in my 30's, and I was confident that most doors would open to me if I knocked on them hard enough . Oh, and I had a pretty good photo on my driver's license then, too, which made me feel good about my appearance since the DMV seems to take pride in making even the most attractive people look hideous in their driver's license photos. Turning 50, though, was a complete game changer for me. The only groups that court me and my money now are AARP, the alumni association of my college, and long-term care providers. Employers don't want me (I've had three interviews and no offers in the past few months) any more. Neither do fashion designers, whose new and trendy styles make me look like a woman who's trying in vain to relive her forties. Not pretty. Oh, and I had to turn in my driver's license with the flattering photo on it and get a new one with a black and white photo in which I am not smiling -- not because I didn't want to smile, but because smiling is not allowed by the Virginia DMV in driver's license photos. Also not pretty. Aches and pains are now a surefire conversation starter with my peers, not the conversation killer they were a mere decade ago.
I can only wonder with trepidation what other unwanted changes 50 will bring my way. Will I soon be partaking of the "early bird" special at my favorite restaurant on the weekend?  Will I happily accept the grocery store bagger's offer to carry my bags to the car for me? Will I be one of those people who doesn't request but demands the AARP discount at hotels I stay in? I promise to keep you, pardon the pun, posted.

I TURNED FIFTY - NOW WHAT?

Well, I'm happy to report I survived the Big Day. I am now 50 years old. Friends, family and coworkers are all telling me that turning 50 is no big deal. And to them I want to say, Shut the f**k up! It IS a big deal, and I AM getting old. There's no need to whitewash it. We Americans live in a youth-obsessed culture, and I am no longer youthful. Sure, there are times when I feel youthful, but that feeling only lasts until my tennis elbow acts up,  or I catch a glimpse of my butt in the mirror and see new dimples forming on top of my cellulite. I try to cheer myself up by reminding myself that along with age comes wisdom. However, this only works until I realize I don't know what today's date is.  I must admit I'm looking forward to a few things that will happen as I navigate my fifth century of life, one of them being that I will no longer have to buy or use tampons. That will be superb! I'm also looking forward to inheriting some money from my father when he passes away. That sounds awful, I know. I do not, repeat, DO NOT want my father to die any time soon, nor do I think he owes me any money when he does die. But if he wants to leave me a few bucks, I'd have to respect his last wishes, now, wouldn't I?  I definitely wouldn't spend it all at once. That would be very un-wise of me to do...
...but let me get back to the present. I'm adjusting to this new number that is my age as best as I can. I am grateful for friends, family and good health. I have a great husband and I live in a nice home. I wouldn't trade any of these things for another shot at youth. No, the only "shot" at youth I'm considering at 50 is a shot of Botox in between my eyebrows. Stay tuned...

FIfty is Nifty - NOT!

This is not an easy post to write. Not only am I reluctant to admit that I am about to turn f-f-f-fifty soon, but it's literally hard to write this because my fingers and hands are achy with what I can only assume is arthritis, the bane of those of us entering or in the half-century club. In a few weeks, I'll be fifty years old. Officially. I've been telling people I'm almost fifty for the past several months because I thought that would help to cushion the blow when the dreaded date actually arrived. But even so, I am still not loving the thought of very soon becoming a has-been to advertisers and employers. Fifty is NOT nifty. Not in my book. I'd gladly give up my AARP discount at the Holiday Inn in exchange for better eyesight, healthy joints, and naturally blonde hair. I know there's no way to stop the clock from ticking, but that doesn't mean I have to be happy about it. When I'm struggling to keep this aging thing in perspective as the Big Day gets imminent,  I try to remember something my father in his infinite and blunt wisdom told me. He said,  "You think 50 is bad? Just wait til you're 75!" Thinking about him saying that to me always lifts my mood a bit. If only it would lift my sagging face, too. Oh, well. I suppose that boost will have to be left to a plastic surgeon to accomplish.

Happiness is for Suckers Like Me

Philosophers, pundits, preachers -- all of them have tried to tell us how to be happy in our mortal coils. While I greatly appreciate their thoughts on the matter, I have come to my own conclusions about the big H, and today I am going to share it with you, even though you didn't ask me to:  Happiness can be bought for five bucks at 7-Eleven.  I was truly, deeply happy for a few moments the other day when I had in my possession a fresh pack of Marlboro Lights and a cup of hot coffee that i had just acquired at said 7-Eleven store. With these items in my hands, I knew that the next few minutes of my life would be filled with pure sensory pleasure. I would get to feel cigarette smoke slide silkily into my lungs, and then chase that great feeling with another one, a sip of hot lightly creamed coffee slipping over my tongue and down my throat. Bliss! But, wouldn't you know it, right after this happy thought entered my brain and released a mega-dose of endorphins into my bloodstream, I was faced with the maddening reality of a match that wouldn't light after repeated strikes and a broken cigarette lighter. Shit! I wasn't going get to ingest that winning combination of smoke and coffee after all. Happiness, that fleeting moment of everything being just the way it should be, was jerked away from me, leaving me alone with an opened pack of cancer sticks and a rapidly cooling cup of weak, convenience store java. 
But have no fear and only limited pity for me, reader. Being the pleasure-seeker that I am and always have been, my search for happiness continues, and while I'm not sure where I'll find it, I'm gonna start patronizing convenience stores more often. Because, as it turns out, money can buy happiness, especially at 7-Eleven.

Earthquake Shake

Earthquake you are
Not my friend
I don't like you
I won't pretend
Your destructive nature
Is beyond my ken

Earthquake you really
Dealt me a blow
Shook my foundation
Then you had to go
You didn't even give me
A chance to say no

Earthquake you shook me
To the core
Rattled my windows and
Shook my floor
Don't come back here
Any more

How Do You Know You're Middle-Aged?

Let me count the ways...

1. You have stopped telling the cashier at Kohl's the elastic-waist pants you're buying are for your mother.

2. Your most exciting decision of the day is whether to eat Rocky Road or Cherry Vanilla ice cream.

3. You get pissed off when kids DON'T call you ma'am.

4. Your pets won't outlive you, but they can easily outrun you.

5. You listen intently to the ads for cholesterol and arthritis medications that run during the evening network newscasts.

6. You visit your old elementary school, only to find out that the teachers that taught you are either retired or dead.

7. Your favorite radio station uses the word "oldies" in its ads.

8. You go to a rock concert and someone asks you if one of your kids is in the band. (This one really happened to me!)

Happy Birthday, Mr. President

He was honored with a Nobel Prize. He oversaw the killing of Osama bin Laden. And he was the first African American to be elected President of the United States of America. But these accomplishments pale in comparison to President Obama's latest achievement -- turning 50. As of yesterday, Obama's youth, like Elvis, officially left the building. Huh???? Celebrities aren't supposed to age, at least not quite as publicly as our President does. Not that he has any choice about the world knowing his age; when you're the leader of the free world, you don't get to keep many secrets. And his hair has gotten significantly more gray since he took office, so his aging has not been a clandestine process. But I did hear that he's going to Camp David to "celebrate" his fiftieth birthday  this weekend. I'm thinking he's going there to have some privacy so he can shed a few tears over the fading away of his much-touted youthfulness.
And who could blame him? When I turn 50 on an undisclosed day next month, I think I'm gonna be a bit sad myself. I've spent a lifetime trying to stay youthful and cute, as if my stubborn refusal to mature and age gracefully would make me immune to the aging process.  But when I look in the mirror now and see wrinkles and fat where there used to be neither, I have to admit I'm getting older. Besides, I really wasn't that cute in the first place, so losing my looks shouldn't be as big a deal for me as it might be for someone REALLY cute, like, say,  Goldie Hawn or Demi Moore. When I turn 50, my family and a few close friends will be on hand to gleefully remind me that I am eligible for AARP membership, and I will obligingly groan about how I suddenly feel old. But, if I put on enough make-up and color my hair blonde enough that day, hopefully the rest of the world will be fooled into thinking I'm still a forty-something. As long as they don't call me "ma'am", it's all good.

TV Stinks! (or it will soon)

DVR, instant movies, internet streaming -- just three of the countless wonderful reasons to spend even more of your precious time watching TV in the 21st century. And now there's another enhancement to television viewing on the horizon that will make it even more irresistible. You may have heard the term "smell-o-vision" before, as it has been used jokingly to describe the concept of simultaneously watching and smelling TV programs. It's been speculated and dreamed about for many years now, and it looks like it might actually become a reality in the near future. I am so freaking excited about this new invention,  I just HAD to blog about it today. An article I saw online recently on Gizmodo said that scientists at UCSD, in conjunction with Samsung, are hard at work perfecting a device that will attach to your tv and will dispense aromas that reflect the subject matter of the program you're watching.  According to this article, "the technology works by using a 100x100 matrix of thin metal wires that heats any one of 10,000 smell-forming aqueous solutions, allowing for 10,000 different smells. The researchers tested two different perfumes, and found that the smells were perceptible up to 30cm away." How cool! I can't wait to watch the Food Network with one of these gizmos attached to my TV. And shows set on the beach will be so much better when they make my living room smell like tanning lotion and boardwalk french fried potatoes. But I'm hoping the gizmo will come with an "off" switch, 'cause I'm thinking there are some types of programming that would definitely NOT be enhanced by smell-o-vision (Post-game locker room interviews and cat food commercials are two that come quickly to mind.). Please,  Samsung, rush this product (with an on-off switch) through research and development so those of us who want one can pick one up at Target on our next trip to buy paper products and toiletries. I can't wait for the day when I can watch reruns of Charlie's Angels and I can enjoy the mingled scents of hair spray, cheap cologne, and easy money. I'm staying tuned...

SUMMER IS HOT!

Here's a little poem
In honor of summers past...

Ode to a Firefly

Firefly, flying by

Illuminating the dusky sky

Your fleeting glow catches my sleepy eye

Firefly, flying free

Not taking life too seriously

I’m looking at you, are you looking at me?

Firefly, flying past

Over the clover growing in the grass
Signaling summer has not yet passed

If I could talk to you

I’d ask you to explain

How your fire stays lit

Through the thunder and rain

I’d tell you how happy

I am when you're around

I'm eight years old again
And life is a playground.

A Baby Changes Everything

This is a poem I have been "laboring" over recently and I wanted to share it with you. Please don't think I am a kid-hater after you read it -- I'm definitely not. I don't have children, but I enjoy spending time with my nieces and nephews and my friends' kids when I have the chance.

A BABY CHANGES EVERYTHING

When a baby is born

The first thing it does is cry

It knows this is the day

Its innocence dies

It takes its first breath

And quickly takes another

Looks around the room

For its so-called mother

Who forces a smile

Then goes to sleep

And prays the lord

Her soul to keep

She isn’t much more

Than a baby herself

How’s she supposed to

Take care of someone else?

Her friends all told her

It’s cool to be a mom

But in her mind

A baby is like a bomb

‘Cause when it drops

Your life becomes a mess

And it never goes back

To normal-ness

When a baby is born

It opens its eyes and screams
Because it realizes

The futility of its dreams

Tall Tale

I've been thinking lately (okay, for the last few minutes) about how I feel about being a tall woman. I'm five feet eight and a half inches tall - not tall enough to model or play basketball, but taller than the average chick. Being taller than most of my peers has never really vexed me. It's something I've grown to accept if not celebrate, and it's a big (sorry!) part of what makes me who I am. But, having said that, I'll admit to occasionally wishing I were a more "normal" height. I'd like to know what it feels like to disappear into a crowd if I want to. It's embarrassing to feel like I'm making an entrance simply by entering a room. Oh, and if I'm wearing heels when I enter said room, I feel like I'm making an entrance on stilts. Not good. Maybe if I were tall and curvy, I'd like being five feet eight and a half -- then I'd be statuesque. But I'm 120 pounds soaking wet and I can get away with not wearing a bra most days, so from a distance I look a little bit like a lanky male teenager -- especially when I wear jeans and a t-shirt, which is most days of the week any more. I'm not asking you to feel sorry for me (unless you want to) for being tall, but I just thought I'd let you know that it can be a drag at times. But I won't be offended if you shorter ladies and gents need me to get something for you off the top shelf in the library or grocery store. Not only am I tall, but I've got really long arms too. But then, that's another blog post...

5 Reasons It Really Sucks To Be A. Weiner

1. Upon learning of his lewd tweets, Weiner's pregnant wife will be both hormonal AND furious. Run, Weiner, run!

2. Photos sent to Twitter fans make photos taken by paparazzi look like fine art by comparison.

3. Charlie Sheen is potential roommate in "treatment center."

4. Weiner action figure doll sold in a set with companion inflatable doll.

5. Duh -- the last name!

HOT KINDLING

Okay, so I FINALLY downloaded something to my Kindle (well, actually, my husband did it for me, but that's beside the point). I've had it for over a month now, so I guess it's time to start using the darned thing.. As with all new techie gadgets, I enter the fray with unease and a mild fear of the unknown. I also wonder if I'll be able to sustain my nurturing relationship with my television once I get Kindle-savvy. Dinosaur that I am, I still enjoy watching television, especially on the "big screen" in the living room. But I think I'm going to enjoy my Kindle once I get the hang of it. I'm really looking forward to reading magazines on it. In fact, the "something" I refer to in the first sentence of this post is the current issue of Reader's Digest (I told you I'm a dinosaur!)
I do have one burning question  for the Kindle-makers and marketers - why oh why did you decide to name it Kindle? I believe the word kindle is a verb, not a noun. It's like calling a car, um, driven or motorized instead of car. I admit that the competition didn't do very well naming its reader either, but hey, at least "Nook" is a noun!!

Poetry is Still Hot

I got on a subway train
To escape from the pouring rain
I rode it downtown
Through tunnels underground
Until my clothes were dry once again