Sunday, August 31, 2008

Bringin' Ugly Back

I'm not much of a shopper. Normally when I go into a clothing store, it's with a specific purpose in mind. Today, I happened to have one of those "purposes" as I am in dire need of some new shirts for fall. Because I am such a focused shopper, I figured it would take me about ten minutes max to find what I was looking for.

Wow! Was I ever wrong. Upon stepping inside the door of the first store, I noticed a definite trend in all the fall clothing.

It's all UGLY!

I didn't like anything I saw.

I didn't like the prints.
I didn't like the material.
I didn't like the colors.
I didn't like the way they were made.

The clothing displayed on the merchants shelves reminded me of a bad acid trip. No, I've never actually experienced an acid trip, bad or otherwise, but I can't really think of any other way to describe the selection of shirts hanging in front of me.

By the time I got to the third and last store, I was singing just slightly under my breath (to the tune of "Bringing Sexy Back") ...

"They're bringin' ugly back ... gives me a heart attack ... oh Lord! it's taste they lack ... they're bringin' ugly back..."

It made me wish I'd bought a few more tops last fall when I could actually find some I wasn't embarrassed to wear.

Needless to say, I came home without one single new piece of clothing. In "style" or not, I refuse to wear anything as hideous as the shirts I looked at today. You see, a couple years ago I made a promise to myself not to buy any clothing items I didn't "love". Overall, I have been satisfied with my decision, but it has also posed some problems with my wardrobe. Although what I have hanging in there is pleasing to my eye, I must admit I don't have nearly as many options to choose from as I've had in years gone by.

Never the less, I am sticking to my vow. I have reached the age where I can dress the way I want to dress. I refuse to lower my standards for the mere sake of being "trendy".

So, be forewarned! Until the fashion industry adjusts itself to suit my tastes, you will find me wearing the same old outfits repeatedly. Sorry folks, I just can't do "ugly".

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Another Milestone Crossed On My Way To Fifty

I made an important decision this week. It's one I've been toying with over the last year or so but I've always decided against following through with it at the last minute.

So, Tuesday morning as I was preparing to go to my colonoscopy appointment I decided to do it.

I took my belly button ring out for good.

The pre-procedure instructions said to remove all jewelry including those in body piercings. When the piercing was originally done, I was told to keep the post in at all times because the area would heal over very quickly if it was removed. I've adhered strictly to those orders ever since, never leaving the little piece of metal that held my piercing open out for more than a few minutes at a time.

Among my reasons for delaying my decision was the fact that getting the piercing was no picnic to begin with. After the procedure was completed, it was even more of a pain as it took over six months to heal completely. More than once I came close to giving up on it.

But I am not a quitter! I persevered. The day finally came when my piercing was completely healed and I was able to change belly button rings whenever I wanted to.

For a while that is exactly what I did ... and then I realized no one even knew I had the piercing to begin with. I wore scrubs to work every day and they more than concealed my tummy area. To make matters worse, the waistbands of the scrubs hit right at my belly button and irritated the heck out of it. I decided to go back to wearing only the post unless I was at the beach where someone might actually see my body jewelry.

Much to my dismay, my husband never seemed that interested in my belly ring. He was the main reason I got one in the first place, so that was definitely a bum deal in my opinion. I don't think he "hated it" or anything, but neither did he have quite the favorable reaction I had expected.

Many have been the occasions when I questioned what really good reason I had for keeping it in. Let's get real here. Who in their right mind actually wants to see the belly of a forty eight year old grandmother of five anyway? In my heart, I've known for a while that the time has come to do the world (and myself) a favor and take the thing out. The morning of my colonoscopy/endoscopy seemed to be as good an excuse as any.

I took one last look at it in the mirror, and for a moment reminisced about the night I'd worked up the nerve to have it put in. Imagining myself as a ninety year old woman with shaking hands and bad eyesight, attempting to change belly rings before lounging around the retirement home pool did not make for a very pleasant mental image.

The time had definitely come.

Gingerly, I removed the post that had been a part of me for so many years and laid it on the bathroom counter. With a sigh, I got dressed and left it lying there.

You know what's funny? My husband still hasn't noticed it's gone. All that pain and suffering I've endured for HIM over the years and he can't so much as say, "Honey? Where's your belly button ring?"

Just more confirmation that I made the right decision.

I am now belly-button ring-less.

And that's probably a good thing.

Friday, August 29, 2008

Good Bye!



(This is one I actually wrote about a month ago and posted to my MySpace site. I thought I'd drag it over here since I'm not feeling all that creative today. ;0) )

We are going white water rafting this weekend.

"Are you excited?" You might be asking.

"Excited" isn't exactly the word I would use to describe my feelings.

Frankly, I am TERRIFIED!

I'm no wimp. I like a little adventure in my life. I love being way up high ...on mountain tops, in airplanes, or parasailing for example.

I love horseback riding and I would go zip-lining 70 feet above the rain forest floor again in a heartbeat if given the chance. What a blast that was!!

Ironically enough, I particularly enjoy being out on the ocean (as long as it is on a yacht or bigger vessel)

That's where I draw the line. Notice, I mentioned I actually enjoy heights. That's likely due to the fact that the higher up I am ... I am also that much farther above any potentially deep or disturbing water.

Like white water, for example.

I do know how to swim. As a matter of fact, I once swam in an underground lake in a cave in Mexico, (an experience a lot of people found pretty frightening) and thought it was wonderful. At any rate, an "average" nice, calm body of water poses no threat to me.

It's being in water, but not being in control that scares me. I'd go so far as to admit I am borderline phobic about it. Furthermore, in no way do I feel compelled to practice any desensitization techniques for my "borderline phobia" at the present time.

I've got no one to blame but myself for this mess. I made a deal with the devil ... errr ... my husband. I told him I'd go white water rafting in exchange for a Siamese cat I wanted really badly. Knowing how absolutely terrified I am of the whole rafting concept, he told me if I wanted the cat that much, I could have it and I DIDN'T have to go white water rafting in order to get it.

What a sweetie I married!

I breathed a giant sigh of relief and thanked him profusely.

I should have gotten our little agreement in writing because only a couple weeks later, (and before said Siamese cat had even arrived) that sweet husband of mine went back on his word and called in my promise to white water raft with him. I reminded him that he told me I didn't have to do it, to which he responded he had simply changed his mind.

(Isn't changing one's mind the WOMAN'S perogative??)

So be it. I am a woman of my word. We are going whitewater rafting in Tennessee this Saturday.

I'm trying to keep a positive attitude about it, but it's a little difficult for me. The thought of getting thrown out of the raft and pounded repeatedly on the rocks by raging water as I die a slow painful death by drowning, keeps invading my "happy place".

Walt swears I am going to enjoy it. That may be true, given the fact that merely surviving the trip down the river will qualify it as an "enjoyable" experience for me.

You think I'm kidding???

I'm not.

So, just in case ... I want to say it's been nice knowing you all. I believe I've already informed my children of my last wishes, so y'all know what to do. There is one thing I want to add, however ...

In the event that Walt survives and I do not (I have every intention of taking him down with me if I go) I would ask that in lieu of flowers, each and every one of my friends and family members send him a Siamese cat in my honor.


Thank you, and hope to see you on the other side!!!


Wednesday, August 27, 2008

Colonoscopies and Other Fun Ways to Spend a Rainy Tuesday!

Yesterday was an interesting day. I had my very first colonoscopy! As an added bonus, the doctor ordered an endoscopy as well.

Lucky me!

Let me clarify just a bit. I am not officially old enough to have a routine colonoscopy. A person isn't usually afforded such an honor until the age of fifty and as you know by now, I am NOT fifty!

No, as is usually the case, I am the exception to the rule. At my last checkup the doctor suddenly became concerned over the fact that I am anemic. I don't know exactly why he was so concerned at that point, seeing as how I've been anemic most of my life and for the most part have managed quite well. Neither do I have any symptoms to suggest the anemia is caused by anything related to the regions of my anatomy associated with those particular tests.

So, I argued a bit as Dr. D smiled and wrote out the orders to have tubes with tiny cameras inserted not only down my throat but up ... well ... you know what I'm talking about. Frankly, he seemed to be enjoying his little power trip a little too much to suit my tastes.

Everyone I've ever talked to who has had this procedure done, has told me the same thing. "The preparation the day before is the worst part of it."

Everyone I've ever talked to who hasn't had the procedure yet has also had a distinct reaction. Without exception, they've gotten looks of terror on their faces as they tried not to lose consciousness at the very thought of it.

While I definitely wouldn't describe any of part of the experience as a picnic in the park, I am happy to say I've now joined the former group in opinion . The procedure itself was a piece of cake compared to the prep work I had to endure the day before.

Thank goodness I read the instructions right after I woke up Monday morning. To my absolute horror, I discovered I was allowed only a "light" breakfast that day, and nothing but clear liquids from then until after the tests were completed on Tuesday. Adding insult to injury was the fact that I had to mix a laxative concoction and drink it at four in the afternoon, then chase it with yet more clear liquid.

By mid afternoon I was sick to death of "clear liquids". The laxative concoction itself was enough to make me want to throw up. I thought to myself that surely there must be a better way.

Figuring it couldn't hurt, I called the doctor's office and asked. Much to my dismay, I was informed that there was indeed no other way to do it. I had to accept my fate and drink the stuff as prescribed.

By six o'clock Monday evening, my belly was screaming in anguish. My husband could hear the rumblings all the way from the other side of the room. "What is that noise?" he asked, then laughed when I told him it was only my innards protesting the invasion of the nasty liquids I had swallowed. I prayed I would be able to sleep through the commotion that night and thanked God my tests were scheduled for the morning hours!

Tuesday morning finally arrived. At 6:45 I had to drink yet another laxative concoction, then drive an hour to the doctor's office. By that time I was actually looking forward to the tests!

Reminding myself that the "worst" was over, I concentrated on making it to my destination without any pit-stops or accidents along the way.

A distinct sigh of relief erupted from my lungs as we pulled into the parking lot. I sprang from the car and bolted for the nearest bathroom while my husband parked the car. The waiting room was filled with people old enough to be my parents (if not my grandparents) That was a small consolation. I felt like a toddler in a room full of college students.

The receptionist took my information and sent me to the billing office to write out a check for $450.00. I had to wonder why they needed my co-pay up front like that. Was there indeed a chance I wouldn't pull through? I immediately dismissed such a possibility.

After that I was told to go to the lab for a blood count. My results revealed that I was not anemic at that particular time. What a cruel joke! The nurse informed me that my iron levels were probably better than anyone else's in the office. Ha! I contemplated demanding that she call Dr. D to confirm my need for the colonoscopy/endoscopy but decided against it. I'd been through the prep work, by golly, I WAS having the tests done before I left that place!

After about 45 additional minutes of various embarrassing medical prodding and poking I was finally wheeled to the holding room. Being next in line for the procedure, I was asked if I'd like some music to listen to. I accepted, and asked if they had any Rod Stewart.

"No" Instead, I was handed an antiquated CD player and a headset. The CD was some kind of Indian flute music designed to make me relax.

It didn't work.

I sat up and wrapped my arms around my knees, listening to the conversations coming from the other side of my curtain. Every patient coming out of the procedure room was asking the same question. "Is it over with already?"

I vowed not to ask such a silly thing. Of course it was over! They'd been asleep and now they were awake, right? How odd that they'd have to ask!

At around 11:30 (my appointment was scheduled for 9:45) I looked at the clock for the last time and wondered what my husband was doing out in the waiting room. The last thing I'd said to him was "Order a pizza for me while you're waiting, ok?"

I wondered if maybe I should have told him I loved him instead.

Once it was my turn, things moved extremely fast. Two nurses pulled my gurney into the procedure room. One of them rolled me over on my side and put a clean cloth under my head. The doctor's smiling face appeared beside my bed. He introduced himself and explained what was about to happen. Then, he asked if I had any questions.

Yes, I had questions! Questions like "What in the world possesses a person to go into a field where they spend the day running tiny little cameras into people's body cavities?" But before I could ask, he put a blue mouthpiece between my lips which I assumed was designed to hold my mouth open for tube he was about to run down my throat.

Apparently he wasn't really interested in any questions I had at all. The blue mouthpiece made it impossible for me to form any sounds aside from a few grunts.

That is the last thing I remember. In what seemed like no time at all, a different nurse was telling me to sit up and dangle my legs over the side of the bed. Before I could stop them, the words "Is it over already?" came from my mouth. Arrgghhhh! I was no better than the rest of the patients who'd gone before me.

For probably the twelfth time that day, the nurse said, "Yes, it sure is!"

Then she added, "That was a great sleep, wasn't it!?"

Still feeling pretty dazed, I asked her if the Dr. had talked to me before he did the procedure.

The pretty nurse's face finally came into focus and I could see that she was laughing.

"Yes, he did!" She promised.

As the fog subsided, I remembered seeing the doc and talking to him briefly. Good! Maybe I'd gotten my money's worth after all.

I noticed it was only 12:30. It had been less than an hour since I'd last looked at the clock!

The pretty, smiling nurse assisted me as I walked to the bathroom and changed back into my clothes. Then, she put me in a wheelchair and pushed me into a room where my husband sat waiting.

I asked him where my pizza was and he laughed. The nurse sat down and asked if I seriously wanted pizza. I assured her I was only joking ... which I definitely was. Oddly enough I really wasn't feeling all that hungry by then.

"Good, because you really need to keep your meals light for the rest of the day." She informed me.

The doctor came in to give me my results but first told me that I was a "very good sleeper". Apparently I'd dropped off in the middle of his "pep-talk" before the procedure. He seemed to have found some entertainment value in that fact. I told him I was glad to oblige.

My tests turned out normal for the most part. I do have something called "Barrett's Esophagus" and that's not necessarily a good thing. It will call for more frequent endoscopy's as the years go by. At least endoscopy's don't require the nasty laxative concoction to be taken beforehand.

His final instructions for my General Practitioner were to "investigate other causes for anemia".

At least I can tell Dr. D "I told you so!"

Before I left the office I was given some lovely parting gifts which included the canvas bag I'd used to hold my personal belongings while I was having my tests and four pictures from various areas of my esophagus, large and small intestines.

All that for $450.00 plus whatever my insurance pays. I couldn't help but think I could have had a pretty decent Caribbean cruise, or at least a real "designer" bag for that amount of money.

Oh well! The good news is that for now the dreaded colonoscopy is a thing of the past. I won't need another one for five years or so. It would have been longer than that, but I had to open my mouth and mention that one of my thirty or so first cousins died from colon cancer. That will teach me.

In the meantime I will be hoping and praying they come up with a better way to prep for the test. Maybe by the time I go back in, someone will have found a way to skip that awful part of it and get right to the "great sleep" aspect. There are nights that I would gladly pay a few hundred bucks for that!

Friday, August 22, 2008

Ham Salad Monkey


I just got home from my morning errand run and made myself a nice ham salad sandwich for a snack.

Ham salad and I go back a long way. My Mom use to make it a lot when I was a little girl. By the time I was four or five years old, the "ham salad monkey" had firmly attached itself to my back. I would have eaten ham salad sandwiches three times a day if my mother would have let me.

Of course, she didn't.

One morning when I was in first grade, I discovered a fresh bowl of ham salad in the fridge and I decided that's what I wanted for breakfast. Mom said, "No", but I argued my case. She offered to fry some eggs for me instead (how boring!) My relentless protest eventually wore her down. She agreed to fix a ham salad sandwich for me, but only if I promised not to tell anyone.

It was obvious that Mom's interest in the nutritional value of my breakfast was not so much the cause for her denying me the ham salad sandwich, as was her fear that someone might find out she'd fed her six year old child (insert *gasp* here) a lunch item for her morning meal.

That ham salad sandwich tasted almost as good to me as did the sweet victory I felt in winning the breakfast war that day.

Later, I sat at my desk at school as Mrs. Ward gave her usual "good morning" class talk. I was half paying attention to her, and half watching a bird hop around on the sidewalk outside the window when I heard her introduce our topic for the day.

It was "nutrition". Yada, yada ... Three balanced meals a day, lots of dairy products, not so much sugar ... I knew the drill. I'd been born six years earlier, not just the night before, after all. I directed my attention back to the hopping bird.

Then, Mrs. Ward said something that made the hair stand up on the back of my neck. She announced that she was going to go around the room and have each of us tell the rest of the class what we'd eaten for breakfast.

I gulped, wondering if my mother could possibly have been angry enough over losing the battle of eggs vs. ham salad, that she'd called the school and tattled on me. I sank down into my seat, quite literally sweating it out as each student reported their breakfast choices to the class.

Bacon and eggs.

Oatmeal.

Cereal and Orange juice.

Milk and toast.

Cream of wheat.

I prayed that someone would come up with " A Three Musketeers candy bar and grape pop" .. anything that might actually make my ham salad sandwich seem like a good idea.

God must have been on my Mother's side that day because before I knew it, it was my turn to tell what my personal breakfast meal had consisted of. I was within mere seconds of being found guilty of poor food choices by a jury of my first grade peers.

All eyes were on me, including Mrs. Ward's. Not only was she looking at me, she had the audacity to be smiling and nodding, giving me the non-verbal order to "Go ahead and make yourself the laughing stock of the whole class ... NOW!"

I was pretty sure I caught a glimpse of the food police waiting to pounce on me just outside the classroom door.

I had to make a decision and I had to make it fast. Smooth as silk, I smiled sweetly back at Mrs. Ward and said, "I had eggs!"

Whew! I wasn't busted after all. Yes, I'd lied and I felt terrible about that, but I was counting on asking forgiveness as soon as the attention of the class (and Mrs. Ward)was on the next victim.

I vowed never to have ham salad for breakfast again as long as I lived.

Of course, as time passed I found the ham salad monkey on my back again and I succumbed to it. To this day, I love to eat ham salad sandwiches for breakfast, but now I don't have to hide that fact from anyone. It's just one of the benefits of being a grown up!

Yes, ham salad was and always will be, a very good friend of mine!

Thursday, August 21, 2008

The Good Old Summer Time

I remember summer.

I speak in past tense because I've noticed that summer is getting shorter as the years go by. In fact, I find that summers today only vaguely resemble those of my childhood.

Summer seemed to last forever back then. As a little girl, I looked forward every year to three full months of being out of school, enjoying long hot sunny days spent riding my bike, swimming with friends, picking tomatoes from the garden with my Dad, and hanging out at the county fair. Those glorious days arrived faithfully at the end of May and lasted until after Labor Day.

I also recall having mixed feelings as mid-August arrived, bringing along with it my birthday. That was back when I actually liked the idea of growing a year older, but in my mind the date was bittersweet as it also symbolized the beginning of the countdown to the start of a new school year. After August thirteenth, we only had a few weeks left. That aspect of my birthday never failed to dampen my spirits a bit. It was then, I'd begin feeling somewhat nostalgic about one more summer that was about to slip through my grasp, and start making efforts to squeeze every bit of enjoyment possible out of what was left of it.

Oh to have that kind of summer back again!

When we moved to Georgia a few years ago, I was excited over the idea of living in a warmer climate than my home state of Ohio had to offer. I imagined how much I'd cherish what would surely be the extended summers here.

Little did I know.

As it turns out, southerners don't embrace summer time in the way I am accustomed.

Maybe it's because they don't experience the same harshness of the winter months. They don't know what it feels like to look forward to mid-March when the official thaw begins every year.

Not once have they been stuck inside their house for days on end, or felt the pain of stepping outside and taking in a lung full of bitterly frozen winter air.

They have no idea how thrilling it can be to wave to the neighbors for the first time each spring as they emerge from their houses after months of seclusion.

No, instead I've discovered that most people here (my husband included) actually dread the summer months.

As if that sort of mindset isn't depressing enough, our school systems seem compelled to go above and beyond the call of duty towards screwing up the summer months. Remember, I said I use to consider mid-August the beginning of the official countdown to the end of the season? Here, the kids are back in school BEFORE my birthday even arrives.

It makes no sense to me at all. It's a hundred degrees outside and what do we do? We put our babies on buses and send them off to school in the sweltering heat!

About the time I am ready to really sink my teeth into the good old summer time, it's over! No more out of town vacations, no more spending weekdays on the lake, no more staying up late and sleeping in.

It ends as quickly as it began. Summer is gone! No more! Zilch! Disappeared in the blink of an eye.

Shoot! The stores here stop selling summer merchandise shortly after the first of July. In fact, instead of using my birthday as the all important marker of the "beginning of the end", I now start my countdown over Independence Day weekend.

In my ever so humble opinion, there's something very wrong with that!

I say, BRING SUMMER BACK! Instead of pushing our kids out the door the first week of August, let's fix another pitcher of sweet tea and head for the front porch swing. Let's stand in the yard and talk to the neighbors over the back fence until dark, without worrying about getting the kids to bed "on time". Instead, let's give them mason jars and tell them to go catch lightning bugs or hand them flashlights and send them out to play "flashlight tag".

Autumn will be arrive soon enough. The leaves will turn brown and fall, leaving the trees naked and gray. It will be dark by six o'clock every night and we will be turning on the furnace and staring at our calenders, not believing there are only "x" number of shopping days until Christmas.

Until then, C'mon people! Let's get out there enjoy the beautiful freedom of the summer days while we can!

Monday, August 18, 2008

Growing Old ... Gracefully?

Last night I was watching one of those shows which feature before and after stories of plastic surgery patients. I was glued to the set as I witnessed three people go through physical transformations via the wonderful world of medical science.

All of the surgeries were completely elective and frankly, I didn't think any of the people who had their bodies altered really needed it.

That's just my opinion though. The truth is, by the end of the show, I was beginning to wonder if I might benefit from a few nips and tucks myself. Shoot! For several thousand dollars and a few hours of my time (not counting recovery, of course) I could look ten years younger. It's that simple.

It wasn't so long ago that I would not have considered such a silly idea. I look young. I act young. I AM young! That's been my story and I've stuck to it.

Even though I am a grandmother five times over, I've been able to live happily comfortable in my little world of denial. I love the looks of surprise I get when people find out I have five grandchildren. I especially enjoy watching people nearly faint when I tell them my oldest daughter is 30 years old.

Yep. It's a beautiful thing.

So, naturally, it bothers me that lately, those surprised reactions are becoming fewer and farther between. It's true, the woman looking back at me in the mirror is starting to show some age and I realize I will soon be forced to make that all important decision.

Will I grow old gracefully, or will I fight it every step of the way?

On one hand, I am leaning towards fighting it. On the other, I'm don't think I am quite ready to pull my head out of the sand and admit that not only is the skin on my face slowly working it's way down to my chin line, but my upper arms are betraying me as well. Just this past weekend I was appalled to notice that it has taken on a life of it's own and now insists on waving at will whenever I raise my hands. And my neck? We won't even go there. Suffice to say I started buying clothing that buttons up under my chin a year or so ago.

In a perfect world, I suppose none of us would ever show our age. Unfortunately, the world is not perfect and neither is this body of mine.

I'd love to think I could maintain a youthful appearance right up to the time I leave this earth (sometime after my 100th birthday) but I'm not quite to the point where I am willing to pay a years wages to accomplish that dream.

So for now, I will keep doing what I've been doing for the last 48 years. I will eat well (with the possible exception of the occasional hot fudge cake) exercise regularly (as in climbing the stairs to get to my computer every morning) and I will keep my head buried in the proverbial sand.

Who's to say, after all, that the "Fountain of Youth" won't someday be discovered right here where I rest, in the beautiful state of denial!

Saturday, August 9, 2008

Batman and the Baby Boomer

From the tender age of five years old, I have been hopelessly in love with Batman.

"In love with" may be a strong way of explaining it. After all how does a five year old fall "in love"? Perhaps I could better describe it as being mesmerized by the Caped Crusader.

Call it what you may, Batman captivated my heart way back in 1966 and has held me hostage ever since.

My husband, my son and I went to see "The Dark Knight" yesterday evening. It definitely did not disappoint! As soon as the cameras panned back to show the silhouette of Batman standing in the shadows overlooking a crime scene in progress, my heart leaped inside my chest.

It was a almost embarrassing, actually, as in a sudden burst of enthusiasm I managed to elbow my husband a little too hard in the side. Realizing I was likely going to need more space as the evening wore on, he laughed at me and shifted a bit to his right in the seat.

As the plot unfolded, justice eventually prevailed, the audience clapped and hooted, credits began to roll and the three of us headed to the car excitedly discussing our favorite parts of the movie.

It's interesting how Batman has changed over the years. He and Robin have come a long way since the days when "Ka-Pow" and "Bam" flashed over the t.v. screen and Batman commanded, "Back to the bat cave, Robin!!"

Robin, aka "Boy Wonder" has disappeared altogether. (That's probably a good thing) Batman, on the other hand, continues to evolve as does the ever more interesting Bat-mobile.

The original Batman, Adam West, is now an aging actor who although he appears in an occasional cameo role, has all but dropped out of sight.

Christian Bale, the most recent Batman fits the role well but I've got to say it's hard to wrap my mind around the idea that Batman has gone from being old enough to be my Dad ... to young enough to be my son since I first started watching him.

His original audience has reached middle age and beyond, but Batman just keeps getting younger and better with each movie release.

In my mind, I like to keep the Batman of my childhood separated from the modern day version. The original Batman may not have been as flashy or electronically enhanced, but he was my hero. Sure he was a little "lame" by today's standards, but that doesn't keep him from holding a sacred place in my personal universe.

This morning, my fourteen year old son came out of his room and announced that he'd spent a good deal of time researching Batman on the internet after we got home last night. In the process, he ran across some old clips of the original t.v. series and was cracking up at how "awful" they were. He couldn't believe that anyone ever really fell for that stuff.

On and on he rattled about those "hideous" gray tights and how Robin looked like a sissy. What were the producers thinking anyway?

I smiled and reminded him that Batman was originally intended for children. The show was considered "cutting edge" way back then and even though it's nothing compared to what has become popular today, the concept of Batman has certainly endured the test of time.

Never as a five year old girl sitting in front of my favorite t.v. show, did I imagine that more than 40 years later I'd be sitting between my husband and son watching my hero on the big screen.

Neither does my son, Adam, realize that he was named after none other than the original Batman himself.

That's a little secret I'll just keep to myself for now.

Yes, Batman will forever hold a very special place in this baby boomer's heart.

Friday, August 8, 2008

Feed Me!!

This time last week we were boarding a ship for a weekend cruise where for three days, we were surrounded by food. Even before our ship pulled away from the port, a veritable 24/7 feeding frenzy ensued which lasted until we walked off on Monday morning.

My problem with that? I wasn't hungry.

I tried to eat. I felt compelled to join the masses at the buffet every morning and afternoon. There, I would pile food on my plate like it was going out of style, only to sit down and decide I didn't want it after all.

Each evening we would dress up and make our way to the dining room where we were able to order any delicacy our hearts desired, even if it wasn't on the menu! The food was delicious, but try again as I may, I just didn't want it. About three bites into each dish, my appetite would abandon me, leaving me sitting there feeling badly about wasting all that glorious food.

It was weird.

You wanna know what's more weird than that?

Now that I am home and my choices are much more limited, I suddenly find myself starving. Seriously! If I'd felt like this last week, someone would have had to wheel me off the ship in a cargo box. There wouldn't have been any food left in a three mile radius after I got finished with it.

Yes, even this morning, I would KILL for a big buffet to plunder through.

I'm not normally a big eater. My philosophy has always been "Eat to live", not "Live to eat!" Food typically holds a rather low spot on my list of priorities. It isn't unusual for me to get so involved with whatever I am doing, that I forget to eat.

Yes. I said I "forget" to eat.

So why this sudden change? I haven't the foggiest clue. Hopefully it will pass as quickly as it hit and I'll be back to my normal un-hungry self soon.

For now, I'll just go fix myself a bowl of left over chili and bide my time as I wait.

Thursday, August 7, 2008

Pushing Fifty

Pushing Fifty

My birthday is coming up. It's six days away, to be exact, and I will be turning forty-eight.

Forty-eight is not a big deal. Whatever forty-eight is supposed to feel like, I don't think I feel it. I certainly don't consider myself "middle aged". (The mere act of typing those words just made me shudder.)

No, I am definitely not "old".

At least I didn't think so until I talked to my daughter on the phone last night. Angel was commenting on a picture of me that which was taken on formal night of our cruise last week. I'm quite sure she meant her statement as a compliment, but perhaps she could have chosen her words a little better.

She said, "Mom! You look gorgeous in that picture of you in the black party dress. I told Johnny that you sure don't look like a woman who's pushing FIFTY!"

I gulped and immediately informed her that "I AM NOT PUSHING FIFTY!"

That, of course, brought laughter from the other end of the phone line. (OK, so if I'm indeed "pushing fifty", whatever happened to respecting one's elders???)

That's when the conversation (and my ego) took a distinct downward turn.

Angel went on to explain that my being forty-eight somehow officially allows me to wear the banner of "pushing fifty".

Like it's some kind of honor or something.

I'll have none of that nonsense!

I'm sorry. I'm not quite ready to hang that noose around my neck just yet. I refuse to entertain any thought of "pushing fifty" until at least two years from this date, August 7, 2010! Six days before my fiftieth birthday. In the meantime I will remain as I am ... young, strong, and (almost) invincible.

I am WOMAN! Hear me roar! (Or in this case, hear me complain about my daughter thinking of me as "pushing fifty")

So today, it's back to looking forward to my birthday which is a mere six days away.

I will be forty-eight. Don't you forget it!