Too Much Coffee Thoughts

Mega Millions, pick me, pick me

Game of Thrones ended , but the whining did not  

Being invisible is wonderful when you need to hike up your pantyhose

Pantyhose is a weird word

Being good at Jeopardy is almost as fun as having a waistline

Where is my nine iron?

Why can’t people my age join the military, we would be so useful...at headquarters

When Hell freezes over can we skate on it?

Boomer bodies and pool parties

Please don't invite me to your pool party, of course unless it’s at night and below 55 degrees.

Otherwise I’ll have to resort to wearing a mumu, caftan or shroud.

I’m not interested in cavorting (boomer word) in my anti-two-piece or giving you retinal damage from my whiter than white skin.

Nor do I want to participate in the sociological study of Boomer men staring at the daughter of the host who still has an intact body. Although when they all suck in their guts as she walks by, and then let out their collective beer bellies to original  senior status...it’s worthy of generating a meme with a snarky comment like “Yeah we still got it, for 10 seconds...”

Please dear ones don't send me into a social interaction with my weakest characteristic leading the way...never. I am (if I do say so myself) a master at conversational repartee, but if you are concentrating on my age spots, you will miss all my charm.

As for ladies of my same age who rock a good physique, you look lovely dears, but because you can fit into a bikini, doesn't mean you should. It’s like seeing an octogenarian with a Hello Kitty purse; cute but not quite right, right?

So please invite me for a round of golf, dinner, spicy Uno ...but not to your daytime pool party. I’m a grown up and usually invisible, except when I am a placed as a glaring physical  comparison to a Millenial who has already made a joke about my lack of tech knowledge and referred to me as “Karen”.

Let’s use our  superpowers to always position ourselves in the best light (which btw is not fluorescent  overheads) and operate from the lofty perch we worked so hard to climb upon, and give me a minute to catch my breath before we burst into laughter again how those pesky youngster have no idea how to dial a rotary phone.

Take down during cocktails

The other day I had an interesting exchange. A rude person decided to make a comment on my penchant for wearing dark colors and did so in front of others. Here’s the exchange...

Her: So good to see you in something other than black
Me: How nice of you to point that out.
Her: Well you usually wear black
Me: That’s because I’m in mourning every day
Her: In mourning about what?
Me: I mourn the loss of well mannered people.

Bam!

My Mother After All

I do so wish the mirror near

would lie to me just one time

And let me see Angelina Jolie 

Or Hepburn in her prime.

Instead it taunts me each pale morn

as fluorescent lights do hover,

That I’ve become, since I was born,

A reflection of my mother.

Her platitudes of, “Don’t wear that,

People will think we’re poor”

Are word for word, though absurd,

Straight from her general store.

If by chance, you dare slipped by

The front door sans inspection,

Such great dismay, your jeans are frayed !

Here comes wardrobe intervention.

Stand up straight and eye contact

All tied to "please" and "thank you"

Understand chain of command

as in; All adults outrank you.

Never use a salad fork,

When a dinner fork is needed,

And elbows off ! Those who scoff

May find their seats, unseated.

I hear myself bark out in verse

A litany of her best hits,

“Why buy the cow?” or “Speed the plough!”

And yes, wear it, "if the shoe fits".

I miss her quirky sage advice

Her terms of non-surrender,

Her midnight calls, her lack of walls,

Her radar for pretenders.

We shall not see her kind again,

As she would oft remind me.

But DNA, shall have its way

Just look for her, you’ll find me.

Mother, sister and Leon

This is one of those moments again. The second I saw this news, I started to text my sister Ellen about it. Then came the moment when I stopped typing because she’s not here to receive it , she is gone forever, and so is the reason why we would even care about Leon Redbone dying. 

But I will tell you all why because it needs to be in a frame of reference somewhere to someone other than myself...my mother, Regina, wasn't a fan of music in general , in fact the radio was was never on in her car and we were NOT allowed to listen to it when we drove with her. She deemed most modern music as pure noise , with the exception of (no judging here) The Grand Canyon Suite by Gofe’ , and anything by Dean Martin and Leon Redbone. 

True fact, the only Christmas music Regina owned was a Leon Redbone Christmas album which is now a part of my permanent collection and one I would torture my sister Ellen with every Friday after Thanksgiving.

Don't try to analyze this strange collection of completely divergent tastes (although Leon and Dean had that same epiglottal vocal style ) it will only send you off into a whirling vortex of psycho analysis that ends with someone assuming the fetal position as you hear your mother sing along with Leon on “Seduced”. 
Looking back as an adult, I wish we had joined in and sung it loudly with her and laughed instead of acting like judg-y daughters , but back then, that was our job and a most silly wrong one.

I apologize posthumously to Leon for never really giving him proper cred as a musician, because he was erroneously branded as that strange pinstripe suit guy my mother allowed in her most stringent and puzzling of musical repertoires.
He is now gone, but his music does live on , that great touch of immortality that some lucky musicians do enjoy. 

So when I hear “Seduced” , I laugh and sing it out of the side of my mouth with as much nasal sound as I can produce and sending it out to Ellen and Mom.

In my heart I know that they are are singing and laughing along with me and now Leon has just joined in.