Let’s Talk X

Yes shall we? Let’s talk X.

Deep breath.

Okay I confess, I’m a stealth boomer X  bomber. 

I dive in and make comments, correct negligent spellers, remind others to play nice and attack with facts.

I can’t  decide if we are in big trouble as a country or full of hope. Live-streaming is the best thing since disposable lighters.

The options we have everyday beg the question...why do we need so many options? 

Too much in common

These young men who become mass murderers...some are lefty’s, some are righty’s raised by lefty’s. They have one thing in common ; rage.
Rage in their history, something hidden or not so hidden and then they find a vehicle equal to their rage, a gun, a machete, a car a bomb...

What if we really do move?

We’ve been looking at houses for a long time...we need to down size, shorten the length of our drive way and consequentially snow removal, have a master bedroom on the first floor , and mow a lawn that is less then an acre.

That’s the check list.

We found the place that matches that.

Now, what do we do with 23 years of accumulated stuff, that piled up each time a parent passed away , or the stuff we got a good deal on that we really didn't need?

Are we now subject to the Marie Kondo catch and release mind set? Do I have to speak in a soft whisper and bow in each room?

God help us all when we have to actually clean out the kitchen junk drawer.

Bad decade to stop drinking.

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.

Surfacing....

Omigosh, where have I been?  Well, not sure , here and there and now back here. Its been how many years since my last post/confession?
My how time flies when you’re not waiting in line at the DMV.

I am still invisible to the the majority of people out there and actually since my  skin on my neck is sagging, I’m grateful for that small mercy.

So today’s blog will be a short one because I’m way behind on my schedule today (funny, auto correct wanted to turn behind into bionic) ..as in I’m, way bionic.

I want to tell you that all this political stuff is sucking the fun out of EVERYTHING. When it starts to invade the RHONY, you know it’s jumped the Manolo Shark.

Let’s mix it up and discuss diets....ha! Just kidding that’s another fun sucking subject.

Dear Reader, lets discuss the smart decision of  getting a smaller dog in your 60’s .

1) They are Portable

2) Less expensive to feed, although more fussy.

3) Small poop to clean

4) They satisfy that “we want grandchildren” thingy.

5) They can’t pull you down on the ice and snow in the winter, or twist your wrist on the leash, unless you own multiples and then you deserve that fate.

6) Let’s face it, the days of needing a dog to jog with are over, how’s that knee replacement?

Our house is now ruled by a Mini Schnauzer...we went from decades of Boxers to a Mini Schnauzer. My husband has now be stripped of his masculinity as he walks the Princess, and I have learned that the smaller the dog, the bigger the ATTITUDE.
She is the Queen of the stink eye and I feel her judgement hourly.

Empty nesters, I cannot stress how important a pet is, otherwise all your energy goes at your spouse...and none of us are prepared for that!

More to come, get a coffee.

The Weight of Noble Acts...

If I were noble enough to work, as a nurse, treating people with Ebola in Sierra Leone , I would accept , as part of my job, to have the numerous immunization shots in order to travel there, without indignation.

If I were noble enough to work, as a nurse, treating people with Ebola, I would sign all the legal papers that Doctors without Borders would have me sign , accepting the risks, and responsibilities, without indignation.

If I were noble enough to work, as a nurse, treating people with Ebola, I would suit up, as required, in my "Hazmat suit".
I would obey rigorous decontamination procedures everyday, without indignation.

If I were noble enough to work, as a nurse, treating people with Ebola, I would understand that any virus can mutate and change it's mode of transference because science can explain only what it knows, so far.

If I were a nurse, noble enough to treat people with Ebola, I would understand that twenty one days of quarantine would be all part of the process described above, and accept it without indignation.

If I were a nurse, noble enough to do all these things, and I was clear of Ebola after my quarantine, I would be amazed how fast 21 days passed by and feel blessed I wasn't ill and that I didn't expose my loved ones or anyone else.

Nobility is often paired with obligation, it is a big weight to fully absorb and has no room for indignation.


...

Misguided youth.

That's the nifty phrase I have always used to describe my times in the 70's as a teenager...less than stellar student, experimenting with drugs, shoplifting makeup...etc.

Eventually I straightened up and smelled the Starbucks. So,  now I'm a grumpy tax payer with a penchant for leather (handbags that is) and fresh kale salads.

Good grief.

Now it seems that besides being the name of an all girl rock band, misguided youth is a phrase being bandied about by an astonishing adjective challenged media to describe the Boston bombers and their accomplices.

I won't use their names, because I refuse to give them that respect.

Since when did we refer to terrorists as misguided youth? Is that a throw back to Bill Ayers and the Weather Underground? Is this is an attempt to lesson their heinous history (which begs comparisons and raises all sorts of itchy questions)  and in effect, lesson the Marathon bomber's responsibility of their own calculated actions?

What is happening?

When did we lose our ability to actually process thoughts?

Invisi-Gal finds herself happy to be invisible around such idiots, and so, will not to be counted among them.

Carry on.



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