Hot off the Press!

Hello blog followers. For those of you who are interested, I’d like to tell you about my new memoir, “Swiftly Flowing Waters,” which was released this week by Plumleaf Press Books.

It’s a huge moment, to turn yourself inside-out between the pages of a book, then release your story into the world to find a life of it’s own.

“Why would you do such a thing,” you might ask me. Why indeed!

My journey from living in a small town without electricity or telephones, to denying my Indigenous heritage for decades, to becoming vice president of one of Canada largest banks, to escaping an alcoholic relationship, to surviving breast cancer and helping my beloved husband to die…wasn’t an easy journey. But there was also a lot of joy and adventure along the way.

Courage is a big thing in life. It eluded me for a long time. I hope my story resonates with readers, especially women of all ages. It’s the story of what so many women quietly go through in life, and just “deal with it.”

Looking back at my life through the eyes of a septuagenarian gave way to seeing the choices I made from a different perspective: like the pieces of a puzzle that all come together and snap into place to create a picture.

I think it’s important for women to be heard and tell our stories, whether just to our families or to a wider audience…it’s all good. It’s important to pay homage to the path we’ve been on.

At 79 years old, I think I have a damn good story to tell. I want to display it like a trophy, while it’s still bright and shiny enough to see.

See you between the lines.

Pat Lamondin Skene

I Can’t Believe You Just Said That!

Do not go gentle into that good night…Rage, rage against the dying of the light.    – Dylon Thomas

First this happened:
“You’re an exceptional player for a woman your age,” my online male scrabble opponent wrote on the chat line. “I bet it helps keep your mind active as well,” he added. 

“OMG! I can’t believe you just said that!” I replied. He had no idea how old I was, but my profile picture indicated I was a woman of a certain vintage.

That was pure gendered ageism, and I was having none of it. I gave him a dressing down and told him his comments were misogynistic. I suggested he go and sit in a corner and think about his words. Then I beat him by 100 points!

Then, two days later – this!
Scene: Doctor’s Office, Examining Room.
Characters: Doctor and Patient (me).
Me: “I haven’t been here for so long, I thought I’d come in before you fire me as a patient.”
Doctor: Looking at my chart. “I’d never do that. But you were just here to see the nurse practitioner on Nov. 2, 2023, for a flu and Covid shot.”
Me: “No I wasn’t. I’ve never had a flu shot and furthermore, I haven’t been to this office in over a year.”
Doctor: “Yes, you were Pat. It’s all here in your file. You called two days before to make the appointment and came in at 5:30pm on November 2, 2023. The NP checked you out at 5:40pm after your shots.”
Me: “No, I didn’t. I’m telling you, that’s not me. I wasn’t here.”
Doctor: “Yes you were. Look, here are all the details of your appointment.” She turned the computer screen toward me. “It’s definitely you, and isn’t this your health card number? We wouldn’t make a mistake like that.”
Me: (getting agitated). “Please believe me. I wasn’t here.”

And so it continued…
Doctor: Looking at me with pity in her eyes, soothing voice. “Pat – people your age, especially smart ones like you, find clever ways to conceal their forgetfulness. I tell my geriatric patients that all the time.”
Me: “OMG! Did you seriously just say that? You think I’m losing my marbles?”
Doctor: “Well, I’ve been here for 10 years and an error like this has never happened. Our NP is very precise and she never makes a mistake. I think you should go home and check your appointment book to refresh your memory.”

Then the doctor brought in the office manager who looked at the file and agreed that I had to be in the office on that day. They both silently looked back at me, while I sat there feeling unheard, unbelieved, and utterly confused.

Now what?
I drove home thinking about the possibility and perils of my cognitive decline. What if I had forgotten I was there and really couldn’t remember getting those two needles? But I’ve never had a flu shot in my life – or have I?? 

Sure, I admit, last Sunday I wore my pants inside out all day in the house and didn’t notice until I went to bed. And then there was the lettuce I found frozen in my freezer. Should these occurrences have warned me of a bigger problem, rather than make me laugh the way it did at the time?

When I got home, I went straight to my appointment book. The only thing on my calendar for Nov. 2 was lunch with a friend. I emailed the doctor’s office with a picture of my diary pages. Again, I insisted in my email that I wasn’t in the doctor’s office at the end of that day.

The office manager phoned and promised to check the call logs to see who had made the appointment. I could hear in her voice that she was doing it to prove it was me. She would be looking for my phone number. What if I couldn’t prove I wasn’t there? Would it be a stain on my medical records?

The experience shook me, and I couldn’t let it go. That night I developed an episode of atrial fibrillation that went on for 17 hours. Coincidence? I think not. I was unnerved.

Vindicated
I lingered in confusion until the next day when both the office manager and the doctor called. They (very sheepishly) said they had found the mistake by using the call logs, and explained exactly how the mixup in patient files had occurred – apologizing profusely for the error.

They said nothing like this had ever happened before and assured me new measures would be put in place to enforce a stricter control in their processes. I made sure they understood how upset and unsettling it was not to be believed and to be accused of “concealing my forgetfulness.”

I told the doctor how she had made me doubt my own sanity. And how hurtful it was that she had instantly jumped to her own conclusions and disbelieved me.

“How could you think you were getting dementia?” the doctor said on the call, trying to recover from what they did to me. “You’re healthy and active and still writing books for heaven sakes!”

“I didn’t think that!” I shot back at her. “You did!” I did not let her off the hook! I had walked into her office feeling great and left as an old lady with memory problems.

Final word
Ageism is a common theme for seniors. Too often it’s used to diminish the competency and capability of the older person. We all experience it in subtle forms, but this past week, it very boldly slapped me in the face! It bothers me that the episode shook my confidence in my ability so quickly. Was I really all that fragile?

At least this week has reminded me to, “Rage, rage against the dying of the light,” as Mr. Thomas so eloquently stated. My shocking feelings of vulnerability have reinforced my resolve to call out ageism as I see it and encourage others to do the same. We experience it all the time in the healthcare system. We’ve earned our place in this world and deserve to be heard, and treated with honesty and respect.

Pat Lamondin Skene

PS. Despite it all, I won’t be switching doctors. I have enjoyed a good relationship with her for 10 years and she has always been responsive and attentive. She’s a good doctor. I’m sure her actions were driven by a belief that the office procedures in place were infallible. That, coupled with my age, and the fact that she hadn’t seen me in well over a year, may have influenced her (thoughtless) behaviour. Calling her out on it was enough.

See you between the lines.

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What Would You Do?

(Originally published in the Oakville News, January 4, 2024)

A random encounter left me regretting what I did.

THE BOY ON A BENCH

It all started
A few weeks ago, I was enjoying my daily walk along the waterfront near my home. The trail was quiet with very few people on the path. A brisk wind stung my cheeks, as I listened to the beautiful sound of waves crashing on the shoreline. Diving ducks and swans peppered the surf. They bobbed up and down, then disappeared in a bottoms-up display, searching for underwater aquatic treats. Winter trees along the walkway stood like guardians of the lake, blessing me with their energy as I passed. Many of them had bronze name plaques at their bases to honour a deceased loved one. It was a peaceful setting where I could lose myself in the goodness of a deep connection with nature.

The people I meet
Most walkers are generally friendly and offer a greeting or a simple nod. As I passed a particular bend in the trail that curved around the lake, there was a young man sitting quietly on a bench. A boy really, to a woman my age. He was well-dressed, clean-cut, probably in his late teens, or very early twenties. He had a long narrow face with a sallow complexion and was slouched deep into his black parka. Although he sat very still staring out at the water, his gaze shifted from side to side in a nervous kind of energy. As I came closer, I studied the young man and saw a heavy cloud of sadness in his eyes.

Deep in thought
When I passed him on the bench, he looked away. I tried to make eye contact to say hello, but he worked hard to ignore me by turning his head in the opposite direction. I sensed he was struggling with something deep and important to him. The lake is a good place to think, I thought to myself and walked on. 

I walked away
On my return trip, the boy was still sitting on the bench. He stared down at his feet when he saw me coming. This time, I slowed my pace to get his attention and I said hello as I passed. He answered with a quick hello, like a cat pouncing on a mouse, then looked away. It was like he was expecting me to say something and dreading it at the same time. I could feel his anxiety in my bones, and I could hear his body language screaming at me – please don’t stop, please don’t notice me. I walked the rest of the way home thinking about the look in his eyes.

So many questions
Now, here I am, several days later, and I’m still thinking about that young man. Who was he and why did he look so sad? Did he need someone to talk to? Was he afraid of something or someone? Did he have a fight with a parent, a friend, a girlfriend? Was he sick or grieving the loss of a loved one? Whatever it was, my instincts told me he was in pain.

Did I make it all up?
As a writer, I’m always an observer of people. We all walk through our days carrying the baggage of the lives we live, some of us wearing our scars more prominently than others. It’s comfortable to experience humanity at a safe distance and imagine what’s going on in other people’s lives. I’m always on the lookout for a good story, so could I have created a drama where none existed? Could the young man have been there, simply enjoying some scenery and solitude? Absolutely, that’s possible. My imagination has a way of stirring things up and turning them upside down. But either way, the encounter stayed with me.

I wish…
Looking back, I wish I had stopped and sat beside him. I wish I had asked him how he was and if he lived nearby. I wish I had engaged and at least tried to soften his sorrow. I wish he knew that an old woman walking on the trail cared about his sadness. In the ubiquitous world of technology and the ravages of Covid, we’re losing our humanity and willingness to personally connect with people. Compounded by the growing hate and violence in the world, we can become afraid to reach out to strangers. And while that’s a valid argument in many cases, what was it about this innocuous young man that stayed with me? The look in his eyes? Was it his body language, as skittish as a squirrel? 

What would you do? I realize that his business is none of my business. But isn’t a fellow human being seemingly in distress my business? Most of us would reach out to help someone in an obvious health crisis, like a fall or a heart attack. But what about sadness, loneliness, and despair? If you met this boy on a bench, what would you do? Would you trust your instincts and take a seat beside him? Or would you walk away like I did?

Final thoughts
There’s a fine line between being friendly and being intrusive. There’s always the possibility of being rebuffed and experiencing the sting of rejection when we put ourselves out there. But isn’t there some solace in knowing we tried? 

I don’t know what the answer is here, and every situation is different. All I know is that I’m going to do better. If that means sitting down next to a boy on a bench who looks like he’s having a tough day – I’ll be there.

Pat Lamondin Skene

See you between the lines.

The Red Angel

I need to tell you a story:   

Prologue: The other day, I sat in the lobby of my condo building waiting for someone to pick me up at the front door. As I sat on the bench, I admired the beautiful Christmas decorations all around me. A team of dedicated volunteers take time out of their lives every year to do this, and it truly is spectacular…inviting and festive to all residents and visitors who come through the lobby.

Main character: An elderly woman I didn’t know was sitting beside me, and I commented on how beautiful everything looked. She harumphed and said, “I hate that red angel on the top of the tree.”

The lines in the woman’s face deepened as she glared at the angel and added, “They should have put a white one, or a gold one, but not that cheap looking thing! It ruins everything!”

Point of view: Now the tree had to be 15 feet high, so from where I was sitting I had to really squint to see the details of this monstrosity she was talking about. But what I saw was a beautiful angel in a red velvet dress trimmed with white fur, sporting a set of magical feathery white wings. She was beautiful and angelic as angels should be, and simply perfect for the treetop.

Motivation: I thought about this woman for the rest of the day…I’m still thinking about her. Why was she so unhappy with this red angel and how could it possibly “ruin everything” as she said. And while I know deep down it wasn’t about the angel at all, I can’t help but wonder  what made her see the little red angel in that particular way?

Perhaps her children don’t call at Christmas.
Perhaps she deals with pain every waking moment.
Perhaps her shoes were too tight.
Perhaps Santa has forgotten her too many times.
Perhaps she is lonely.
Perhaps her father was a nasty drunk every Christmas.
Perhaps all her old friends have died.
Perhaps she has outlived her money.
Perhaps the colour red makes her see red.
Perhaps she was terribly constipated.

Epilogue: Whatever the reason, the fact remains that we see the world from where we sit…together with all our glory and carbuncles. And our view is distorted by the amount of baggage we choose to drag along behind us.  Life’s a bitch, there’s no doubt about that! It’s how we deal with the successes, failures and challenges that defines how we see our ever changing landscape.

Serendipity: Coincidentally, someone tweeted this picture, which I would like to share with you. I don’t know the tweeter, so I apologize if I am using the picture without permission, whoever you are. But it’s a great message and if I knew who the woman was that I met in the lobby, I would stick it under her door. It’s never too late to see the beautiful red angels in our lives.

 

See you between the lines and Merry Christmas.

 

 

 

 

 

Toads, Teeth and Tinfoil

“S’up?”

Someday soon I hope to emerge from my Covid cave and join the bright lights of civilization. As with many people, I may have changed a bit with my cavewoman length hair and fluffier waistline. But I made it through the hibernation and I’m ready to see the light of day.

The last two years was a master class in learning how to live alone and finding ways to fill the silence with more than Netflix and Miss Vickie’s potato chips. I’m happy to say, I accomplished that by diving headfirst into my passion for writing and creating my own imaginary playmates. We didn’t all get along at first, but then we called a truce and became good buds.

First, I took on the really hard stuff and wrote my memoir, immersing myself in 70+ years of the good, the bad and all the stuff in the middle that brought me to where I am now. The title is “Swiftly Flowing Waters” and I’m pleased to say I survived the experience, in tact and at peace with my life. It will be published in May 2024 by Plumleaf Press.

I also wrote a picture book for kids about what my life was like before electricity, circa 1955 in a Georgian Bay Metis community. Orca Book Publishers will release “Lights Along the River” in May 2024. Now I keep busy in between the ongoing production work for these projects by writing interconnecting monthly short stories for the Oakville News, which I plan to publish in a collection at some point. So all in all, my time of isolation, creativity and personal reflection has produced a big bowl of long-lasting fruit.

Have I developed some lazy habits like everyone else out there? Absolutely! I often stay in my night pyjamas all morning, only to shower and get into my day pyjama pants for the rest of the day. It doesn’t have to be pyjamas, as long as it’s soft and loose with an elastic waistband à la Covid haute couture. Some days are more exciting when I have a Zoom call and I get half-dressed.

My neglected wardrobe is feeling prickly and lashing out. My bras are so pissed they pinch me when I try to put them on. And don’t even get me started on how annoyed my hard shoes have become from being ignored. Last year, I even blew the budget on getting veneers on my front teeth. Of course I would choose to do this at a time when I’m wearing a mask! What a total maroon!

Speaking of toothy maroons – I look at mega-entertainers like Post Malone and can’t help but wonder why his earlobes have large padlocks on them? Is he trying to keep something in or something out? Did you know he has a tooth made from 40 carats of diamonds? Is it just me who finds this totally absurd?

And while I’m on the subject of absurdities – why did Katy Perry make herself look like a toadstool wearing assless chaps on SNL last Saturday? Why can’t singers just sing, without all that nonsense? It’s very difficult to enjoy music when the entertainers are contorting themselves on a stage filled with colourful fungi. To tell you the truth, the dancers on stage with her looked more like jiggling penises than mushrooms! These are the problems that occupy my mind good people of the blogging set. I’m flummoxed by the lot of it.

The world seems to have gotten wilder while we were cave-bound. More and more inhabitants on earth have become full fledged nut jobs, by proudly wearing tinfoil hats, spouting conspiracy nonsense and drinking bleach. And yesterday put me right over the edge when I read about the latest lunatic thing people are taking to escape reality – toad venom. Now that’s completely Bufo! And just plain crazy on a cracker people! Perhaps Katy Perry’s routine was a toadstool tribute to the new kid on the block of psychedelics. Toads and toadstools…get it?

In the end though, I’m probably just suffering from the age-old problem of generational-gapitis. And I accept that with as much grace and ongoing curiosity that my septuagenarian brain will allow.

See you between the lines.

Would You Like Me to Wax the Hair on Your Toes?

(Reposted from 2017)

What the fuzz?
Okay, I realize I’m off the charts here with asking you such a boldly bumptious question. Nor do I have any intention of following through on the answer if you say yes.

I’ve been under a wee bit of stress lately and decided I needed some pampering. So I scheduled myself into a day spa for the usual scrub, rub, soak and polish routines. It was deliciously decadent.

Who me?
But then something happened. As I was getting my pedicure, eyes closed, enjoying the ambient sounds of the soothing spa playlist du jour, the lovely young technician interrupted my zoned-out state by asking, “Would you like me to wax the hair on your toes?”

Ditching the cucumber slices on my eyes, I bolted upright! “What did you say?”
“The hair on your toes,” she repeated. “Would you like me to remove it?”

“I have hair on my toes?” I said to her, like she would make such a disgusting thing up. “I can’t see that far down”…I insisted. “I have cataracts, I didn’t know I had hair on my toes. How long has it been there?”

Stay calm and breathe!
“I don’t know,” she said in her spa-soothing voice. “But don’t worry, just relax and it will be gone in a minute.” She proceeded to take care of the big hairy deal with the speed and diplomacy of the professional she was. Then she quickly followed up with a leg and foot massage that made me forget my bushy phalanges and put me right back into a zen state of mind. I left feeling relaxed, rejuvenated, and slippery as a mango pit…my Hobbit feet a thing of the past.

Hair today, gone tomorrow:
What is it about our obsession with body hair and why do we find it so unappealing? Studies have shown that many women hide their depilatory secrets from their partners, too embarrassed or ashamed to admit they keep up high maintenance routines to keep themselves basically as bald as baby kangaroos. The Daily Mail in the UK did an article a few years ago entitled, Top 20 Beauty Secrets Women Hide From Men.” The number one item on the list that women never wanted their partners to know was, “Pluck/Shave hair from the toes.”

Yikes!
We older women usually don’t go baby-kangaroo crazy in our plucking, shaving and waxing pursuits. But with hormone changes, we can have a few surprise visitors in the mirror. Pesky little hair follicles can pop out in unforeseen locations, like chin, nipples, belly, moles, knuckles, shoulders, forehead, upper lip and yes…even our noses and ears, usually reserved for the male species.

Hairy contrary:
Sometimes there are medical conditions that cause this problem, but most of the time it isn’t a problem at all. Just annoying as hell. And some women are embracing their inner-hairiness and growing their own leggings and dyeing armpit hair in rainbow colours. But that’s a post for another day. I worked with a woman many years ago who had a patch of long bushy black hair on the back of her legs above the knee. We wore mini skirts in those days and when she bent over the file cabinet, every chair in the office swung around to check out the view. I always wondered if she brushed it.

Let’s think about this:
So with all the maintenance most of us do to keep the forestry down, let me ask you this. What do you think we would morph into if we were deserted on a south Pacific island with our favourite heart-throb? Picture yourself in a bodice ripping story as a romantic castaway with…(fill in the blanks.) My own personal fantasy includes Nathaniel Bonner, from the book, “Into the Wilderness.” Honestly, I can’t get enough of that man. But I digress…back to the deserted island…

The story continues:
So after a few months or a year under a palm tree in the Pacific, and depending on our own personal speed of hair growth multiplied by genetics and dominant genes – our appearance may be more bewhiskered than bewitching. As our eyebrows spread slowly into a monobrow and we braid our armpit hair to keep it out of the oyster stew, will we still want to frolic on our hairy Hobbit feet into the crashing waves on the beach? And without our dream man’s manscaping routines, will we still whisper sweet and salty nothings as we do the beach tango, like a couple of hairballs in love? Hmmm….

Final word:
So the next time someone asks you, “Would you like me to wax/tweeze/shave that?”  know that you’re in the good company of someone from the Secret Society of the Hairy Sisterhood.

See you between the lines and on Twitter @PatSkene

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Walking to the Beat in My Feet

How’s it going? Now more than ever, we need to find creative ways to get our assets outside and exercise safely. A good bit of regular fresh air is critical to keep our sanity and our waistbands from exploding during periods of isolation. And while walking is as good an exercise as any, walking alone can be tedious. That’s why I put a beat in my feet to get the job done, with what I call “walk-dancing.”

Hang on: Don’t go squirrely on me, I’m not saying I’m out there, twirling and tap-dancing my way down the nature trail. Although that does sound like a delicious thing to do, I’m more reserved in my public displays.

Here’s the deal: I love to walk, but some days, I just feel too lazy to get out there. And when I do lace up my runners, there are days I simply want to listen to the sounds of nature and enjoy the solitude and the view. Then there are walks where I put in my ear buds and listen to an audio book to keep me company. Michelle Obama’s memoir was a great book to listen to this way. Other times I might listen to music while I walk, and as much as I enjoy that, I feel a strong urge to walk to the beat of the song, which isn’t always possible.

The Solution? Easy peasy, I created a playlist of songs with the right beat for walking. It took an hour or so to compile a list of about 40 songs, but it was well worth the time. Now, I walk-dance my way along the waterfront path and nature trails with such joy in my heart, I simply need to share the experience with you.

Interested? Try this to walk-dance your way through the pandemic:    

• I used Spotify to create a walking playlist on my phone, but you can make your playlist in your usual way. Check out each song before adding it, by test-walking the beat at home to see if it works for you. You can alter from fast to slower tunes if you like to change your stride while walking. Choose music that makes you feel good.
• When you go for your walk, wear ear buds and don’t be afraid to strut your stuff. Even if all you do is swing your arms and walk, make it jive with the beat of the music. You’ll find yourself smiling at everyone you meet and they’ll smile back – even if it’s behind a mask.
• There’s something quite exhilarating about putting one foot in front of the other to the beat of great songs like “California Girls,” by the Beach Boys, or ‘Dancing Queen,” by Abba, or ‘Handle with Care,” by The Traveling Wilburys. Yes I’m dating myself, but these are seriously cool walk-dancing songs, guaranteed to put a zip in your tired toes.
• As you get into the the groove and if you’re feeling the love, go with it! Sing along with the songs and who cares if people look at you? You’ll be feeling so blissful, everyone will wish they could be you in that moment.

Final word: The added bonus to all this is the positive effect on our well-being and happiness. Looking forward to our walks and giving us motivation to bundle up and get outside, can’t be anything but great for our physical and mental health. And coming back home with a smile in our hearts is all the reward we need for getting our daily exercise.

So let’s get out there and do this thing and walk-dance our way to happier days.

P.S…as an added bonus to my walk-dancing routine, I’ve been taking pictures of painted rocks, thanks to the artistic endeavours of several people in my neighbourhood. This is only one of the more than 100 pictures I’ve taken of these creative displays.

See you between the lines.

Pat Skene

Cataract Surgery Gave Me Wrinkles!

What happened to my face?
Can cataracts be put back in your eyes once they’ve been removed? Can you hold your surgeon responsible for giving you wrinkles? I looked so much better when I was seeing myself through the  “Doris Day” world of my gauzy lenses. Remember her movies? She always looked out of focus and blurry on screen. That’s because she insisted the cameras use vaseline or cheesecloth over the lenses to hide her freckles.

I’ve had both cataracts removed. Now, everything looks shiny and new, like the world was polished while I was in surgery. But I suddenly find myself looking at a stranger in the mirror. Where did all those wrinkles come from? Why didn’t my family and friends tell me I was so old? I always thought I was holding my own for a woman of a certain age. But now that I can see clear vibrant colours and images of the world around me, I can also see a whole new me I didn’t know existed. Holy crap, when did all this happen?

When this new more mature looking me emerged from the mirror, it kinda freaked me out. But my family and friends are looking older too. Serves them right since none of them were honest with me.

The naked truth
I’ve worn glasses full time for the past fifteen years. So I’ve gotten very used to having my specs perched on my nose as part of my face.  Plus I’m realizing that glasses hide bags under your eyes, dark circles, crows feet, wrinkles and blemishes. Without glasses, everything on my face springs into prominence, including my eyebrows. I’ve never paid much attention to my eyebrows, but now there they are, front and centre demanding attention.

Some women I know continue to wear their glasses with clear non-prescription lenses after cataract surgery. Now I know why! I think sometimes we can actually look younger with our glasses on. Plus there’s a comfort in seeing ourselves with frames that have become part of our identity.

To make matters worse, we’re advised to avoid wearing eye makeup for a while after surgery. Having worn eyeliner since I was a teen, this was another big shock making me feel unadorned and vulnerable. This was a version of me I’ve never seen before – nor has anyone else. At least this was temporary and thankfully, my daily eyeliner routine resumed today. So I’m me again…well, for the most part anyway.

New adornments
Being the shallow human being that I am, I was looking forward to clear vision and being able to drive at night. But mostly I wanted to wear dangly earrings. I don’t like the look of glasses and long earrings; makes me feel like Dame Edna. So I was looking forward to dumping my glasses and wearing beautiful dangle earrings. So mission accomplished on that score, I have already purchased a couple pairs. Maybe if they’re sparkly enough, people will look at my earrings instead of my new wrinkles.

So all in all, the ordeal is over and the surgeries were a success, for which I’m very thankful. And although seeing this new version of my face with such clarity is a shock to my ego, I’ll get over it. In the meantime, I’ll use my clearer vision to learn to accept myself warts and all, and find more beauty in the world around me.

But I still may sue my family and friends.

See you between the lines,

Pat

There’s a New Love in My Life

No, it’s not a man, it’s something better. No it’s not a woman…it’s my new love toy.  (Get a grip, it’s not that either.)

As you may have read in my posts in the past on the topic of techno-toys, 50 Shades of MAC, i-Crazy, and i-Lied…you will know that I am fully committed to the wonders of technology; a converted Apple-geezerette if you will.

Hear ye, hear ye: I know it’s very hard for some seniors to stay open to learning new things. Life always looks so much better in the rearview mirror. And although we will never be as proficient with technology as our children and grandchildren, as long as we have breath there’s always time left to believe we can continue to learn and improve our lives in some small way.

Zoom Zoom: Right now the big thing is meeting people on Zoom. What a delight this has turned out to be during these difficult times. I have Sunday dinners with my family on Zoom, meet with friends for a chat and even have my entire book club meetings on Zoom. It’s a far cry from the kissing and hugging days of old, but better than watching Netflix alone.

New Heartthrob: But, the BIG love in my life is my new Apple Watch, series 5. I fell hard for this new cyber-toy (as opposed to a boy-toy.) My new plaything can do a million things including reminding me to get off my ass if I’ve been sitting too long. I can use it as a phone, answer text messages and all that usual stuff. But it can monitor my heart rate, set a daily exercise goal, check for irregular heart beats – and it can even take an EKG! Good grief people! I grew up without phones or electricity and look at me now! I’ve come a long way baby!

Timber! But the main reason I got the Apple Watch is for the fall detection capability. A woman of a certain age living alone has it’s challenges; especially a fear of falling with no one around. This little love of mine can detect when I topple over and if I don’t respond, alert my emergency contacts and contact 911. Now that’s amazeballs!

Septuagenarian bandwidth: In order to make the watch work I also needed to get a newer model phone. GAWD! Usually when I get these new contraptions, I call someone to set everything up for me. But with this isolation, I had to learn to power through and set up both devices by myself, and sync the watch to my phone! It wasn’t pretty; in fact it got downright ugly. But I persevered and eventually found my way with the help of a Zoom call to my niece, and many YouTube videos. Hooray for me! Despite my disbelief, I did the impossible!

Even the grand Red Queen herself from Alice in Wonderland said, “Why, sometimes I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast”…and she was no spring chicken!

Keeping pace: Fear is our worst enemy and change can be gut-wrenching hard work. We are especially challenged right now in this scary pandemic lifestyle. As we age, our world continues to shrink one year at a time…like a balloon losing air in slow motion. And now with the overwhelming uncertainty of the future, it’s no wonder that we white-knuckle our grip on the days of yore when we were safer, bigger and stronger players on the planet. But here we are in our elder years, and we ARE bigger and stronger dammit, whether we know it or not. Giving in and giving up isn’t the answer.

Final word: So why not open up the universe for ourselves and for the other seniors in our lives? Learn, talk, encourage, demonstrate, and teach what technology can do to add value to our everyday living.

I’m just saying…I may be old, but I’m still here.

See you between the lines,                                                           

Pat Skene

Rusty Struts, Jigsaw Puzzles and Serenades

Hey blog readers! I’m still here!

I’m working hard to get my new world in order after my husband’s passing last year. I’m having a rough time getting my Boomerrantz rants going again. But here’s a little story that happened to me this week.

So I took my car in for servicing on Monday. I told the mechanic that I could hear a grinding sound. He asked me where the noise was coming from, and I told him, “From the car.” He raised an eyebrow and searched my face for something; humour, senility? “But then again, it could be coming from me,” I told him.

It turns out my struts were rusty and I needed new mounts and bearings. Yup, I can identify with that. I’m feeling out of alignment these days too. I wish fixing me was as easy as ordering new parts. I’m learning to live alone for the first time in my life, and it’s rough going. After forty-two years of marriage, some things were never on my couples-job description.

What do I know about upper strut mounts and mysterious noises emanating from the deepest bowls of my car? And for that matter, what the heck is the vehicle permit number that’s needed to renew my license plate sticker? Yes, I finally found it in my glove compartment but not without help from my Google sidekick.

As with many couples, over the years we each took care of our assigned list of chores. But this living alone thing has me confused and insecure a lot of the time. I’ve spent my life making decisions without looking back or second-guessing myself. But now, as soon as I make up my mind, I’m filled with doubts about my choices; sometimes working myself up into a full-blown panic attack.

How do I cope with losing the “we” of our life together and finding my bearings with the “me” I now have to live with? I’m doing the best I can and with the support of my wonderful family and friends, I’m finding my way.

But every day is like a jigsaw puzzle where the pieces don’t quite fit. I tried using a hammer to pound them into place, but that just left me feeing exhausted with a bunch of sad-looking leftover pieces.

In the end, I realize the only way to complete the puzzle is to take one piece at a time and gently, patiently find where it belongs. There’s no skipping over the nasty bits if you want to see the bigger picture.

Anyway, back to my car and my mixed metaphors. Something lovely happened to me amidst my lubes, oils and filters. A nice retired gentleman was driving the dealership shuttle service that day. He offered to drive me home while my car was being repaired. We chatted and he told me he had been in an acapella choir for many years. (As an aside, I joined a “pop choir” last year to help bring joy into my life, and I’m now in my second season. It’s wonderful!)

As he was approaching my building he started to belt out an old Al Jolson song…”I’d walk a million miles, for one of your smiles, Patriciaaaa.” He made me smile for the rest of the day remembering that song. Who knew a random act by a shuttle driver could bring such joy to a lady of vintage years with serious alignment problems?

I’ve been alone for a year now and most days I feel like I’m moving forward. But then there are days when I have to adjust my stride when the grinding noises start.

I miss ranting on Boomerrantz and I miss feeling inspired with mischievous stories for kids. I’ll get there, one rusty strut at a time. But I think maybe my spark plugs need replacing.

See you between the lines.

Pat

The Convenience of the Almighty Paper Towel

Have you ever noticed the joyful convenience of the almighty paper towel?

These quiet little masters of the universe are the heroes of every room. I love their very dry sense of humour. And when I need a pick me up, I also enjoy making little paper airplanes out of them to fly around the room. They’re always there for me, no matter what I need. They’re sooo damn convenient!

And they’re not just for having fun. You spill – they soak it up. You make a mess – they clean it up. You need a napkin – they wipe your chin. And with so many varieties to choose from, you can even select a size…imagine that! Always there for your size-wise convenience.

These little unsung heroes are the joy of every kitchen, bathroom, and well…just about any room in the house. Have a drippy nose and can’t find a Kleenex? No problem…just call on the every-ready paper towel and your snot drips are gone. Always mucus-ready and convenient!

And the best part is that there are no stinky cloths to launder afterwards. Those little beggars take pleasure in jumping right into the garbage (or green bin) after doing their job, to await their exciting ride and big adventure to the dump. Complete wash-free convenience.

So all in all, I think we need to set aside a special day to honour the almighty paper towel. I choose today, the last day of August to honour this humble beast of virtue and hard work. So from today on…I hereby proclaim August 31st to be “National Paper Towel Day,” to celebrate the Bounty of our good fortune.

And have I mentioned…they are just so damn convenient? Viva la paper towel!

Have a lovely weekend with your own family of paper towels.

See you between the lines.

I’m Still Here…

Hi everyone:

I haven’t posted for a long time. I lost my wonderful husband of 42 years in January while I was still grieving the loss of my beloved sister.

I’ll be back soon.

In the meantime, I’ll see you between the lines.

Pat

 

From Foxy to Functional

Reality bites: I have come to the conclusion that I’m still shrinking. It’s been a gradual process, but I think I got the first clue of my true adult size when I fell off my platform shoes in the 1970’s. But thankfully, along came the 80’s with 4 and 5 inch stilettos, big hair and monster shoulder pads. I’m not saying that I looked like a linebacker in drag, but I felt I could tackle the world in that decade. Then with the 90’s, came a more scaled down version of my mega-self, although I still sported the highest heels I could climb into. But all good things come to an end.

Mirror, mirror: My diminishing condition went into overdrive when I retired from banking twenty years ago. Since then, a strange thing has been happening to my reflection in the mirror. I have progressively become smaller, shorter and significantly more…comfortable.

A good dressing down: The first thing I did after retirement was give away all my business suits; designer suits, power suits and tailored suits that made me look like the rest of my corporate comrades patrolling the concrete jungle. This was a major stage in my shrinking process. When I stopped wearing suit jackets, I thought I looked minimized and almost vulnerable. I was definitely more compact as I entered the shrink-age.

Hair today, gone tomorrow: With my new pared-down look, my daughter suggested that I go all the way and get a funky new haircut. She said that while my old ‘do’ didn’t exactly scream “I love Elvis”, he had not quite left the building. I have always been a white-knuckled makeover subject and I headed for the salon, feeling as comfortable as a twelve-hour ponytail.

Phoenix rising: When I emerged from the chopping-chair, I found myself sporting a short spiky new look, not unlike that of the porcelain cockatoo sitting on my kitchen counter. And there was no doubt that my head had shrunken! However, my daughter assured me that I looked thoroughly modern and we had lunch to celebrate another important stage of my arrivement into retirement. Next, I was going for the big one. Shoes!

Heavenly bliss: I eagerly set out to explore life beyond stilettos – and maybe even find shoes that didn’t burn the soles of my feet, or pinch my toes into a pointed vice. Like a woman possessed, I searched until I found the Holy Grail of comfortable shoes. I discovered cushioned soles, marshmallow foot beds and lightweight walkers with attitude. I bought them all! Flat comfortable rubber-soled beauties that gave me more satisfaction than an itch in a box of sandpaper.

Melt down: The downside of this orgasmic moment of chiropodist bliss happened when I noticed I was much closer to the ground in my new shoes. Once again…I was wilting. Now, inches shorter without my height-boosting pumps, I was without a doubt, taking up less airspace. Friends looked at me rather strangely, as they continually struggled to adjust their eye level. “Didn’t you used to be tall?” they’d say.

No gobbledygook: Even my everyday language was shrinking down. Power phrases like “organizational infrastructure, strategic inflection points and transformational leadership,” no longer rolled off my tongue. There’s something refreshing about speaking clearly, without the need to fight your way through the fog index.

Scaling down: So over the years and during this metamorphosis, I have been shrinking steadily into a more compact and petite exterior. And even now, as I accept my transition from foxy to functional – my doctor tells me my spine is compressing, my dentist tells me my gums are receding and my hairdresser tells me my hair is thinning. On top of all that, in the past 4 years, I’ve had a double mastectomy, gall bladder surgery and a hip replacement. So I’ve been losing and replacing body parts at breakneck speed.

Final word: As an addendum to my shrunken condition, there are even more indignities to come. According to the gravitational gurus, as we age – gravity will cause the tips of our noses to droop, our ears to elongate, our eyelids to fall, our jowls to flap, and our boobs and scrotum to sag. (At least I don’t have the whole scrotum and boob thing to deal with.) Small mercies!

P.S…my husband has always loved the patent leather burgundy stilettos in the picture above. They are the only pair I have saved all these years. He calls them my “hooker boots.” We take them out every once in a while and reminisce about the good old days when I could walk in the damn things!

See you between the lines…

Pat Skene

 

At Christmas…

Well folks, it’s been quite a year of world disasters, the usual corruption in politics and enough nasty Trump-induced breaking news to make my ears bleed. Seriously!

So as we turn our thoughts to gentler things at this time of year, I struggle to put all this behind me and think kinder thoughts of my fellow man. And in so doing, I am reminded of this beloved Christmas poem by Edgar Albert Guest.

It’s very simply the perfect Christmas reading. Everyone should have this one bred in the bone.

                        (Edgar Albert Guest, 1881-1959)

A man is at his finest towards the finish of the year;
He is almost what he should be when the Christmas season’s here;
Then he’s thinking more of others than he thought the months before,
And the laughter of his children is a joy worth toiling for.
He is less a selfish creature than at any other time;
When the Christmas spirit rules him he comes close to the sublime.

When it’s Christmas man is bigger and is better in his part;
He is keener for the service that is prompted by his heart.
All the petty thoughts and narrow seem to vanish for awhile
And the true reward he’s seeking is the glory of a smile.
Then for others he is toiling and somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas he is almost what God wanted him to be.

If I had to paint a picture of a man I think I’d wait
Till he’d fought his selfish battles and had put aside his hate.
I’d not catch him at his labours when his thoughts are all of pelf,
On the long days and the dreary when he’s striving for himself.
I’d not take him when he’s sneering, when he’s scornful or depressed,
But I’d look for him at Christmas when he’s shining at his best.

Man is ever in a struggle and he’s oft misunderstood;
There are days the worst that’s in him is the master of the good,
But at Christmas kindness rules him and he puts himself aside
And his petty hates are vanquished and his heart is open wide.
Oh, I don’t know how to say it, but somehow it seems to me
That at Christmas man is almost what God sent him here to be.

                                       =====

Now I’ll leave you something else I’ve borrowed – this time from Victorian Farm, which airs on the BBC.  Cheers!

Old Victorian Toast

Here’s a toast to them as we love,
And a toast to them as loves us.
And here’s to them, who loves them,
Who loves those, who loves those,
Who loves them, that loves us.

Only the sober can say it and only the drunk can understand it.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to one and all!

See you between the lines.

Pat Skene

If I Don’t Say it, I’ll Explode!

Okay, let’s not sugar coat this – getting old is a bitch! There’s no instruction manual to read or special training we can take along the way. The scary world of aging is filled with shocks and surprises around every wrinkled corner. And you know what shock does to aging boomers? It makes our hair whiter, our poop tighter and our pacemakers pound out the beat to Jerry Lee Lewis’s Great Balls of Fire.

Mirror, mirror is that me?

Personally, I thought I would always be thirty-two because that’s how I feel on the inside. And in my dreams, I’m always thirty-two. Then one day…WHAM! Mother time kicked me in my assets and announced my coming of age into the crusty rusty years. I looked into the mirror this morning and found a seventy-three year-old grandmother with an aching hip, a double mastectomy under her belt, a few corporate battle scars in her wake and a closet full of comfortable shoes.

Putting one foot in front of the other

I once read that certain species of sharks have to keep swimming forward to keep oxygen-rich water flowing through their gills. This seems like a good rule to follow as a metaphor in human life as well. Standing still or hanging on to what we once had can be suffocating. When I stagnate and marinate in my own juices for too long, I feel sad, lonely and old; very, very old. So I make like a shark and try to keep moving, regardless of my growing list of limitations.

From fashion to constipation

Now here I am, in the dawn of my twilight years, surrounded by a gaggle of gently used human beings. I live in a condo full of seniors, I sit next to the senior-set at the doctor’s office, my friends are getting more aches and pains everyday and my dentist is as old as I am. Even my much younger sister is fast approaching in my rearview mirror. We used to giggle and talk about boys, designer shoes, stressful careers, bringing up kids and vacations. And while we still giggle over a glass or two of soda water instead of chardonnay (wine gives us heart palpitations), now we talk about which stores have the best scooters, hip and knee replacements, grandkids and constipation.

Large and in charge

It’s way too easy to become marginalized as we age and have our voices drowned out by the ubiquitous chatter in the world around us. It’s important for my happiness and wellbeing to stay relevant and be heard. So a big part of each life-breath I take, is the ranting and raving I do about how I see the world around me in all its glory and carbuncles. I write my boomerrantz blog, I address incompetence at businesses I deal with, and I don’t hesitate to challenge those in charge, by asking questions and advocating for myself at every opportunity.

Flushing it out

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not the kind of cranky old senior who always feels perpetually aggrieved. On the contrary, I’m actually an unusually happy septuagenarian and my half of the glass is always the top half. But the act of ranting about things I find unjust or unfair is like a good liver cleanse; it helps to flush out the clogged arteries of my cranky zones and restore a sense of balance to my life. Sometimes the rants in my pants simply need a good airing out, and blogging about my aging boomer opinions seems to do the trick.

Balancing the scales

But it’s not all about the dark side of sixty that has me blogging my bony fingers to the nub today. I love to do my share of raving as well. There are still many joys in this world and I’m at the front of the line to appreciate the good things in life; as simple as a morning smile, or the tip of the brim from a stranger. And I am first in line to compliment anyone who gives me exceptional service in any capacity.

Our point of view matters

But here’s something about many older women. We love to worry about wrinkles and waistlines, instead of celebrating our cellulite and the wisdom of our years.  We worry about that dreadful whisker that popped out on our chin overnight, instead of taking comfort in the freedom that comes with getting older. We worry about our white hair and thinning locks, instead of enjoying that second cup of coffee in the morning, happy that we no longer have to strap ourselves into a pair of pantyhose to go to work.  And we wear far too much beige and black and never enough electric blue, fire-engine red and emerald-green.

One more thing…

For those of you who love to write and have never tried it, blogging is a wonderful way to stay connected with a talented online community and get our voices heard. It’s a way to organize our thoughts and tap into the things that really matter to us. It’s a way to simply have fun and entertain our friends and family with our stories.

The way I see it – blogging is like opening a steam vent on a pressure cooker of unspoken words.

Thanks for reading and I’ll see you between the lines.

Pat Skene