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. I called it Arriving Naked and I’m pleased to say I survived the experience, fully clothed and at peace with my life. It will be published next year by Latitude46 Publishing.

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 Memories on the Magnetewan River in 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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Witches, Black Cats and Broomsticks

HALLOWEEN FOR ERNESTINE is one of six rhyming stories from my book, Rhyme Stones.

Go to Press Here to Start…Reading for a FREE copy of this fun-filled Halloween story. The kids in your life will be glad you did. 

See you between the lines. PatSkene

 

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.

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

 

 

 

Like Bugs in a Bowl

Finding inspiration 

It’s very hard to think nice thoughts when your hair is getting thinner, your waist is getting thicker and your memory is experiencing intermittent disconnects in reception. Sometimes it seems doctor’s appointments, hospital visits and talking back to the television set is the only social life we have.

Staying motivated is tough

Getting older isn’t always about carefree living, travelling, and exciting new adventures like we see in those bloody advertisements. Sometimes it’s about living day-to-day with health issues, money problems, chronic pain, the death of a loved one and an ever-shrinking world. We try the 10 Senior Secrets to get unplugged, but nothing’s working.

There are days when we need a good kick in the bloomers to get unstuck from feeling that our quality of life is controlled by the compartments in our pill box containers. Or when happiness is measured by the availability of a handicap parking spot at the hospital.

There have been many articles written about the joys and challenges of aging. And most of us try to do what we can to support each other and be the best we can be in our crusty rusty years.

But if our thoughts are not in a good place, we can find it difficult to read about others who seem to be managing so much better than we are, as they travel the world, engage in sports activities or discover a new winter-of-the-soul love interest. For the rest of us, living our lives can become a challenge when we have to compromise or eliminate activities that bring us joy.

Wacky Poetry for the Mind

Some time ago, I found an ancient poem written over one thousand years ago by the Chinese poet, Hanshan. It came on a day I needed it most and it spoke volumes to me in its simplicity. I would like to share it with you:

Bugs in a Bowl

We’re just like bugs in a bowl. All day going around never leaving their bowl.
I say, That’s right! Every day climbing up
the steep sides, sliding back.
Over and over again. Around and around.
Up and back down.
Sit in the bottom of the bowl, head in your hands,
cry, moan, feel sorry for yourself.
Or. Look around. See your fellow bugs.
Walk around.
Say, Hey, how you doin’?
Say, Nice Bowl!

 Choosing what we see

When I sent the above poem to a friend of mine, she said, “It makes you want to think ‘nice.’”

Sometimes it’s hard for us to think ‘nice’ all the time, when we’re in pain and have to limit our activities. But Hanshan reminds us to practice mindfulness and stay connected to our world…and to our fellow bugs. His simple words suggest that moping and feeling sorry for ourselves can lead to isolation and despair.

Studies have shown that social interaction is critical for our well-being and ongoing mental development as we age. Regardless of our limitations, we need to remember to interact with others and continue doing things we love, regardless of our situation. And that usually means being in a constant state of renewal, as we adjust and regroup into our newly morphed selves on any given day.

12 Tips for a Happy Bowl

As a senior Living with Lupus and attending to a husband with many health challenges, my limitations seem to grow daily. But I am determined to enjoy life regardless of the ever-changing view. Here are some things I do that work for me

1. Attend a monthly book club meeting with eleven other amazing women.
2. Reach out to an online community on fabulous websites like Sixty and Me.
3. Use my texting and Facebook skills to stay in touch with friends and family.
4. Relax my mind and body through meditation and visualization exercises.
5. Practice gentle yoga and deep breathing exercises every single day.
6. Water-dance in the pool as I listen to music with my waterproof iPod.
7. Share all the little joys and quiet times with my husband.
8. Enjoy every minute I can with my daughter and granddaughter.
9. Read good books to inspire and broaden my outlook.
10. Play online scrabble and connect with people from around the world.
11. Join a small group of wonderful friends every month for a pub night out.
12. Write blog posts for people like you, on things that matter to me.

 

So to all my fellow bugs out there – Hey! How you doin’?
What things do you do to stay happy and connected in your bowl?
Please leave a comment and join the conversation.

See you between the lines,

Pat Skene 

Help! I Want My Life Back!

Etched in My Brain

I remember the day in 1953 when we got electricity in our town.

I remember the day in 1963 when President Kennedy was shot.

I remember the day in 2015 when I became obsessed with Donald J. Trump.

It was June 16^th when he rode that escalator like a vainglorious king, declaring his candidacy for president and announcing that Mexicans were thieves and rapists.

“How long can this guy last?” I laughed. “It should be fun to watch this asshole crash and burn.” And so my CNN addiction began.

Trump News Junky
Now 2 years later and 190 days into his presidency, I long for the days when I only watched TV in the evening hours; for the days when I spent my time with non-Trumpish things, like reading novels and writing children’s books. Instead I watch cable news and scour the online pages of the New York Times, the Washington Post, Politico, The Daily Beast, The New Yorker and the Wall Street Journal for the latest POTUS wrecking ball disasters.

Life was simple before all this frightening nonsense and I wonder if things will ever be the same again. As the alt-right seem to take over the partisan brains of America, I can only hope this is not the new normal.

One Angry Creamsicle
After working 35 years in corporate life, I can’t even imagine treating people like this vulgarian. How can any company survive by encouraging infighting between competing power centres, or by publicly humiliating employees and colleagues? Staffers for Trump are disposable and discarded once they no longer serve his purpose. And he’s a coward. Despite his image, he would rather humiliate someone out of their position rather simply say, ‘You’re fired!”

Plugged In 24/7
Occasionally when I pry myself loose from CNN or MSNBC to venture out to attend to my life, I constantly check my phone for the latest Breaking News flashes and tweet-storms from the bully-in-chief. I’m not proud of it, but I can’t seem to stop.

This Mein Trumpf administration is like a freight train filled with explosives, heading straight for American democracy. Yet there are still many who support him and his vengeful obsession of annihilating all things Obama, destruction of the environment and everything else in life that’s decent and good.

Conspiring Conspiracies
As Team Trump stands firm, I wonder if a mind-altering chip has been inserted into their cell phones – like in the ‘Kingsman” movie. Or has some malevolent drug been drip-drip-dripping into the US water supply? Right now I would believe anything after witnessing the surreal sideshow of this vile Trump Administration.

Vipers and Wiseguys
And just when you dare to think it can’t get any worse, “Tony the Mooch,” gets added to the White House cast of liars and ass-kissers; a character right out of the Sopranos. And while they all slither and hiss like a pit of vipers, vying for his attention – Prima Donald sits on his golden throne tweeting and eclipsing his own agenda. (Update after this post was published…the Trump tribe has spoken and the Mooch is out after only 10 days on the job!)

So What’s Next?
Everyday, this episodic Republican reality show is filled with backstabbing paranoia, attacks on basic values and more proof of dangerous Russian connections. Everyday, I hope this horror show will stop. And everyday, I’m disappointed that once again, I’ve wasted yet another day of my life hoping and praying that the dark hidden secrets of Donald J. Trump will hit the airwaves and catapult him into a jail-cell.

Final Word:
It’s all so mesmerizing and nuclear grade bonkers, I simply can’t walk away until the story ends. Even as I finish this post, Trump continues to humiliate and diminish everyone in his orbit. Yesterday Benedict Donald announced the firing of his Chief of Staff…on Twitter!

Buddha said, “Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon and the truth.” Let’s just hope this ancient sage knew what he was talking about.

In the meantime, how do I disconnect and get my life back?

See you between the lines.

Pat Skene

 

 

 

Are Restaurants Too Loud?

WHAT? Remember when you went to a restaurant and you didn’t come home with a raging headache and hoarse from a night out? Remember when you could talk to your dinner partners and have a meaningful conversation – and not have to shout above the music playing at inhuman sound levels? Can anyone remember those good old days?

Pounding baselines: It’s not just the music in some restaurants that beats your ear into submission. It’s the noise bouncing off the naked surfaces. Somewhere along the line, carpets, tablecloths and finished ceilings disappeared and were replaced with stone floors, wooden tabletops, gleaming chrome fixtures and open ceilings with plumbing and heating pipes on display. So there’s absolutely nothing to absorb the sound as it ricochets from one hard surface to another in booming echoes around the room.

Is it just me? What’s happening out there with this new dining trend? It used to be that I would research a menu carefully before making a reservation to eat out. Now, the menu is secondary, as my first question is always, “Do you have live entertainment?” A live band is the worst, but playlists can be piped-in at absurd volume levels too.

Up close and personal: Did you know that many restaurants play a certain type of music on purpose? First of all, research has shown that a noisy restaurant draws people in because it sounds like a fun place…and we all like fun! Second, studies have also shown that when they speed up the beat, the sound waves energize us, so we eat faster and drink more. That means they make more money on food and drink that we may not have otherwise consumed.  Plus, if we eat at turbo speed, they get to turn the tables faster with more butts in the seats. Certainly a win win for them, but not for our waistlines or our wallets.

I  can’t hear you! The basic principles of going to a restaurant is to enjoy a shared meal and have a conversation – not to sit mute while we listen to music or scream at our partners to be heard. In my view, the guest experience is ruined, when the restaurant is cluttered with room noise. Now I’m not talking about the normal buzz of conversation, the clattering of dishes or the lovely jazz trio in the corner playing soft background music. I’m talking about the musicians who crank up their amps like they’re playing a rock concert for a bunch of teeny boppers. The same goes for music blasting through speaker systems. And even if you ask the wait staff or management to turn it down, my experience is that it won’t happen.

Tweets not talk: Maybe I’m just too old-fashioned about this whole thing and people today like to speak in “tweets” mirroring their online interactions. Maybe people prefer to live more on the surface these days, without the added burden of actually being interested in connecting with another human being. And again…the less you talk, the more you eat…the more you eat, the more you drink…and so it goes around and around. Are you seeing a pattern here? But if the younger generations are becoming accustomed to communicating in this way, are we losing the art of conversation in the process? This is another whole issue for another day.

What can we do?
If we, as paying guests are dissatisfied with any of the above, we should speak up:
1.  Be vocal and tell the restaurant management that we are dissatisfied.
2. Encourage more food critics to add a new category for sound levels in their reviews.
3. Boycott the establishment and tell them why.
4. Post our complaints on restaurant review sites, to draw attention to the issues.
5. Choose a table farthest from music amps and speakers, and near soft surfaces if they have any.

Final word: What do you think people? Have I just passed my best before date or do I have a point here?

See you between the lines,

Follow me on Twitter @PatSkene

From Foxtrot to Technobot

Calling me names: Someone recently called me a technobot. In my crusty rusty years, I’ve been called worse. I certainly do love to embrace (or downright cuddle and spoon) new technology innovations with the anticipation and thrill of a teenage kiss. You may have read about these developing passions of mine in my 50 Shades of Mac  post. But back to the business at hand.

What’s up? A couple of years ago I learned how to email money to and from my bank account. The thought of my hard-earned dollars whizzing through cyberspace at warp speed, sent me reeling with the sheer magic of it all. Oh the wonders and conveniences of this brave new world. To think that in my early childhood years I actually lived without electricity or telephones. Hell, my first school bus consisted of two horses pulling a boxy cabin on wheels, while we sat on the benches that lined the interior of the windowless walls. But I digress.

A school holiday was declared when electricity finally found its way into our town. Life was simple…and then it all changed. The gaslights were turned off one by one, as the telephones started to ring and television sets introduced us to I Love Lucy.

The year was 1952 in small town Ontario.

So what’s the big deal? Well…now I can actually deposit a cheque to my bank account from my home, using my iPhone! I simply take a picture of the front and back of the cheque, and voila! It’s deposited to my account, while I sit at my kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee! I always feel quite light-headed from the dizzying experience. 

Don’t judge me yet: Okay, I can hear you thinking…this poor woman has no life, to get so excited about such a silly unimportant thing. Whoa…hold on there Nellie! Yes I admit, new technology turns my crank, juices my engines and puts newfound energy into my yoga pants. And at my age, that’s got to be worth something! But it’s much more than that to me.

The meaning of life: This experience means that as I progress into the scary world of aging, I am learning how to embrace change and enjoy it. It means I can stay current and talk about these innovations with my family, and be connected to their world. In a more tangible sense, it means I can stay home to do my banking, instead of venturing out in the cold and snow. And in some small way, it helps me feel relevant in this rapidly changing world.

Stay tuned: So many seniors I meet are computer savvy. But just as many are not, and resist any suggestion of getting on board. As we age, our worlds often become smaller and smaller, due to illness, physical limitations, financial situations or family circumstance. Just think of the endless possibilities of entertainment, education and communication, if we stay tuned-in instead of tuned-out. The wonders of the Internet connects us with the universe, right from the comfort of our recliners.

Luv U2: I’m sure there are thousands of children and grandchildren out there, dying to give their grandparents a tablet (computer not medical) so they can stay in touch through Facebook, email and texting. And it’s never too late to learn. On the contrary, it’s exactly the right time. How can I put a value on the simple texts I get from my granddaughter to say goodnight, or to tell me she loves me? Phone calls are out with these kids…texting is in.

True colours: I’ve come a long way from living with gas-powered washing machines, wood stoves and hand-cranked record players for learning the foxtrot. In my sepia drenched memories, those days seem like they were a part of a kinder, gentler life. But as a child with those memories, I didn’t have to haul the water, chop the wood, or wrestle the frozen sheets off the clothesline. And I also didn’t have to trudge through the snow, all the way to the only telephone in town, when the doctor called my mother from the city about my Dad’s serious condition in hospital. Just imagine the number of changes in my very short lifetime. From sepia to living colour.

She who laughs: So scoff at me if you will, as I languish in my senior moments of pure cyber-bliss. But you might think of me the next time you stand in line at the bank, or walk across an icy parking lot to deposit your cheques at an ATM. I’ll be at home sipping coffee in my jammies doing the same thing…using my I-Phone. Try it…it’s nothing short of amazing! And we cottonheads need to be amazed now and then. Smoothes out the wrinkly bits.

See you between the lines,

Pat Skene

 

I Beaned Him!

Here’s my story:

Gather round and hear my tale,      
My secret past, I must unveil,
The day I faced my deepest fear,
And beaned a groper in the ear.

Now please don’t judge my actions then,
I’ve never done that deed again,
But I can really be a witch,
When I’m provoked to be a bitch!

Looking back: I consider myself a peaceful woman who abhors violence or physical aggression of any sort. In my growing up years circa 1950, our household was always that of a quiet loving family. And other than whacking my older brother across the back with a broom when I was 8 years old, and knocking the wind out of him – violence was never part of my life.

Fast forward: Now let’s move ahead to a summer day, circa 1990 at the St. Lawrence Market in Toronto on a Saturday afternoon. The place is quiet, as most downtown market shoppers are early morning people. I have my 15 year-old niece with me. Hubsey is upstairs on a bench holding all the bags filled with cheeses, fresh fruit and fish, chowing down on a market-famous bacon-on-a-bun.

What a deal! Downstairs I find an end-of-day sale on fresh garden vegetables. My niece stands off to the side while I stuff a large plastic grocery bag full of green beans, for the price of $2. I’m delighted with my purchase and reach over the counter to hand my money to the vendor.

Horrors! Just then, I’m jarred, as two hands come from behind and grab both my breasts. I see the filthy fingernails and realize it’s not Hubsey in a moment of unbridled passion. I whip around and look straight into the face of the filthiest looking derelict; his leering grin 2 inches from my face; his rotten teeth the colour of a dirty urinal; his breath like a distillery sewer.

Besmirched: I stand there in shock. He removes his hands from my body and with a disgusting grin on his face, he simply walks away. His clothes hang like rags, and his hair is matted and covers half his face. I glance at my niece a few feet away; her hands are clamped over her mouth; her eyes the size of dinner plates.

No escape! I watch as this disgusting piece of filth approaches the doors to leave the market and I am suddenly enveloped in a sea of black rage – and I snap! 

Kapow! I take off after him, swinging my bag o’ beans in wide circles like a Spanish bola, gaining momentum as I run. His back is to me so he doesn’t see me coming. He’s about to push the doors open to leave, when I make contact with his head. I bean him smack on his right ear and he howls like a banshee.

Big trouble: He whips around and screams in my face, “Hey! What the hell did you do that for!” (Is he kidding me?) It was then I notice he has a buddy with him. I back up as the two of them clench their fists and start walking toward me, their eyes locked on mine.

Solo act: Now don’t forget, Hubsey is upstairs enjoying his bacon-on-a-bun, oblivious to the rumble in the jungle downstairs, so he’s no help. My niece is still in teenage shock with her feet super-glued to the floor. Thankfully she’s turned to stone and stays put! It’s late afternoon in the market with not many people around. Truthfully, it all happened so fast, I can’t remember to this day if there was anyone who witnessed the assault, except my niece and me. But I digress.

Oh no! As the two thugs get closer, I can’t drop my beans and run, leaving my petrified niece there, so I have to think fast. All I know, is that I’m on my own to defend myself. I’m a small woman with no real physical strength or black belt credentials, so all I can hope for is insanity.

Release the hounds! So I stand my ground and face them dead on, legs apart  in an aggressive stance while I scream obscenities and wave my fists in the air. (Like the way you do to make yourself bigger to scare away wild animals in the woods.) I go totally berserk and don’t budge an inch from my spot. My face is red-hot and I’m spitting saliva as I spew forth my venom, calling them all the vile words I can muster.

Eureka! Well, I’m happy to say it worked and the two thugsters look at each other, turn on their heels and leave the building…muttering something about a crazy bitch.

My violent past: I am not a violent person and I have never in my life hit another human being…other than my brother-of-the-broom incident of course…and oh yes, the time I punched my boss in the stomach. But that’s a story for another day.

A black place: The experience at the market rattled me for weeks. It wasn’t just the physical assault on me that kept me awake nights, although that was bad enough. It was my blind-rage reaction that scared the green beans out of me; a sheer black rage that brought forth that scary witch who came screaming out of my body to seek vengeance for what he had done to me. No woman should ever tolerate sexual assault in any form. And more women should bring forth their inner scary witch, or their own personal bag o’ beans weapon when it happens.

Buried deep: I don’t know from whither she came and thankfully, I’ve had no need of her services since then. Something tells me she would resurface if my daughter or granddaughter were in jeopardy. But she’s one scary broad and it’s no wonder that those two losers thought better of taking her on. Although in retrospect, I think they were supremely hung over and just wanted the screaming to stop and the drinking to begin.

Pressure cookers: I guess we all have a bit of that black rage simmering quietly below the surface. Some control it better than others. Some don’t control it all. And some get sick from holding it all in, in an effort to keep the lid from slipping off. There’s a fine line here as individual as each one of us.

Final word: My green bean story has gone viral in my family over the years and as I recently started writing my memoirs, it was time to write it down. We all have pieces of ourselves we will never get to know. Sometimes, those pieces are better left alone. As for me, I was frightened by my aggressive actions, but sometimes it takes a bag o’ beans in the ear to show them you mean business.

So that’s my tale, it’s sad but true,
He groped my boobs, what could I do?
I whacked that deadbeat in the head!
He should have grabbed my beans instead.

See you between the lines and on Twitter @PatSkene

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