What RU Doing NYE

The question most asked just before New Year's Eve is "What are you doing ..."  The answer that I hear most is "nothing". And nothing it is for me and a whole lot of other people I know. In fact, those of us doing nothing, really ought to have a Do Nothing NYE party. We won't hug and kiss at the stroke of twelve and we won't serve champagne or reminisce or make predictions or resolutions or eat haggis. We will do nothing at all at midnight. It will be the ultimate rebellion against tradition. Or something. I have to admit that when I had a husband, we did New Year's Eve in the grand style. We went, over the decades, to a real house in our sequins and Christmas neck tie and stood about in an elegantly decorated living room or Tiki basement den or RV park recreation space or tiny cosy living room watching the pre-recorded "ball" drop in Times Square NYC. I can't recall ever enjoying it much. There was great anticipation that at the stroke of twelve, there would be some kind of miracle. But there never was anything but trying to avoid being slobbered on by a stranger or hugged by a loud, corny, drunken fat uncle or wept upon by the soggy older woman who lost someone we never met. If we were lucky, my husband and I, found a quiet spot and said a sincere, I love you and kissed our memories together. (Sigh.) But after some years of life as a single, New Year's Eve is a solitary endeavor. I am inclined, still, to wear something sparkly and pretend that someone handsome and rich will ride up on a white steed and invite me to his castle. Actually, I prefer, rather than a white horse or a prince, a good friend riding over on a pretty dark Arabian pony or two and a nice latte in a mug. It should be an individual who likes good jazz or gentle classics, nibbling fine cheese and veggy caviar, someone who can discuss something other than jabs at a foreign president or nasty talk against our duly elected government. I would love to chat opinions about lovely places like mountains or Italy or France or farms or animals, other than spoiled pets, or Hollywood and its impact on politics or anything else but serious matters that don't matter at all. I would love to relax in an old pair of jeans and scuzzy sweater and big furry slippers and no make-up and my hair undone. I'd like to loll on a pile of cushions flopping on the floor and yes, watch what's going on at Times Square that has nothing to do with reality and that already happened five or six hours ago. I want to go outside at midnight if I can stay awake that long, and bang on a pot that didn't cost a hundred bucks, and yell into the street lights blazing away so that we can't see the stars, and say Happy New Year 2019!

Just An Orange

Oranges are so standard that they are seldom regarded as anything special. In my history, they were prime. When I smell an orange, it brings back reminders of when schools had cloak rooms and the prevailing scent of them was gum boots and orange peelings. Apples were seasonal, but for some reason, oranges were always available. Most kids had an orange in their lunch kit when they were metal kits. They were the school status symbols of the day. The children with jam cans, the big kind with snap on lids, were at the bottom of the list while Superman or Wonder Woman kits were the highest according to  what the weekly Saturday movie matinees starred. There were always the cowboy stars of course, but we girls didn't want them. We had sexism in those days. Orange peels were found everywhere on the playground because if you didn't start peeling the fruit when you were rushing out at recess, you couldn't get the job done before your twenty minutes were up. Most of us tried not to break the orange skin because if you were successful, you might even with care, be able to score off each section without getting sticky juice all over your hands. No one wanted to go to the smelly basement bathroom sink and wash hands because it took too long, and you might be late and lateness was not popular. The revered teacher you loved, would scowl. When Christmas rolled around, there were the Japanese oranges to look forward to. The best part of them, was the easy peeling and sectioning. But the most exciting, and joyous thing about Christmas oranges, was the challenge of getting the peel off in one piece. Some kids were masters and dangled their prize efforts all during recess to the envy of everyone who wasn't  allowed to bring one of those prized oranges to school. They were saved for special home consumption during the holidays. Most families could afford only one box for the season. And the most exciting part, when parents brought home the box of oranges that sat in the coolest spot in the house, usually in the hallway, to prevent spoilage, was knowing that they would last only a short, rationed out time. There was always at least one orange in the box that was rotten and all moldy and when you came across that one, there were ughs and gagging. But the odor of the rotted fruit was secretly savoured and the way the mold transfixed our eyes when it was removed and put in the trash, to the tune of groans all around, was just another strangely delicious part of  Christmas traditions. You knew that you would be getting at least one orange in your Santa stocking. You could tell by the lump it made. We didn't have fancy stockings made of felt and sequins in those days. Our girl stockings were often the long kind that were held up by contraptions we hated because they never worked well and required a lot of hitching and tugging.  And while we rather ignored the lump orange in the stocking and tossed it out to get to the other great stuff in the sock, we did eat it later because it was part of the fun. When the box of oranges in the hallway was empty, that, sadly, was, for us, the end of Christmas. 

Having What You Don't

You can have or be whatever you wish.  Our minds allow us to be rich as royalty, brave as travelers in space, fierce as monsters or warriors, glittering as stars on billboards or wild as animals and plants. Imagination takes us anywhere just as a magic carpet could. Here it is Christmas morning and while most are still in bed or scrambling to the tree looking for gifts, all the people who have nothing this day, are thinking about what they desire most and searching and finding it in their dreams. It's like going window shopping and being able to see and think about the gorgeous things behind the glass. They become finer and better, truly, for not being in our hands.You can't feel what's there, but your imagination allows you to do, precisely, that. All of the freedoms in the world are not as endless as the huge capacity within our own heads. There you may find your most in-achievable goals, bring back the ones who died or go to places you've never been or ever could. Your mind is the ultimate multi-tasker. In the most dire circumstances or the endurance of  horrendous events, you can escape to refuge in your head. It's a human safety net and life preserver. Loneliness, the biggest creeping affliction of Man, is laved with scores and multitudes of friends and supporters we love or wish to. They come to us willingly in our thoughts and get us through times of mental pain. Prisoners and the oppressed, can free themselves in their minds and revel in the vast spaces and places they invent. Story tellers pluck the fruits to build their tales and artists render their endless colours and lines that wander enticingly in their reveries. Writers stroll in great meadows and  forests of words they need and glorious scenes that tell them places and people and plots to place on paper or screen. Musicians hear melodies as yet to be invented and create impossible scores in impossible tones and tempos. The talented achieve their heights and are recognised for their as yet invented gifts. Children become beautifully gowned princesses and handsome princes on brave steeds. The athlete wins the medal and hears the roaring cheers and encouragements of  found fame. The ugly are much desired in their fantastically beautiful and perfectly formed bodies. The old are young again, in love and loved by those they adored. The religious find their highest hopes. The poor, hungry and homeless, stroll the halls and gardens of splendid mansions and furnishings and properties. Epicureans see banquette tables spill with supreme elegance, the richest desserts, succulent meats and shining vegetables beside glowing exotic fruits. It is paradise contained. It is all free and it's now and right where you are. It's in your mind if you want it, and it's having what you don't have.

Dear Near Miss

Dear Near Miss or Miss Near, an open letter: Dear Miss: I wish to thank you from the bottom of my heart, not a particularly significant place with my good state of health, but of course you already know that. As you are also aware, the other day, I had a near miss, forgive the pun intended. It was the day that, in another scenario, I could have died. But thanks to you, it wasn't my turn. The whole matter was much like the house that Jack built, actually, in reflection. It was a bright and sunny winter day when the wind to a high degree, blew down a large cedar tree of more than one hundred feet tall, and rotund. You could put it another way, and I shall. It happened on a sunny day that the wind blew, that uprooted the tree,  that felled it on the power line, that landed on the pavement, that caused a spark, that started a fire,  that melted the tar, that covered the gas line, that opened a hole in it, that threatened the entire block of town houses, condos and elderly home, that could have, but didn't, blow them all to kingdom come. Yours very sincerely, a single old lady who saw it all from her patio on the same street. This is a true tale. Until I had my cold shower (see a former blog) I didn't know the entire story even though the flashing lights and helmeted service folk were out there blocking off the avenue as bystanders stood about googling. The scary part is, that no one in the building where I lived, was entirely aware of the event. We knew that the power flickered a bit and the gas was off and we heard something go bang, earlier on, but being in the middle of a city, it wasn't cause to panic. We hear sirens and loud noises frequently including the incessant whistle on the rail line that runs dirty US coal through our pretty city by the sea. The situation made me think of how many times we all have these near misses, and afterward, think about how fortunate we are to have missed them. They are the times, we didn't take the plane or ferry or bus or train but learned later that if we had, we just might not be around to be remarking about it. We say things like "c'est la vie" here in Canada. Or "that's life" in the US.  But it is true that life presents us challenges right from the get go. Birth alone is a big chance for accident, even in this day of high tech everything. And think of the times we have passed a semi rig trailer that swung across the lanes going the other way and piled up numerous  vehicles strewn about the highway. Or the bridge in our area, that was swept away with a few unlucky cars the day we left home late and saw the sign. Or the storm that hit the day after our motor boating trip, the one that saw many thrown into cold waters never to be seen again. And then there are too many of our dearest people who woke up one day and found they had cancerous tumors, and are now gone. How very happy and lucky and scary it is, to read with sadness, that, for us, it was only a near miss.

Cold Shower

In a lifetime, I have had only a few cold showers. Most were at campsites where there was no choice. With them, however, it was a hot day and the shower, a great treat. Today's cold shower was a surprise. Yesterday, granted, there had been a storm with fallen trees and branches but, I saw that the power was back on. As usual, I put shampoo on my hair before stepping into the shower that was merrily spewing its usual jet stream, when the shock of cold, not friendly warm water, assailed my cringing form. Although I jumped back to the safe space of my walk-in, the shampoo made it a requirement to proceed, cold water or not. After a few dashes in and out, I found the chilly downpour tolerable. When I exited, shampoo now a memory, the warmth in the room was more than welcome. Later investigation proved that our hot water system is gas controlled, thus the Arctic experience of the changed morning routine. But what happened, made me think what sissies we are. We expect light and heat and all the other comforts we are accustomed to. Perhaps that's why we like sometimes, to go bare dry camping. We like to pit ourselves against Nature. The idea of having to get back to the true basics is a wake up call. It's when you do not have heat or electricity or water that is potable. You have to light a campfire to keep warm, have to boil water before drinking or cooking food,  and even to have the fire, need to find fuel for it. Little gas or alcohol burners eschewed. We revert to our ancient ancestors the primitives who discovered these comforts little by little over the centuries until today, with its electronically monitored everything and safety persons to call when little things go "wrong", we are spoiled and become annoyed or angered if any of them go down. My, oh my, we have to bundle up to keep warm or boil the tap water or not have the daily shower  or shave or bath. We have to wash and do washing by hand. We don't have vehicles to go from here to there. Everything we are spoiled by, that we get with relatively few tax dollars every day of our lives, is something that without the services we take for granted, we have to do ourselves, by ourselves. So you get out of bed and wash in cold water and possibly head out to the privy in back for that certain purpose and come back into a house whose heat is generated by your chopping and firing up wood for heating and cooking. When it's time to go to work, you walk there or ride a horse or straddle a donkey. When you get there, you do all the work without a computer of any kind, if you want to communicate, you speak in person; there are no cell phones. If you are cold, you might wear furry boots and a big parka. Out comes the pen and paper and your head, for the written and numeral sections. Remember adding and subtracting and the multiplication tables.?Where is the  slide rule? Contact lenses or laser treatments for those orbs, uh uh. Dig around for the glasses, my friend. Coffee machine? Never. Didn't you bring your thermos filled with warmish coffee made of beans you ground on a rock? Haven't we come a long way, Baby? Ah civilization, maybe tonight I can have a hot shower?

Old Romance

Romance is for the older generation. There is a movie about the truths of aging romance: "Love Among The Ruins", an unforgettable film. Romance isn't the heat of passion or the search for a life mate or the greed of the need. It's something without time or brilliance or serving delicate egos. It's about knowing that what you see in someone else is not demanding or selfish or needy. It's about seeing someone warm and just there, nearby and with them, a time, a few moments or hours or days when everything is okay and life is beautiful. It isn't necessarily candle light or roses or champagne, but it could be. It might be a campfire or a beach or a moon or an old cosy couch. There are no rules regarding romance, other than looking into someone's eyes and recognising that it is a mutual feeling. That's why older age is the most romantic time of life. It senses the true meaning of romance. You don't need backgrounds of wealth or position or ambition. You have no far reaching goals to serve, you just are loving the immediate time you have with someone else. It's a time that makes no demands of you. You don't have to perform or look classically beautiful, you know that the eyes looking back, find you perfect, and all you have to do is feel the same way. Aging romance removes all of the stress of these parameters that the young have to deal with. While younger romantics are caught up in serving the fashion of the day, being financially sound and moving upward and onward, elders don't have these tensions. They've been there and done that, and all they want to do and be, is to enjoy the peace and happiness of the moment. They have the time to make that ambition achievable.  The problem is, for elders, to find the other person. Most of them, us, is that they don't favour the on-line coffee date routine. They sit in malls and dream that passers-by just might be the right ones. Or they loll in lounge chairs in "homes" sorting through their past lives and all of the loves they loved while hoping there might be someone real and near to share their moments. Or they sort through their lists of Facebook "friends" and emote over their many choices should the faces come alive in their imaginations. It's kind of sad really, but it makes these persons, the greatest of romantics. Some very fortunate elders, find a romantic interest, but they are not able to do the candle light and wine moves due to the objections of their own relatives or the restrictions of their physical states or their personal hang-ups or the disapproval of other society members. "Oh come now, you're too old for that stuff", they chide. These people aren't "there" and don't get it.  But the need for romance is a private and personal matter and aging never cuts that off. It's not something for relatives  or "home" managers or society in general to pronounce judgments upon or dictate rules about. The aged know most about true romance because of their ages. They feel romance. They seek romance. As much as any others, they need romance.

Dr. What?

There are doctors and there are doctors. Each sort is different. A doctor of philosophy for example, does not do surgeries  as your medical doctor possibly might. A doctor of letters or one of science or engineering is yet another kind of doctor. While all the doctors, have lengthy periods of education years beyond the average "good" ones, what their specialties are, depend upon their area of expertise and interest. We understand the label, doctor, because the individual granted such an honour, has spent a lot of time in his/her field and learning  how to do it. In short, these people deserve their titles and our respect. Recently, I heard a discussion about allowing pharmacists to administer tests of their customers and to prescribe certain medications for them: some as antibiotics, blood pressure medicine and certain sexually related therapies. According to the reports, those in rather remote areas where MDs are in short supply, greatly appreciated that they could receive medications on the advice of a pharmacist. They reported that pharmacists had very good follow-up routines and listened to their customers with time and interest. Along with the pharmacists during this discussion, medical doctors were present, and during the talk, the word "diagnosis" was introduced. One of the doctors was concerned about this term, and remarked that pharmacists did in fact supply care, but that it did not arise out of, or allow for, true diagnoses. He said that diagnosis was the work of the medical doctor. I found the discussion, fodder for further consideration. It is certainly true that pharmacists do follow up with calls about some medications and it is much appreciated. What concerns me, is that all of the medications that are said to be prescribed by pharmacists, can have serious implications on one's general health. Your medical doctor has a file on your complete medical history while a pharmacist does not, and should not. When something as serious as high blood pressure happens to a body, it isn't simply a matter of taking a pill to reduce the readings. High blood pressure could be an indication of something more complicated, and in my lay opinion, without all the information about a person's medical standing, a more serious condition might be undiscovered. Also, the use of antibiotics isn't something simple. The implications of continued use could have concerning effects. It is true, however, that when you receive a prescription from your doctor, there is almost never a follow up by his office. Most of the time, it is up to the patient to do this, or wait until another appointment is possible. For some people, these things are not easy. And thinking that you are going to have much more that a quick fifteen minutes in a medical doctor's office is a myth. Also to be considered, many pharmacists, if not most, are business persons who own their outlets. They are also professionals but they are in business. They need to make profit to stay in business, while a doctor is of the service industry controlled by tight government and professional restrictions and not necessarily in business for profit. The outcome of seeing a pharmacist as a prescriber of medicines, will be interesting.

Big Small Talk

In this holiday season and at parties galore, there is no reason to be bored. What is called "small talk" is actually large, and can be broadening experiences. There's nothing better at a party, if you can hear yourself, than tucking up to someone else who is looking kind of bored, and having conver. Getting started with a stranger, also a guest, is easy. What they wear, their hair, do they know the host, are they in the neighbourhood, are starters. Do not ask where they are from or if have they been here before or what they do for a living. Why does it matter? Here you both are, so start with that. It doesn't have to be a critiquing session about the room, the people, the party itself. It should be all about who you are face to face with. One-to-one chats, are not things to be interrupted. If you go to a party in someone's home, ditch the phone. Phones and socializing do not go together. The rudest and most annoying words to hear when you are with someone, are such cellular things as "do you mind" or "I have to take this" or "excuse me". Turn the phone off when you enter the party room door. Please. Keep talk about things, not people, and certainly not a whit of jesting comment about others in the room, no matter how tempting it may be. That sort of chit chat gets into the catty category. And unless you are actually a cat, it doesn't go over well. Almost everyone likes to talk about themselves and your introductory personal question will probably lead to an interesting picture of the individual you are looking at. They do not want to hear an exchange on your life info unless they ask, so don't volunteer it.  If they take out their cell phone, it's the end of the chat. Leave, and search out someone else. At a recent party, there was the food table to do exchange on. Things like: are you into cooking? What's your favorite restaurant around here? Have you tasted the great name-it on the table? All good appetizers to further small talk. Small talk is like reading a person book. While sipping and nibbling last night, I spoke with someone who gave me his history from start to finish. It just rolled out. His life as a flyer, was amazing. When his pretty wife beckoned him away, I felt as though I knew him well. On turning to my right, and remarking to a woman that she seemed to have an English accent, got me into her life story. She was a traveler. Then, in the kitchen, a gentleman discussed chili making contests and how he did his chili pots. Others gathered around, and the session became a recipe exchange. One quiet lady in the corner began telling me about her volunteer work when I commented as I sat down, that I saw she found a quiet corner. That's all it took for her to launch into what she did at the animal rescue centre. I learned about a place I passed often and had wondered about for years.  By the time the evening ended, I can't say I made a lot of friends because I didn't go out to do that, but I certainly did enjoy a large number of stories by people I might never meet again. The tales of their own lives enriched mine. It made mere small talk, very big.

Woman Not Widow

The label widow should have a time limit. That may sound heartless but then, I happen to be a realist but not a "hard hearted Hannah". From a long marriage into a new kind of life, you find one that  fosters an independence that is almost heady and takes getting used to. At first you think you can't do it, but you can. When your husband or partner dies, there is a time of sadness and loneliness but it doesn't last very long. Life gets in the way. You don't have time to sit around and cry. If you didn't manage the household before, you do now. All of it, not just managing your career and your house, but also the accounting, the relatives, the day to day, the recreation, the car. All of it. It's yours and there is no one else around to moan, groan and fight with over it. All the decisions are yours. When one sets aside the grief, which I didn't do much of because, it is, frankly, a waste of the years you have left. Living life is not about the past, it's about the present and your future. You get over the loneliness and begin to rather like making all the decisions. You might even take up a romantic interest. Death doesn't take that feeling away, folks. And I hope the kids are listening. You are not insulting any memories. Where you are now, has nothing to do with the past. Every day is new. Some of my friends take a different viewpoint and weep a lot. I do sometimes, but not often and if so, privately. I am not a widow, I am the woman in the store buying groceries for the week, shopping for a new pair of shoes, searching out an honest mechanic, learning how to fix little things around the house or calling someone who does. I am not knocking on my neighbour's door begging for a nice man to fix the roof or drains or the knock in my car engine. I say that because my neighbours are very fine people, but they have their own lives to live. I found out when left on my own, that it doesn't take brawn to do things around the house and no one fixes their cars now anyway. The computers in them won't stand for it. Sure I am alone and it's quite wonderful in many ways. Loneliness is a state of mind, not a tangible thing to grasp and hold. With the vast number of things to choose to do these days, that, too, is a myth. What you do find, is yourself. When you married a long time ago, you found someone to share your life with and you became half of a whole. When you are left alone, you find that your half is, indeed, whole. It's quite a surprise when you discover the you that is you. You either follow the same old ruts or you step off the path and learn that there are other choices. If you are very lucky, you will find a lover or perhaps just a dear, dear friend kind of partner to stroll along beside. You learn that marriage isn't exclusive in keeping this kind of relationship alive. A close, even intimate friendship, with someone easy, is an enlightening experience. You are mature and can handle whatever is presented. When you were younger, perhaps you found these emotional matters difficult, but having had a good marriage, or perhaps even one that wasn't, teaches you things that you didn't realize you learned. I am not a widow. Don't label me with a death image. I am a single woman and doing fine, thank you very much.

Getting A Grip

Used to be something called The Grippe which was the same thing as we call influenza today.  I recall grandparents calling their suitcases, "grips". And then again, we have gripes. The latter is what I feel sometimes. I have a gripe, not that it is pronounced the same as the other "grips". My gripe is about  all the bad news we receive every day: bombings, shootings, riots and arrests of the innocent. The media, doesn't spend much time looking for pleasant things to write of or speak about or show. When things are going along too well in our safe areas, The Media reaches out anywhere in the world to find bad news. The worst part of it is that we, The Public, seem to eat it up. Bad news headlines catch our eye.  It's a bit like driving past a car accident and slowing down, not for safety sake, but to see if someone were badly hurt. If you deny this, you are likely telling yourself a fib. But wait, we aren't meanies, out being nasty bad news bears, we happen to belong to a sympathetic group of creatures who are bent on helping each other. Even when we are gawkers, there is a positive reason at the bottom of it. We have a natural good Samaritan in most of us, that thinks just maybe we can do some good if we come across a bad situation. We can't help it, it's our nature. And once in awhile, that element of our human psyche, is one that actually does save lives: giving CPR, standing back when we are told, calling 911 when it's needed, offering a hug or kind word. But the "grip" I am thinking of is what we have to seek out when the bad news is so bad or there is so much of it, we start to slide down the slippery slope of depression. We need to get a grip. We feel helpless that we can't do anything for the huge numbers of people who are in horrendous situations. We think of the innocent children caught in these moving hordes of our fellow world beings who have lost everything while we, here, live in relative comfort. We donate, we watch and care but fail to understand how human beings can treat each other so heartlessly in the name of political, religious or economic greed. Not all of us can rush off to help, even though we might like to. We do the best we can in small ways, and then we have to find peace in our own lives knowing that we have so much to be thankful for. The world has always had strife and it does bear thought, but how does one live knowing so. We can do what we can in our small ways, but we also have to find happiness in our own lives. We can do something nice for someone else no matter how small it is. A smile, a kind word, a happy greeting, are things that make not only others  feel better, but also, ourselves. We can love our families and spend more time with them. We can offer our friends and neighbours hearing ears and pleasant words. We don't need to bake cookies or cakes and deliver them, we need simply to take time to look around us and appreciate what we have, small as it may seem and share the positiveness in some way. We need to try and tip the balance, in our own ways in our own spaces, toward the positive. We need to get a grip.

Whitest Pearly White

Teeth used to be something natural but now they are the outstanding feature of faces. The teeth of the future, are dazzling white and beyond perfectly formed. My dentist didn't believe in the startlingly white tooth fashion statement when I had all my caps installed. He believed in the natural look. How old fashioned is that? But at the time I felt,  I could join the other perfect smile population and I was very pleased. My former natural teeth were just fine but when the old fillings needed ousting, I was encouraged by the dentist to go for caps. A bit later when snow white dazzlers came into fashion in  a big way and people opted for the whiter than white variety, it was too late for my naturally coloured caps to vie in the fashion scene. I had normal looking teeth. I began to see nothing but white, white teeth after that. People with the whiter whites, grinned a lot. Their photos looked like dental office posters. They were pictures of perfection toothwise. For the price of all new kitchen appliances in the latest finishes, you could get yourself a rack of pearly choppers that could cause cramps with all of the smiling you had to do from that moment on. Formerly plain Jacks and Jills, rose from being shy and bashful, to stunning creatures who smiled at everyone non-stop and made loads more friends and lovers than they knew what to do with. Who wouldn't want to cuddle up to thousands of dollars worth of dazzling snowy white plastic? Those lily whites just beckoned to be adored. The glitteringly pristine set of teeth invited your set to communicate in unison. People who used to be retiring and prim, were now social wonders with their shiny sets of frontal decor. Their smiles grew wider and taller. Selfies became a requirement. If you've got 'em, flaunt 'em was the word. The mouths of political figures, once serious and pondering, now sported  marvellous grinners that blinded even those on the opposite side of the House. Of course those opposite, beamed back in like sets of party porcelains, too. Out-whiting became the key. Who cared if no one went by the colour rules of nature. The whiter, the better. The more perfectly aligned the imposter teeth were, the better. There were professionals who professed adjusting your non-aligned head by straightening it all out with their miraculous dental arts. And when we thought nothing could be whiter or more impressive, along came the hewers and planters of teeth.These high dental experts went onward and upward and found a way to better nature even more by planting metal and plastic teeth, screwing them right into the bones of your head. If other other medical geniuses were doing the same with joints, so, they deemed, why not teeth? And the dollars flowed like rivers. I know a woman well into her dotage, who sold her home and little dogs, to get a set of teeth installed into the bones of her jaws. Why not, she claimed, they would last forever. She swore that even if she had only a few years left in her life, she would go out in a blaze of dental glory. When she moved into the Home after she got her new teeth  planted, she was the belle of the dining room. Her  famous smile lit the up Hot Dog Thursday like nothing before. From what I hear, she has a number of gentlemen in the place, begging to play Whist at her table every Saturday night. That's a lot more than I can brag about.

Balance Beam

Sometimes life is a balance beam. It's like the one you had as a kid in gym class. You know what I speak of: the benches along the wall that the teacher had you turn upside down and walk along during PE Period. You learned after a bit of work, to walk the beam doing various gymnastic maneuvers without falling off too many times, until you got it right. It was fun. It wasn't high enough at the beginning to worry about,  but as the teacher raised the equipment, the challenge became greater, and in spite of the nice thick blue mats below, your fears increased with the height of the beam. You had to overcome your anxiety of falling in order to maintain your balance. It was a kind of connection war between your mental and physical forces. There are many times, now, in daily adult life, when you feel that you are on that balance beam and even though you know the fall can hurt, you want to take a chance anyway. It could be taking on a huge venture, a relationship or some sort of  project. You know that if you fail, everything will seem to be lost, but you decide to consider your chances regardless of the risk. Before you do, however, you measure the dangers of failure, against your need to take on the challenge that could be important to your future contentment with who and what you are. You have only one life and you don't want to mess up. At least not too much. After thinking it over, you either go for it, or not, but you do so with a grounding, nay, grinding, assessment. If you take on the risk you could be hugely rewarded. If you don't attempt the risk to tread the thin beam, you could regret it for the rest of your life. You'd never know if you might have been successful or not. It is therefore, you think, a matter of trying the project on or visualizing your walk along the edge. To do this, level headed folk, take a realistic approach. Emotions have to be set aside in order to deal with the realities. Out comes the paper and pencil or a run to your "guru" whomever or whatever that is. You fold your "paper" in half and write down, on one side, the pros and on the other side, the  cons, of this decision. You give each side the value and weight it deserves, but only in actual, solid  terms. Emotions and the possible opinions of others, though considered, must be set aside. It is your life and your move. You spend a lot of time at this point. After this, comes the scary part. You have to take the step. You tell yourself that you have given it thought and that if you don't do it, you will never have another "kick at the can". What happens next, becomes part of your history, and hopefully success, and if it doesn't, you can tell yourself that you at least gave it a fair trial. Good luck, because sometimes, no matter how much you rationalize, that is all there is.

Facing Up To It

Social media isn't real. It's a toy and a tool. Nothing more. It's not life. I know some sad individuals who brag about how many "friends" they have and make comparisons asking, "how many friends do you have?" and then tell you their four figure stats. Friends? AYK? They are faces, not friends. With a tiny, even accidental tap, you can gain or unfriend those faces. You can make thousands of friends by friending the friends of those friends, or so-called ones. It is sad when I hear that some people even communicate with the faces of these strangers, and make comments on their sites when they have no idea who that face truly is. They are overjoyed when the face, answers. They build a fantasy with the faces, thinking they are friends or will become friends, even potential lovers. They examine their Friend sites carefully and take great interest in what they see. They go through all of the photos and messages. Their imaginations expand the text with the photo shot so that they feel they have, indeed, made a friend. They ignore the fact that the real lives behind the faces are not always the truth about the face that goes with the text. The whole piece can be nothing but a fantasy. Even though there are requirements of the site, no one checks unless there is a complaint. The whole face site could be mere speculation and broad fiction. A fantasy can be created by some user people to fog out the loneliness of their days. This can reach dangerous levels when their fantasies turn into hopes that the face in the photo is someone they actually know through the site, and are in their real world. Sometimes they begin to message their dream faces so that they might meet them. This kind of situation turns social media into a dating site, but one with no protections. The results can turn into bad situations. It's often what you read about in police reports of scams. Social media sites are great for passing on news to your real world friends but thinking that it will make actual friends is a big stretch. Friends are people you know in real time and life. They aren't a face and a few chosen photos. I have a real friend who must be reminded gently that the media faces are not real people whom she knows. They are pictures only and not all reliable. Those one knows, are the ones who live across the street or the hall or in the neighbourhood. You see them often and speak with them and visit with them  on real terms. The faces on social media are two dimensional only. You know nothing about their backgrounds or status or personalities or lifestyles. They could be criminals or scammers or emotionally unstable people or perhaps not the picture you see at all, but one modified or of someone completely different. We have, in this world today, to face up to facts not iffy fictional "friends" on a website with millions of faces world wide. Some do not want to face up to the facts.  These are the lonely people: "all the lonely people; where do they all come from?"

Party Pooper

Okay, I'll just say it. I do not like parties and truthfully, most of the time I hate them. When I was very little, I learned to dislike parties. Birthday parties for most kids are some kind of agonizing arrangement made by adults who conjure up "fun" for kids who'd rather be out climbing trees and puddling in water somewhere far away from party clothes and "your best manners". Even as a child just out of tottism, I loathed the stupid games we had to play. Musical Chairs, to me was one of the worst. I was not an aggressive kid, and that game required pushing and shoving and yes, even in desperation to get the last chair, pinching. You did not squeal on the pinchers for good reason. They'd get you later. You knew it. I used to think when others were scolded for their rough moves, how come? Isn't that what this game is all about. And then there was Pin The Tail On The Donkey in which you were blind-folded, spun and handed a lethal weapon to stab into a picture of an ass. It didn't matter where the sharp end went, everyone laughed at you, and you felt just like the donkey. Another game I rather loved, was Drop The Clothespin In The Milk Bottle. (Those were the days before dryers and milk cartons.) Now, this game made sense. It required some kind of intelligence and skill. Ring Around The Rosy or London Bridge was the height of silliness but what else could we do because the reigning parent needed to be encouraged. She would be serving soon, we hoped, the ice cream and cake. Of course these days, party planners put up candy bars not the chocolate bar kind, but a stack of plastic buckets where you can indulge yourself in cheap penny candy until you are sick. What happened to birthday cake that looked like cake? The cakes now are either those frilly muffin things or some kind of glitzy field of dreams with fairies and cars and animals all over it. Who would want to take a knife and kill it all?  Is that a cake or is it a plastic toy box? The best part of the party was the biggest downer. The kid who lived in the house you were forced to go to for the p-a-r-t-y, got all the presents that the guests' parents bought after deep conferences with the birthday kids'. You felt miffed, but you knew that you would get your revenge because you had a birthday coming up, hee hee and you would get all the presents at your party. Every child was happiest near the end of the event, when the fighting and the yelling and the crying began. We all knew it would happen. It was as sure as shirts. That's when the real party began because we could then let it all out in spite of the neckties and ruffles and petticoats and cute little vests just like mommy's or daddy's. That's when it was okay to be a kid and do what was natural. Even the ride home with the silences of  Stiff Mommy and Growly Daddy! Nuts, there's a holiday party I have to go to this Saturday. Maybe when things get dull as they inevitably do, I'll take out my sack of  old wooden clothes pins and the milk bottle.

Beauty In Aging

It intrigues me to find, now that I am into aging, that people don't see the beautiful and fascinating things that happen as the body begins to hint at farewells. In my once doctor's office shared with a plastic surgeon, there were two life sized torsos: one with a youthful smooth look and the other, wrinkled and in places, the flesh  sagging. The idea was to inspire the seeker of restorative surgery to see what could be done to avoid the rigors of aging. But, the wrinkled form, was, to me, in my thirties, far more interesting and actually, therefore, more beautiful to look at. It showed something of life in it, while the other one, was much like the trite forms of mannequins. I was left wondering why I felt this way, and have since, after all these years,  not forgotten that small experience. I know that most of us, when we begin to find places on our bodies changing, think that these are downhill marks. They are actually uphill manifestations, very common in all human beings or any others of our animal world: the graying hair, the loosening muscles and the pains. They are indications of a long life. Why we revere youth and its inherent beauties, is natural. These were the times when our bodies were on their uphill journey and able to withstand all of the challenges life presented with much ease and fast, curative powers. We didn't need then, to be thinking sillinesses such as "no pain no gain" and that kind of nonsense, while stressing our poor bodies through tortures due to our great fear of aging.  It is death that is ultimately feared, and it is a perfectly natural fear since we are all definitely heading toward the final farewell. But since we are all going to die, it's the journey, not the destination that is prime. The journey through life, is the pleasure we eke out of every day, not days designed to abuse and shun and fear the changes taking pills and gyms and other desperate measures. When the little signs of your body aging show up, they are fascinating. It is your wonderful body and you can witness one of the greatest features of it, in the up-close witnessing of its aging. This doesn't mean sinking into letting it all "go"and resigning yourself to depression, but to allow yourself to appreciate that you are part of earth's marvelous powers, those of life itself that for every living thing is changing every single moment. The lines and little blue veins that appear are like small examples of your success. What you have left behind in your life, can be reviewed in so many ways to appreciate the great gift of life you have had and one that is part of what you have in common with all other living creatures on earth. To have become old and wrinkled, crippled even, with aging challenges, is something to be happy for, when so many have been cut off from it through sickness or crime or famine or wars. You are fortunate to have survived all that has challenged you in your lifetime, and yet you persevered and won. You are here. You can see it witnessed in your body and it is not ugly, it is your badge of honour. Look up and out and with pride, grasp the changes and revel in  the truth that you are alive and can see and appreciate how your body has carried you all this way. You are a miracle!