Tag Archives: middle age

Middle Aged Crossfit Failure


My husband is a big Groupon fan. The man loves to save money. He is always buying some sort of package deal.  A couple of weeks ago he bought a Groupon for 10 “Functional Fitness” classes at our local Crossfit gym. If you are not familiar with Crossfit, it is a meathead weight lifting and gymnastics combo for the truly insane. That is the official definition.  Anyway, these classes were supposed to be for beginners. So, I went along with the husband.  After all, we know a couple of people who LOVE Crossfit.  Here is how it worked out for me.

Day One – I breeze through my first ever Crossfit class at 44 years old. Well, I didn’t BREEZE through it exactly.  I got a touch out of breath during the burpees, and those butterfly leg, arms all the way up sit ups were no picnic. My couch pouch kept getting in the way. But I did it. I did the whole half hour class. Thirty solid minutes of sweating. I didn’t cheat with the lunges, either, even when the instructor was not looking.

As soon as I got home, I took a shower to get the gym floor dirt off of me. Did I mention the burpees? I pretty much ate the floor during those. So, I also did three loads of laundry to get the gym off of my clothes, carrying the full basket up and down the stairs with minimal tenderness in my thighs. I thought I was a warrior.

Day Two – I notice something different as soon as I get out of bed. I am walking like a brand new porn star who just filmed a gang bang flick using no lube. Walking is tough, but sitting on the toilet is impossible. I put both hands on the toilet seat and gingerly lower myself to a seated position while crossing my eyes and saying “Holy mother of fuck!”

Getting up from the toilet requires a firm hold of the door knob. I vow to myself that I will not leave the house until this pain goes away. I DO NOT want to have to touch the toilet or doorknob in a public bathroom, and with my IBS it would be a necessity at some point. I work from home so it’s doable to just not leave the house for a bit. Plus, it should only take a day or so for this soreness to go away, right? I am not a complete couch potato. I exercise a few times a week. I shouldn’t be sore for that long.

I try two Motrin with breakfast. Nothing. So, I use that “Deep Blue” essential oil I bought back when I was a sucker. I toss it in the trash as I actually feel WORSE after applying it.  Fucking snake oil.

By the end of the day, I am so tired of being in pain that I go into the bathroom and take a Tylenol #3 leftover from a dental procedure last year. I might as well have taken a Sweet Tart.  It’s like a placebo. I follow it up with vodka at dinner. Still no pain relief. I stop myself at two drinks because I don’t want to be that woman who dies from mixing a pain pill and vodka while trying to walk normally again.

Day Three – Before I get out of bed, I think that my pain should probably be better now. This is proven incorrect as soon as I move. It’s been a couple of days, right? Really?! Really?! I almost fall while getting out of bed. Walking is still challenging, and I still have to go up and down stairs while clinging to the rail and using all of my arm strength to stabilize my useless quads. Now, just to add to the fun, my lower abs and whatever those muscles are on the side of your boobs have started to hurt like a fothermucker, too.

I hobble around the house, cursing Groupon, my husband, Crossfit, and especially myself every time I have to go upstairs, which is too often. It seems like it hurts worse today than yesterday. This is just cruel. Who are these people who do Crossfit regularly? I pour myself a big glass of wine right at 5:00. It does nothing.

Day Four – My right leg is slightly better, but my left still bites me when I move. I take a hot bath, so hot that I sweat, and put Biofreeze on my thighs as soon as I get out. This makes me feel 20% better for like 30 minutes. Go me.

I finally give in and do a Google search for “horrible never-ending pain after Crossfit.” My results tell me to drink more water and “stretch it out.” Because water cures everything, right? I give the one finger salute to the computer screen and start gulping water. The only thing this does is make me have to pee even more often than I do already. So, this means I have to get on and off the toilet more often. Have I mentioned how much I hate the world right now?

Day Five – I’m finally able to sit on the toilet this morning without frantically gripping the seat and lowering myself like an 80 year-old nursing home patient. I call that a win.  It is still hell to walk down the drive way to retrieve the recycling bins, but I get it done. I got down the stairs without doing the sideways crab walk and clinging to the rail with both hands. I only had to cling with one hand. I got more than 1,000 steps in on my Fitbit. My “FUCK!” count is way down. It’s a miracle. I finally feel like I may live.

So, I paid $45 for ten classes and only used one. My husband keeps saying he is going to do another class even though he was in the same amount of pain I was in. I will never go back. I would rather say goodbye to the remainder of my $45 than pay thousands of dollars for surgery and rehabilitation after being carried out of Crossfit on a stretcher.

What about you? Are you a Crossfitter, a couch potato, or somewhere in the middle? Let me hear from you in the comment section.


Middle Age: The Verbal Charades and Bad Hair Years

According to a few random Google search results, I have found out that 45 is the official beginning of middle age.  This means my son has been INCORRECT in calling me a middle-aged woman for the past ten years.  I was still considered a YOUNG adult until now.  Now I am 45 and ½.  So, I’m in the infancy of old age, but I can tell that I am definitely middle aged based on my shrinking vocabulary and shriveling hair.

It used to be that I could flat iron my hair and look good for three days.  Now, I fall asleep on it for 30 minutes and wake up looking like a Founding Father.  You know, I get that stringy “I’ve been forming a new nation and I have no time to run the boar’s bristle thing through my hair” style.  Because that’s what the founding fathers would’ve called a brush when they were middle aged.

Sometimes, my hair looks so bad that I just want to put it in a ponytail, but even that won’t work.  I get these little hairs that bow out on both sides of my neck.  I end up looking like a more haggard Ben Franklin. Not only has my hair gone all Ben Franklin on me, but I can’t form real verbal sentences.

It seems like the day I turned 45, I forgot a bunch of everyday words.  So, I substitute phrases with “thing” in them.

Closet Thing = Pantry

Foot Thing = Ottoman

I can just imagine what would happen if I were on Jeopardy.  I would know SO MANY of the answers; I just would not be able to actually say them.  Cue the music.


Fast forward through canned audience applause and Alex introducing the contestants.

Lisa: Movie Stars for $400, Alex.

Alex: This actor is known for his role in Taxi Driver.

Lisa: OH! I know him.  Fuh – Um, sorry! Wait! He’s that Italian guy with the mole.  And he’s in all of the mafia movies with that other Italian guy.  Crap! Um! He was in that one movie with that one dark-haired guy who recently had prostate cancer.  You know, the one who has the funny comedy team parents.  He played that guy’s father-in-law. And he had a cat.

Alex: Yes. Who is Robert De Niro is correct!

Young contestant: But she never said, “Robert De Niro!”

Alex: Shut up, kid.  You’ll be middle-aged one day!  She said, “Robert De Niro.”

So, that’s middle age for me, so far.  There are other shitty things, like aches in joints I didn’t know I had.  (Young people, I’m talking about the joints that connect bones, not the kind that is legal in Colorado.)  There are a lot of good things about middle age, too.  One is that I don’t really give two shits if my hair looks like Ben Franklin’s.  I notice it, but I don’t get upset about it.  Well, not TOO upset.

What about you? Are you middle aged?  Do you have that I could sign the Declaration of Independence hair?  Can you still speak in full sentences without some version of “you know! That thing in the kitchen that cuts the food?”  Leave me a comment and let me know I’m not alone.



Purple Rain When You're 44 1/2.

I never saw Purple Rain when it came out in 1984. It was the summer before 8th grade for me, and I could not get into an R-rated movie.  A couple of years later, I tried to watch it on HBO.  I caught it about half way through, and back then we couldn’t rewind TV (dark times).  Of course, right when Prince was making love to a huge speaker and begging Darling Nikki to come back, my step-dad walked in.

We lived in a small apartment, and the living room TV was the only one that had HBO. My dad walked in the front door and saw the screen instantly.  “What’s this GAHBAGE?” He yelled in his Boston accent.

I felt my face get hot. “Um, it’s a movie. Um, Purple Rain.” I stammered.

“A movie! Why do you wanna watch smut like that?  Shut that off!”

So, I did as I was told and went in my room to read V.C Andrews books, also smut.  Since I had to turn off the TV and leave the room in shame, and it was 1987 and no cool pirated copies were on YouTube, I never ended up seeing Purple Rain until this week.

After Prince died, theaters decided to show Purple Rain. My friend bought a bunch of tickets to a local showing, so my husband and I decided to go.  As I stared up at the screen from my second row reclining seat, the first thing I noticed was the blur.  No, I wasn’t drunk, even though this fancy theater does have a bar.  The screen appeared blurry.  But it wasn’t.  It was just in glorious 1984 high tech film. You see, young people, there was a time before HD.  Yes, they were dark times.  We used to not be able to see every pore and wrinkle on someone’s face. It was truly a tragedy.

My son and his girlfriend joined my husband, friends and me to see the movie.  It’s ok; they aren’t little kids.  They are 19 and 20, and the girlfriend covered my son’s eyes during certain, um, scenes with Apollonia.  Even so, it was kind of awkward to be sitting two seats away from my baby boy when Apollonia’s obviously enhanced breasts covered the entire screen.  I’m glad my dad didn’t walk in during THAT when I was a teen.

After the movie, on the way home, my son commented on the movie and how it really wasn’t a movie, more of a music video.  He didn’t say anything about Apollonia’s boobs or leather outfit, instead he wondered what the writers’ meeting for Purple Rain must have been like. According to my son, it went something like this.

Writer 1:  Well, we have an hour of Prince performing. Maybe we should throw in a light plot, or something.

Writer 2:  He could be in love, and maybe smack a woman here and there.

Writer 3:  And The Time can play two songs and throw another woman in a dumpster.

Writer 1:  OK! Sounds like we got a movie.

My son is probably right.  While I will always love Prince’s music.  Purple Rain was not a great movie.  It was kind of like a Lifetime movie with a good sound track. It had all of the necessary elements: domestic violence, alcoholism, jealousy, and someone clinging to life in a hospital bed.  The only thing it was missing was a court scene, really.  They probably should have just left the plot part out and just marketed it as one long music video.

Even though it was not the best written film ever, it did hold my attention. I had to pee through most of it, but I kept holding it because I did not want to miss anything.  Then, when Apollonia 6 took the stage, I knew I had time to run to the bathroom.  I just wasn’t interested in women in lingerie singing a bad pop song, or women in lingerie in general.

I’m not going to lie.  I held back tears throughout the entire movie.  Most of the time, I was sitting there thinking, “I can’t believe he’s dead.  Fifty-seven is too young.”  Plus, I’m 44 and ½.  Fifty-seven is right around the corner for me.  Well, maybe not right around the corner. It’s more like half way across town and around the bend, but still.  It’s not that far off.  I was 12 when I heard my first Prince song.  Life has slipped by so quickly.

Other times I was wondering how he was that skinny.  I only saw two foods in movie, Doritos and gummy bears. I don’t think he ate either of them.  Seriously, he had the physique of a prepubescent girl.  I also really wondered where he got his clothes.  Was there a Napoleon R Us store in the 80’s? There was no Amazon, so it wasn’t like it was easy to find real 1799 vintage French Army attire.

It seems like A LOT of great musicians have died this year already, and we are not even half way through the year. I guess this is part of being middle aged. The people we looked up to when we were young are dropping like butts on toilet seats at Taco Bell. I keeping my fingers crossed that Billy Joel, Don Henley, and every member of Guns and Roses will be around for years and years.  All musicians who found fame in the 80’s need to be checked on daily, and possibly wrapped in protective gear. Who do you want to bubble wrap? Let me hear from you in the comment section.

Prince Purple Rain
Image from Amazon.com




Pete Yorn and Middle Aged Dancers

I’m not a Pete Yorn fan, but my husband is.  Since my husband takes me to Disney even though he hates theme parks, I go to live music events with him even though I find staring at a musician I didn’t give birth to as exciting as folding socks.  And this is on a normal day.  Factor in that I had just sat through nine hours of jury duty and had not slept much the night before.  I was close to comatose.   Lucky for me and the husband, I found a concrete “bench” to sit on at the venue as there was really no other seating.

How can there be no seating at a show with an audience full of the newly arthritic joints generation, formerly known as Generation X? There were only like four people under forty there, and they were wearing “Security” shirts.  There should have been row upon row of recliners, but there were no seats.  So, I sat on that concrete and pretended I was Wilma Flintstone sitting on my couch.

While I was sitting there, trying to visualize my bed, I did the only thing I could do in this situation.  I started people watching.  Since I was super tired, and I have a fear of crowded public restrooms used by women who have been downing large beers, I did not eat or drink anything at the event.  My husband, who has the bladder of a camel, sat next to me enjoying pizza and beer. I just stared at everyone.  Of course, I had to start taking notes because the glucosamine party crew was trying to dance.  Here is what I saw.

The I’m Super Cool Drinking Beer Listening to Tunes Jog Walk – You’ve seen this.  The person holds the beer like a trophy and takes huge steps like she is stepping over piles of Great Dane shit.

The Hippie Plie – The heels are touching and knees are pointed out.  The “dancer” bounces up and down like she is wearing a tutu that only she can see.

The I’m not Really 45 Head Bob – Maybe the person is not really into the music, or maybe his knees aren’t quite Adviled up enough to plie.

The I’m Sorta Trying to be Axl Sway – This guy REALLY WANTS to be 1988 Axl Rose.  He tries to do the snakey dance moves Axl did when he sang, but this middle aged dude’s back just can’t quite slither.

The I’m Just Gonna Look at my Phone – I admit it. For the most part this was me.  In my defense, I was taking notes for this fabulous blog.  So, there’s that.

The I Might be Having a Seizure or I Might be Dancing – This person has taken too much Prozac and gives zero fucks.  He moves his entire body as though he has been electrocuted.  When you are observing it, you don’t know whether to call 911 or applaud.

I tried not to laugh openly while watching all of this.  This is part of the reason I focused on taking notes.  The other reason was to take my attention from gagging at the odor of the place.  I didn’t know if I was smelling someone’s beer or old piss.  I’m talking about actual urine not an accurately named craft ale. Seriously, concert venues out there, can you not get some Nature’s Miracle? It works for cat piss, so it should work on beer splatter.

So, do you recognize any of these fabulous “dance” moves?  Have you done any of them.  Let me hear from you in the comments section.  Extra points for pictures or video.

My Kamikaze Mustache Wax

Yep. Those are my sideburns when I don’t wax.

Elvis Presley is alive and well and living on the sides of my face.  When I forgo the wax, I have sideburns that rival the King’s fattest 1975 sparkly jumpsuit days. So, I go get them ripped off once a month or so. While I am there, I get my eyebrows shaped a little.  They are slightly squirrelly, though they are not walrus level bushy.

I have battled facial hair my whole life. Boys in high school told me I needed to shave when they saw the blonde hair on the sides of my face.  So I started dry shaving my face whenever I shaved my legs.  I stopped when I developed a 5 o’clock shadow. I discovered wax in my 30’s.  Even though it would be cheaper, I refuse to do it myself at home because it really hurts.  I just know what would happen if I put hot wax on my face.  Since I would be DREADING the pain, I would be too afraid to rip it off and then I would be known as “old candle faced Lisa.” It would go on my tombstone along with “She did laundry.”  So, my usually fabulous esthetician takes care of it for me.

Recently, something went awry with my esthetician.  Maybe I was chatting with her too much, or maybe she thought I was someone else.  At any rate, as soon as I felt the hot wax on my lip, I wished I had accepted the free wine when I checked in. I had never, ever, but never requested a mustache wax before, and I hadn’t this time either. I wanted to yell that out to her, but my esthetician was talking about having just finished her chemo for ovarian cancer.  I wasn’t about to interrupt her with a “WHAT in the hell are you doing?  I don’t have a mustache!!” Then, the cold truth hit.  Maybe I DID have a mustache. Maybe she could see it with her fancy dancy magnifying mirror.

I began to wonder how bad this facial hair problem would get. Would I have to condition it or put it in a bun or French braid.  Maybe, I could get highlights or peacock colors put in. If I have a mustache at 44, surely I would look like some sort of new breed of mammal by 50. Maybe I would finally get on the Today Show because of it.

I felt my esthetician pat a cloth strip over the warm wax, all while chatting away as though she waxed this mustache of mine all of the time. I dug my nails into my palms, in preparation for the rip.  OUCH! The upper lip is even more sensitive than the sides of the face.  My sympathies go out to the women who have this done regularly.  I won’t be one of them because I have decided that I don’t have a mustache.  Nope.  The magnifying light must have been faulty.

Amish in my Old Age

When I was a teenager, like most other teenagers, I thought I would be young forever. I thought I could get away with wearing tiny skirts and shorts forever. I thought I would be staying out until after midnight and going out to breakfast at 3:00am forever. I never thought I would tire of being young because I never imagined myself being older. Teachers and parents in their forties seemed SO OLD. I would certainly never be FORTY. Well, now that I am forty-four, things are a little different. It seems the older I get, the more Amish I get.

Come on over to Knot So Subtle to read the rest of this.  There is even a picture of me.  🙂

Zyrtec — For When You Can't Afford Street Drugs

On Saturday night, I took Zyrtec for my combination can’t sleep/can’t breathe due to allergies middle age syndrome. I usually take a Benedryl for this condition, but my husband takes Zyrtec so I decided to try that. I learned never to do that again. This stuff is over the counter allergy medicine, in case you are not familiar with Zyrtec. That’s right; I said “over the counter” not “on the corner,” as it should be. It is not even behind the counter, and I didn’t have to show an ID or sign over my first born like I do when I buy Sudafed. Having done exactly zero hard-core illegal drugs, I now know with great authority that Zyrtec is not just an allergy medicine; it is really heroin and LSD.

First of all, if you don’t have a spare 14 hours or so to sleep, don’t take Zyrtec. This shit will knock you out. I slept a solid 10 hours, woke up drooling, and then took a 3-hour nap after breakfast. I could not concentrate on anything Sunday morning other than eating breakfast and petting cats. Coffee was useless. Useless. I took to my couch and closed my eyes, slipping back into the acid trip Zyrtec sleep.

The dreams you have with Zyrtec are trippy. I’m pretty sure that the people who created Teletubbies were on a Zyrtec binge. I had so many strange naptime visions, even a dream within a dream. In that one, I was trying to wake up, but couldn’t because I was in a coma. The quilt I was under on my couch in real life became the doctor’s coat in my coma dream. After that, I dreamed there was a farm behind my house. A cow was on the roof of a barn and was jumping off. I thought to myself, in my sleep, “I guess that cow jumped over the moon thing is real. That cow didn’t even break a leg or anything.” Even after I woke, I wasn’t sure if there was really a jumping cow out back or not. I decided not to check.

I’m surprised teenagers aren’t selling Zyrtec in school. They can buy it with no ID or fanfare of any kind. I’m also surprised that drug dealers haven’t started making Crystal Zyrt, or something like that. I can imagine people on corners yelling, “Got that Z.” I bet a lot of people would buy it. I’m not trying to suggest that people START doing this. I’m just really shocked it isn’t already happening.

Have any of you had a similar experience with Zyrtec? What about other over the counter drugs? Let me hear your story. Leave me a comment.



Fat, Forty, and Falling


I may have mentioned a few months ago in my Metal Mom piece that I live in a cookie cutter, Wisteria Lane type neighborhood. Everyone notices when something is not right.  When we first moved in, my husband was putting in a raised bed garden in the backyard. The president of the homeowners association came right over and asked us if we were building a “structure.” I wanted to tell him, “Yes, we are building a small home for our servants.” I didn’t say that because I’ve learned that most people don’t speak sarcasm. Anyway, since we got that kind of attention for a garden, I was certain SOMEONE would come to my assistance while I was on my ass in the middle of my driveway mumbling “fuck” and shouting for my son. Certainly, someone would notice a short, chubby woman CRAWLING up her driveway at 7:45am. Nope. Unless your mailbox is the wrong color or you are building a “structure” no one cares. I’m lucky that the dogs alerted my son to my little accident. As much as I hate to admit this, my favorite cats were no-shows.

Like an idiot, I attempted to walk down my icy driveway to get that last little bit of trash to the curb before the truck came. I just HAD to get that tiny bag of trash out there. The world may have ended if I had to hold on to it for a week. I walked down the driveway like a moron. Usually, I walk on the grass, through the snow rather than brave the driveway. My only explanation for my moronic decision is I had not had coffee. I remember noticing dog and human footprints on the sidewalk near my driveway and thinking about how it was good that there wasn’t too much snow so that this person could walk a dog. Then, my feet slipped out from under me and I slipped and fell right on my ass in an almost cartoon-like manner. It would have been funny if it didn’t hurt so damn bad.

I felt like I would not be able to get up and walk ever again. I hit the hard ground and I felt like my spine broke. It was cold, and I really wanted to get back to the house. I swore and then yelled for my son. Then, I got too damn cold waiting, but I didn’t know if I could get up, and I was afraid to fall again, so I crawled up the driveway. At this point, the dogs that were staring out the front window and barking had alerted my son. He came outside to pick me up and take me to the ER.

Obviously, this was a painful experience that would have been embarrassing if I were the type of person to give a shit about what other people think. I don’t think my neighbors saw me fall, and if they did they should be embarrassed for not helping me. I am grateful for this experience though because I learned how to be better prepared for sudden trips to the ER.

Hospital ME
Be glad you can’t see my pits or my legs.

First of all, shave your legs and armpits at least every other day, even in the winter, ladies. You don’t want to look like a gorilla in a hospital gown like I did. It had been a good 5 or 6 days since my last shave. Create your own visual here.

If you have Elvis Presley sideburns like I do (Yes, I am a woman), you want to make sure you keep those things waxed. I’m pretty sure the doctors and nurses were staring at the sides of my face and expecting me to start singing Viva Las Vegas at any moment.

Just wear real clothes to bed. Lucky for me, I had worn sweatpants to bed and I didn’t have to go to the hospital in my snowflake jammies, or worse yet, my Bud Light jammies. (Note: I think Bud Light is vile. The pajamas were purchased for a costume party.)

DO NOT tell anyone that pain pills make you nauseous. You will get sent home with Naproxen instead of REAL pain relief. Naproxen is Latin for “will eat your stomach but do diddly squat for pain.”

Have a son, and make sure he can drive before you decide to injure yourself. A teen son can pick you up off of the floor and drive you to the hospital. A teen girl would look down at you on the ground, roll her eyes, and tell you that she hates you for messing up her plans by making her drive you to the hospital. I love my son.

Don’t be a neat freak. I just couldn’t leave the last little bag of trash for next week. I had to go walking down my driveway to the curb like I was trying to get rid of a bomb. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

Try not to have a dog the size of a pony. My Great Dane almost knocked me down again when I finally got into the house. At least the cats didn’t try to hurt me more.

Be ready to pee. They are always going to ask for a urine sample. You could come crawling into the ER with a missing leg and a story about a man with a chainsaw, and they would say, “OK. We will take care of that gushing stub as soon as you give us a little urine.” What do they do with all of that pee? Are they like vampires, but they need pee instead of blood to stay alive. Oh, wait. They usually ask for that, too.

It’s OK to be chubby. I was so glad I had never been able to lose those pesky 20 pounds. My fat ass saved me from breaking my tailbone. At least, I’m pretty sure I didn’t break it, based on my symptoms. There’s no way to be certain, as it’s difficult to x-ray. Well, there is an exam they can do, but I don’t recommend it.

Say no to the tailbone exam. There’s no way to tell if you have a broken tailbone because that involves a rectal exam. There is no way to slap a cast on a coccyx bone, so why bother to be violated like this. I looked around when the option was given, and since there was not an open bar and a plate of roofies, I said no.

I think I’m going to go back to my original plan for avoiding winter injuries – just stay inside until May. If you MUST leave the house, bring ski poles with you and wear golf shoes. Also, wrap yourself in bubble wrap. It will keep you safe and it will make other people stay far away from you, except for those freaks who want to pop you.

So, have you ever fallen on ice? Were you injured?  

Any words of wisdom you can share with us?

Living Like Stephen King and Petting Tigers

Since I will be turning 29 in September (That’s 43 in real world time), I’ve started to think about how quickly life is passing by. It really does go by so fast after high school, doesn’t it? So, I’ve started listing the things I still want to accomplish before I (hopefully) drop dead suddenly and without pain at the age of 99. Because I like to over share, and because there is nothing good on TV in the summer, here is my bucket list for your reading enjoyment.

I want to learn to dance and sing Gangnam Style – wait for it – in KOREAN. YES! This has to be one of the most physically and mentally challenging things I could do. Just in case you live on another planet, and have not seen and heard this, take a minute or four to watch it.

I want, no I NEED, to hold a baby tiger. I’m not dumb enough to want to get in a cage with a full-grown tiger, but I could handle a kitten. Jack Hanna, are you reading this? Let me hold a tiger kitten, damn it!

I will be in a flash mob. I have to. Ever since I was in Miss Raines’ dance class at South Broward High School, I have enjoyed shaking my backside around to anything from Rhythm Nation to Black Hole Sun, which lends itself nicely to adolescent ballet moves.

I’ve gotta get around to finishing the two novels I’m writing. In my line of work, I spend WAY TOO MUCH time correcting other people’s writing. It dulls my creativity and makes it hard for me to write. I have to make time to finish my novel on the reincarnation of the 27 Club and the other about time travel.

I want to help animals more. Recently, I wrote a blog about how I have an only child and I’m fine with that. An old friend sent me a heartfelt letter telling me that I should adopt a child. She has adopted two children, and she is adopted. While I would love for every child to have a home, I simply don’t want more children. The good part about my friend’s message is that it made me realize that animals are my passion, not kids, and I need to do more to help furry beings.

I need to make enough money to piss off my extended family when I leave it to cats. If my husband leaves this earth before me, 80% of whatever I have will go to my son, and 20% will go to a cat shelter.

I really want to live to see religion truly separate from government. Things have gotten Handmaid’s Tale scary lately. Believe in Jesus all you want, but if he did exist, I’m pretty sure he was not a gun-toting Republican; he was more of a hippie. I’m no biblical scholar, but it seemed like he liked to help people, not make cuts to the food stamp program.

After reading Stephen King’s memoir, On Writing, I have decided that true success as a writer means living like Stephen King. I’m not talking about the cocaine years; I’m talking about now. The man has time to nap EVERY day, and he makes a living doing what he loves.

Even though I am a total hermit and I need Ativan to travel, I want to tour Europe. I want to see the castles and other historical buildings this world has to offer. I want to know where my pasty-skinned whiskey drinking ancestors come from.

That’s all I got for now. I’m sure as I enter my 30’s (AKA mid-40’s) I will think of more things. For now, I’m focusing on this list. So, what about you? What do you want to do before you croak?


Paging Dr. Doogie!

In my never-ending quest to be geriatric at 42, um I mean 28, I have gone and scheduled myself 2 medical appointments in the same week.  Plus, I have to take my son to the orthodontist.  So, I will spend 3 out of 5 days in medical buildings.  Well, not the whole day, but still. I hate when I do that. I feel like one of those elderly people who go to the doctor every week.  What makes me feel even older is the fact that my doctors are all younger than me.  I feel like I have stepped into an episode of Doogie Howser.

I saw the dentist yesterday because I broke my crown, and no I’m not Jack from Jack and Jill.  I’m always at the dentist because I’m one of those lucky people who INHERITED bad teeth.  Seriously! That’s a thing.  I brush and floss at least 3 times a day, and I have 13 fillings and 2 crowns in my mouth.  For REAL! So, he was able to fix my crown, even though I swear the guy is 12.  I want to ask him when he is having his Bar Mitzvah.  I’m not sure if he is even Jewish, but it seems like an appropriate question given his youth.

I’m seeing a cardiologist on Thursday because I have had heart palpitations for years. People usually just tell me it’s nerves, but I want to be sure because I don’t want to keel over.  If I died no one around here would be able to find their keys or sweep cat litter off the floor. I haven’t met the cardiologist online, but I Google stalked her.  If I am doing the degree math right, and I may not be since I am an English major, she is about 5.  She looks anywhere from 5 to 8 in the picture on her web site.  I feel like the crypt keeper. If she makes me do a stress test, I’m making her sit in the corner.

And they are not the only medical professionals I see who could blend in at a K-12 school.  My primary doctor is 10, and has even mentioned that some issues I am having are “age related.” WHAT???  I still love her, but WHAT???

What about you all out there?  Are your doctors younger than you, yet?