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Whipped Cream and Other Things

Whipped Cream and Other Things

Wrinkly Bits A Blog by Gail Cushman In the past two years, I’ve become a useless sloth when it comes to cleaning, but reality hit today when I spilled a half empty carton of whipping cream in the refrigerator, and it leaked all over, dripping even into my veggie bins. I threw up my hands because I had other things to do, and the spilled whipped cream was interrupting my day, but I decided to bite the proverbial bullet (where did that adage come from). I started taking things out of the frig and placing them on the kitchen counter so I could have a go at making my refrigerator sparkle again. It shouldn’t be difficult, I thought, after all, how much stuff can a refrigerator hold. I have a regular sized frig, not one of those extra-large jobbers that seem huge on the outside but are still too narrow to hold a whole pizza. The top shelf held a lot of green things, pickles, relishes, and even a jar of green beans, but there were some other green things, too, moldy items, obviously past their “death-by date.” I moved the trash and recycle containers, so I could sort out which items to keep, toss, or send to my grandkids because they will eat anything. I eat a lot of salads and have more than a half dozen bottles of salad dressing, most of which have a good amount of liquid inside, but I happened to notice that my two bottles of Olive Garden dressing (probably from Costco) had expiration dates in 2019, so I guessed it was probably smart to toss them. But wait, the dressing with the picture of Paul Newman reads 2015, but I don’t want to get rid of Paul. It’s darn good dressing, and he has darn beautiful eyes. That’s only six years. It’s vinegar based, so how bad could it be? It’s a curious thing about expiration dates because when I was growing up, my mother home-canned everything and sometimes the jar filled with Emmett cherries went a few years before it was eaten. She would stick a piece of adhesive tape on the jar with a date, and it was not uncommon for us to eat food that had been canned several years before. She’d open the jar, sniff it, and say, “It’s still good, got another year or two. If it tastes bad, we’ll toss it out.” But we never tossed it out. Now they even put expiration dates on water. Really? Water expires? That seems a little iffy. And vinegar? My bottle expired in 2017, but isn’t vinegar just spoiled wine? Some things taste better when they are aged, look at cheese and for that matter aged beef and wine. And another question, are the expiration dates solid, meaning if the date is June 9, will I keel over and die if I eat it on June 10? What happens on June 9 that makes it inedible? I’d like to know. I finally got to the bottom of the refrigerator and now I have to figure out what goes to the dump and what is recycled and which kind of plastic goes to the recycle bin and which goes to the dump. Note to self…don’t ever buy whipping cream again. It’s way too much trouble. If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share.

Looking Backward

Looking Backward

You’re not going to believe what I found! I was looking for something, (I have forgotten what because I got so excited about my discovery). I have opened and closed that drawer a hundred times and never saw it, but today sitting on the top of a pile was my mother’s leather-bound autograph book. She received the book from an aunt and uncle for Christmas, 1928, when she was eleven years old. My mother died in 2010 and retained this treasure for all those years, yet I had never taken notice of it. Every page, front and back, is filled with writing, some pencil, some ink, and the sentiments are interesting well-wishes, plus trite poetry, names and dates of people long gone. The rhymes are so simple and corny that they are sweet. For example: “I love you little, I love you big, I love you like a little red pig.” Your friend, Nina. Dated January 9, 1929. Nice thoughts, Nina. Love you, too. Or another: “When you’re sitting on the sofa, With your beau at your side, Beware of all false impressions, For his mustache might be dyed.” I remain your true friend, Margaret, dated Jan 10, 1930. Good advice, Margaret. I always liked mustaches, but now I’ll look them differently, maybe suspiciously. Every entry was written in cursive, mostly readable, although the writing had faded through the years. It might have been the 1929 version of the school yearbook since some entries had a one-inch square black and white photograph attached with glue. The girls must have all used the same hairstylist as the haircuts looked similar in the salad-bowl-over-the-head-style that all of us experienced at some point in our lives. Is it possible that the Great Depression curbed the hair cutting industry and they did use salad bowls? Most of the poems rhymed with quick little chants, and I read several about rolling pins, like this one from Frances, “When you get married and your husband gets cross, pick up the rolling pin and say, I’m the boss.” Several referred to babies, as in Leona’s poem, “When you get married and have twins, you can come to me for safety pins.” The need for safety pins went out with disposable diapers and the threat of a rolling pin might be construed as domestic violence. Eileen might have initiated the whole text talk movement because her poem read “yyur, yyub, icur, yy4me.” I also found a couple interesting rhymes and this one from Ruth is catchy, “May bad luck follow you all the days of your life, but never catch up.” It’s thoughtful, kind of a reverse wish and I like it. I have never heard Myrna’s truism stated quite this way before, “What you are is God’s gift to you. What you make of yourself is your gift to God.” Myrna said that on May 23, 1933, and it’s good advice even today. Wilma offers more straightforward advice with, “The only way to have a friend is to be one.” It was fun looking back nearly one hundred years. These children are all dead and gone, but they had fun writing them, and I had fun reading them. And I hope you liked them, too. If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share.Wrinklybits.com

Up & At 'Em

Up & At 'Em

I often wake up at four or five in the morning and peel myself out of bed on the pretense of having lots to do, but really, it’s because I went to bed earlier than most people do and am anxious for the smell of coffee. But this morning, I woke up at seven-thirty, I’m unsure why, but it was nice have a couple hours extra in the sack. I lay there for a minute deciding if I was going jump out, crawl out, or fall out. It varies from day to day, depending on which body part is complaining. I tested my knee, and found it agreeable to standing up, so I rose and went through my morning routine. Everything worked, except my scale which must be broken because it reads several pounds over what I feel positive that my actual weight is. It must have broken about the same time Covid hit. My heart is pumping fine as far as I know, and no other part of my body is screaming about getting on with today’s adventures. I plugged in the coffee pot and downed a big glass of water because one of my recent diet plans said I should, and it makes me feel good. I retrieved the newspaper and read the headlines before tackling the various puzzles, which took about an hour, the same amount of time as it takes to down two cups of coffee, then I picked up my cell phone to see if anyone phoned, texted, emailed me while I was asleep. What a surprise because this morning I had five messages, and no spam or warnings about social security police or car warranties or my house being invaded by Martians. Woo-hoo. Two messages were ads, and three from people I have chatted with before. I’m on Facebook a lot and I meet a lot of people, though I seldom engage in extended conversations with people I don’t know because it can be risky. Two (these would be advertisements, wanted to improve my presence on Facebook, helping me with Wrinkly Bits…I don’t think so. One of them spelled the word “assist” “a-s-c-i-s-c-t.” Even my worst spelling student knew better than that. Delete. One addressed me as Mr. Gail, another delete. The legitimate texts were better. One was from Maine, a writer, asking me a legitimate question and I’ve talked with her before. Another, also from Maine, but not the same town, is also a writer with some disabilities. We have talked before, and he shows up on my email every now and then. I’ll email both of them later. And the fifth was from a nice lady author in Alberta, Canada, who writes western romances. Elizabeth Clements. I haven’t read her books, but I checked them out on Amazon, and they look like something I could dig into. The promo says: “What’s hotter than a two-dollar pistol and 4th of July fireworks?” Now that got my attention and the photo looked like a cross between Tom Selleck and Sam Elliot. Ooh la la. She and I are of similar age, I am older than dirt, she is younger than dirt, but we have things in common. She’s a woman I’d like to meet up for coffee and conversation. It is almost nine o’clock, where had the time gone? I still have to get dressed, figure out breakfast, and eat. By my usual Up & At ’em schedule, the day is nearly shot to hell. If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share.

It Gives Me Fever

It Gives Me Fever

Wrinkly Bits A Blog by Gail Cushman Another disease hit Boise this weekend, dare I say I’m pretty sure that it hit the whole north American continent. I didn’t realize I had it, but it had hit me head on, shaken me like a rag doll, and didn’t let go. I wouldn’t wish this disease on anyone, but I think most of my friends were exposed, perhaps not even realizing what it was. Getting relief from the symptoms was scary with backache, eye strain, irritability, and exhaustion to the point that I turned down an invitation to have a glass of wine with my neighbors. I called my health insurance company, wondering if it would be covered by my policy, but wouldn’t you know it, they laughed and said, not politely, “Not on your life.” My Boise kids left town, because I suspect they had the disease in spades. They had been cranky for a few weeks and then stopped talking altogether. They had stopped going out to eat, which is a sure sign that something is wrong because everyone is too busy zooming to cook anymore. My Nome kids stayed at home, but people who live in Alaska are tough, so it didn’t surprise me. And to that point, Nome has a limited array of restaurants with strange sounding combinations and high prices, so going out to dinner isn’t always possible. The last time I was there I bought a whole, large-size pizza for a whopping $80.00. It was my fault though because I asked for extra pepperoni. On Saturday, the whole town of Boise was attempting to rid themselves of this disease, or as I’ve heard it called, cabin fever. I went shopping and visited places I hadn’t been during the Covid pandemic, and it was wonderful. Everything was open. People didn’t wear protective gear. Faces showed expression and I even shook somebody’s hand. My pandemic cure included a trip to Costco so it cost me several hundred dollars, which could have been better spent by going on a little trip somewhere fun or having a spa day, all to myself, but getting out of my house for a time was worth whatever I had to pay. I’m not sure I’m done yet, but I’m going to lock my credit card away for a while. If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share!

Side Effects I Could Live With

Side Effects I Could Live With

It was refill time, refilling my two prescriptions that I swear I don’t need. They are both at the very lowest doses available and I feel confident that my doc ordered them so that I would return for an appointment next year, or maybe she just likes me and wants to be sure to see me once a year. Half the time I forget to take them, but I give it the old college try. I’ve taken both for over fifteen years with no changes, so either these drugs are doing their job or it’s a plot. I forked over my co-pay and smiled at the pharmacy tech, an employee I had not seen before, and he said, “I should tell you the side effects of these, Ma’am.” Okay, I’m game, I hadn’t heard the side effect spiel for fourteen years and of course, don’t read the literature they send home every three months. Besides having biceps that strained his shirt sleeves, he had a bronzed tan, black hair, blue eyes and a slight southern drawl. Eye candy. I could listen to him for a few minutes or maybe even ask questions to extend the conversation. I may be in my 70s but certainly not dead. He listed the side effects one by one, and it was interesting that both drugs had the same side effects, so I heard them twice and every side effect was prefaced with the words “life threatening:” new or worse high blood pressure, heart failure, liver problems, kidney problems, anemia, rashes, allergies. The non-life-threatening side effects weren’t much better: stomach pain, constipation, diarrhea, gas, heartburn, nausea, vomiting, and dizziness. I’m not kidding. Holy cow…I could toss in some profanity here, but my editor would nix it, so I won’t waste my finger-strokes. I already wondered if I really needed these two drugs, but with this list, it was possible that I would be on my death bed in a New York second if I continued to take them. Yet, I hesitate to defy my doctor and ignore that good wisdom, but it makes me wonder if my doctor knows or even remembers all these effects. The list got me to wondering. The drug manufacturers ought to address this side-effect issue that surrounds most drugs. It seems irresponsible that they haven’t been able to create cool life-enhancing side effects? You know what I’m talking about, things that will encourage us to continue taking the drugs. Why would I take a drug that will undoubtedly leave me worse off than I already am at my advanced age of 75? Couldn’t they create side effects that would encourage my continuing the drugs, like CAUTION: prolonged usage may reduce facial wrinkles, put a spring in your step, improve sleep patterns, give you unlimited energy, and return dull gray hair to its natural splendor. Those side effects would be welcome, and somebody needs to tell ‘em. If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share! wrinklybits.com

Jabbering

Jabbering

Some days blog topics tumble out of my brain and into my coffee cup, often resembling mountains of thoughts, but today I don’t have one blog topic in my brain or in my coffee cup, or anywhere else, it would seem. I did nothing of consequence this weekend, am not annoyed at anything, and the weather is seasonably pleasant. I am not really blogless, rather idea-less. Is that even a word? If not, it should be, but my kids would probably interpret that as brainless and who knows what would happen then? I don’t think there is really anything wrong with being idea-less, but it is a rarity for me. My brain is usually boiling over with insignificant stuff like likes and dislikes and things I need to do or not do, but today it’s not. For that matter, this morning, I have little rolling around my brain, either significant or insignificant, and if any significant stuff happens to be there, I can’t remember anyway. Today, I’m reasonably content and my wayward right knee is behaving itself and I’m looking forward to another fun-filled day in front my computer. But maybe since there is nothing critical for me to share, I should tell you about one of my favorite words, jabber, which is what I apparently am doing now. Don’t you think “jabber” is a good word, one of those words that we don’t hear much (which is good because the tech folk types might steal it, too). It is fun to say and fun to read, similar to the work “yank,” another fun word. I think it is the combo of the consonants that sends me into alphabet ecstasy. This week somebody sent me a list of words that are synonyms to the word “said,” listing 280 variations of “said,” starting alphabetically with “acknowledged” and ending with “yelled.” I don’t see that “yelled” and “said” are synonyms, but they both indicate some sort of communication. The experts tell me that the word “said” is a “non-word,” and readers don’t even look at it, while the word “yammer” can bring complicated things to mind, and readers get snagged on it, instead of digesting the whole thought. I like different words, so I’ll continue to use “jabber,” and “yammer,” and even “thundered” to get my point across. Great words. In my humble opinion, the experts don’t know what they’re talking about. The word “said” is a fine word, but as a writer, I think my job is to say what I have to say in the most interesting manner. And sometimes, “said” doesn’t hack it. If a character is elated or angry, wouldn’t he or she “cackle” or “shriek?” The fun thing about writing is that I get to think about words. The English language contains a quarter of a million words, all created from arranging and rearranging the twenty-six letters in the alphabet. Jabbering is just one and I like it. If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share! wrinklybits.com

Cookies and Java

Cookies and Java

Wrinkly Bits A Blog by Gail Cushman Tom and I spent a couple months in Mexico in 1993 because we both needed to learn Spanish and the evening classes at CSI in Twin Falls weren’t quite doing their job. I taught ESL and Tom, as a judge, had a few people standing before him who spoke no English. We both did all the lessons and tried our best to learn Spanish, by having primitive conversations, then congratulating each other on how well we spoke but we did not sound remotely like natives. Neither my students nor Tom’s clients could understand us, so we thought, “Why not go to Mexico to learn to speak Spanish?” It was summer and I was out of school and Tom had vacation coming, so we jumped in our Jeep and traveled to Morelia (near Mexico City) to immerse ourselves in the language and culture. We lived with a lovely family and it seemed like a good way to pass some time, and, who knows? Maybe our trip could be tax deductible! We worked our tails off and at the end of the summer, we could finally speak, read, write, and listen in another language. Bueno! We both felt proud as a newborn pollito. I could almost think in Spanish and even had a dream in Spanish one night, which I thought was the crème de la crème of my bilingual education. Of course, now, since I haven’t practiced in years, I know only the important words: cerveza and bano (beer and bathroom), both of which I need in Mexico, or for that matter, the U. S. A. Fast forward to our newest language challenge…technology. The technology people are really, really smart. They can do all kinds of things that I never dreamed of and I still don’t understand and probably never will. They talk geek and leave me far behind, but what they can’t seem to be able to do is create their own words, new words. They are thieves and steal some of our best words from our normal language. Words like “zip,” a great word, short, has only one vowel, and has a “Z.” It’s one of those perfect words, and already has several meanings, like a fast getaway, or zip your lip (be quiet) or one of my favorites, are you afraid of heights, your zipper is? A cookie, everybody knows what a cookie is, a Girl Scout goodie, but every site I visit these days warns “caution, cookies.” Really? What’s wrong with cookies? And java, I love a good cup of java, but what is this java thing? Couldn’t you leave my cup of joe alone? A chip? C’mon, it’s already a wonderful offshoot of the potato, so, find your own word. The techno folks also use a lot of acronyms, like LAN, and JPEG, and GIF making me think they are too lazy to say the entire phrase or to come up with their own words. I always thought that “ISP” was the Idaho State Police and now it is something else. They’ve also stolen “POP,” which was always a nice name for my dad, and “RAM,” a male sheep, another great word, short and to the point. I doubt anyone will listen, but learning to speak, read, write, or listen in techno terms, is making me crazy. I can’t think or dream in techno, and I am a digital immigrant and proud of it. I’ll never be techno literate and will leave that status to people much younger and smarter than I. All I ask is that you stop stealing my best words to name your techno stuff. Find your own! If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share.

Much Ado About Nothing

Much Ado About Nothing

Much Ado About Nothing This week I had a conversation with JA Jance, a lovely author, who writes terrific mysteries set in Arizona. She’s like royalty in the book world and if you haven’t read some of her novels, try one or sixty. She had never heard of me, not a surprise, and she asked me what I wrote about and I have to admit, I needed to pause and think about it because I don’t know exactly. Someone mentioned recently that my writing reminded them of Seinfeld. Oh, great, nothingness. I love watching his reruns, but he acknowledges they are about nothing. I would enjoy his fame and notoriety, however. So, I decided I should think about my writing subjects a bit, maybe I would get better at my craft. I wake up in the morning and some blog subject rolls out of my brain, and I write it down in my notebook, lest I forget before I have my coffee and toast. Today, my daily agenda included putting up a picture, so my blog brain tossed out the idea of home improvement, but since I couldn’t decide where to put the picture or where the hammer was, I’ll save that blog idea for next week. I glanced back at some of my prior blogs and the concept of nothingness seems accurate. I write about the mundane things that we do, especially as gray-haired geezers (at least that’s me, not necessarily you). Generally speaking, we seniors don’t do a ton that is noteworthy or filled with excitement. I can write a blog about buying hearing aid batteries at the grocery and mishearing what the manager says, but I have to admit that it is beyond boring. It’s a laughable subject but it won’t change the world. Or a story about driving a hundred miles behind a huge semi to eat an egg salad sandwich at the Villages in Florida or making goo-goo eyes at Jethro Gibbs on NCIS. And don’t forget the nude beach at Daytona, okay, maybe that’s an exception. My Wrinkly Bits series is a different story. They are tales about fictional people, Audrey, Griff, and Logan, but they deal with the same issues that real people do, such as loneliness when their long-time friends move away or die and their attempt to convince their adult children that they don’t need to move to a retirement home, they just need their lightbulbs changed on a regular basis. It is actually fun to write about nothing. Few people live in the autobahn’s fast lane, certainly not me nor anyone I know, and it would be difficult to write about it. Writing classes always tell you: write about what you know. The next time I am asked that question, I’ll say, “Easy peasy. I write about nothing.” If you enjoy wrinkly bits, please share.

Where Is It?

Where Is It?

A Blog by Gail Cushman Where Is It? I’ve complained before that I seem to lose everything: my wallet, my glasses, my car keys. I even lose track of the last part of my thoughts as soon as the first half exits my mouth. My poor neighbors play what they think is a fun game and try to fill in what they think I was going to say. And, now, I am losing track of time. I think it’s noon but it’s really nine o’clock. And days seem to fly by or stand still! There is no rhyme or reason. I lost April, it was there and then it wasn’t, and I don’t know where it went. I maintain a calendar to keep me on the straight and narrow, and April’s calendar page has a whole lot of scribbling on it, but other than a couple birthdays, nothing looks familiar. What happened to April? But I do remember this date: May 9. I meant to write about it, but, of course, I forgot because I had more important things to think about, like where I had left my list of blog ideas. May 9 was an especially important day. Both my kids called, and my grandkids texted me. I received flowers, a bottle of red wine, banana-less banana bread, and a new pair of socks. How much better can it get than that? Now you are thinking it was Mother’s Day, which is true, May 9 was Mother’s Day, just check your calendar. I failed at recognizing it on my Wrinkly Bits blog and I want to offer a belated Mother’s Day greeting to the many mothers who read my Wrinkly Bits. I’ve never really understood much about setting aside a particular day in May to honor mothers. In my mind, they should be honored every day, but nobody asked me. May 9 receives a second designation, perhaps even more important than Mother’s Day. For sure, it designates something that frustrates mothers all over the world. But I doubt that anyone received flowers or wine or even a text because of this day. May 9 is Lost Sock Day. Imagine that. A whole day designated to lost socks. I usually wear sandals, so don’t really have a good supply of socks to lose, but I checked and found six singles in my sock drawer, and I’m just one person. Imagine a family of four, twenty-four socks gone, poof, leaving another two dozen mismatched socks to drive mothers to the wine stash. On May 9, between grandchildren’s texts, I spent some time thinking about Lost Socks. They receive a whole designated day on our U.S. calendar of important days, so we should pay attention. I pulled out my single unlost socks and laid them on the bed. I had no idea where the mates are, under my bed, under the dryer, clinging to some other unworn item in my closet. (Remember that I have several sizes of clothing in my closet and those with “S” on the label haven’t seen the light of day in a long time.) My mother, the field marshall, used unlost socks as dusting mittens. My dad used them as rags to wipe grease and grime from his greasy and grimy projects. My brothers didn’t care much about socks, lost or unlost, and I’m sure they had a ready supply tucked away somewhere. I decided to start over and threw away my unlost socks, except for one that I really liked and hoped its mate would reappear and I thought it important keep at least one unlost sock for next year’s Lost Sock Day. I put it back in the drawer and I snagged my watch on something. I sighed, you guessed it, a crowd of single socks, I counted ten. If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share!

Breaking News

Breaking News

A Blog by Gail Cushman Breaking News I have a mantra that I recite every morning as I look in the mirror, wondering who that old person is who is staring back at me. Gray hair and wrinkles and the hardware that sits on my nose and in my ears. My mantra, “Age is just a number,” reassures me that I have a few good years left, although the years are spilling by faster than I ever thought they would. My grandchildren are on the verge of being grown up, one is in the Marine Corps running up and down California hills with a fifty-pound pack on his back, two others are in driver’s ed (my advice is to stay off the sidewalks if you see them coming), and the youngest, well, she’s 13 going on 30. This morning, when I turned on the news, I learned we have new categories of aging. I wasn’t all that happy with the past category of old age starting at 65, so I turned up the volume on the TV and flipped on the closed-caption feature so that I wouldn’t miss anything. It’s good news! Middle-age is now 45 to 65; young-old is 65 to 74; middle-old is 75 to 84 (that’s me); and I will reach the very-old status in ten short years, at age 85. With any luck, the people who determine these guidelines will once again move the goalpost and the very-old status will suddenly be 95. I think there are many things that affect our oldness besides that infernal number, don’t you? Among other things, our health, financial situation, and where we live can make us older or younger, and sometimes those are based on choices we made long ago. Maybe we are stuck, but maybe not? Ponce de Leon searched for the fountain of youth, and decided it was in St. Augustine, Florida, but I spent two months there, and danced in the ocean and drank the St. Augustine water, but my hair stayed gray, and I couldn’t hear any better and I still had creaks and groans. I think it’s a bunch of hooey, although I did find a Walmart where I could have purchased a one-ounce bottle of Fountain of Youth water for a mere $4.95. Maybe I should have spent the money. I think oldness is something else. It has to do with our individual outlook on life, making the best of what we have, and putting our best foot forward. Doing something, anything that makes us happy and puts smiles on our faces. What keeps us young is different for everyone, for me it’s writing Wrinkly Bits and my silly novels. I still have a lot to do, a lot of words that are rattling around in the folds of my brain, anxious to tumble out. My imaginary friends Audrey and Logan, who are both in the middle-old age group, have more adventures to help me write. For me, time is marching on faster than I like, but I’ll keep my fingers on my keyboard, rearranging the twenty-six letters of the alphabet into nonsensical stories until Audrey and Logan leave my brain. If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share!

Watching Jethro Gibbs

Watching Jethro Gibbs

I don’t watch much TV, but I do watch NCIS every week, (my eyes never get tired of watching Mark Harmon, AKA Jethro Gibbs, as he is one fine-looking man). I opened my notebook because I never know when a blog idea will slap me in the face and unfortunately, if I don’t write it down, I forget it. The show’s advertisements began to roll on the tube, and I began idly jotting them down in a list, just for something to do while I’m waiting for the incomparable Jethro Gibbs to reappear and refresh my eyes. Ads flashed on the screen non-stop for a bunch of medical cures, some of which I had never heard of, but they sounded serious, and I wouldn’t wish either the disease or the cure on my worst enemy, if I had one. In the hour-long show, there were twelve medical ads. I watched them carefully, hoping that one of them would offer a cure for my aching right knee, but just my luck, only left-knee medical cures were available. Rats. A couple ads warned, “Don’t use if you are allergic as it could cause death,” which would interrupt my viewing of Jethro and also Tom Selleck, another ooh-la-la senior citizen. I don’t get excited about the twenty-thirty-forty-fifty-sixty something actors, because they are just kids. Damn, I’m old. Interspersed with the medical ads were a bunch of other ads, I counted thirty-three advertisements in the course of an hour, leaving hardly enough time for me to feast my eyes on Jethro. The ads were for everything from toothpaste to pizza to cars. The ice cream advertisement spurred me to jump out of my chair and head to the freezer, but I shook my head at the perfume ad. I had never heard of that particular brand and it might make me sneeze and it sounded pricey. Three banks, a personal finance company, and a credit union, but would I really change my trusted financial institutions based on a smooth-talking actor? The insurance ads made me laugh, but I’ve used the same insurance company for years and when you need insurance, it is no laughing matter. I’ll stick with my tried-and-true insurance agents. What wasn’t advertised struck me, as well because the unhealthy food options outnumbered the healthy. I mean why not try to convince people to choose celery over ice cream or beets over pizza? Now that I think of it, it’s obvious because ice cream and pizza will always win. Jethro rolled back on in the midst of these ads, and I finished watching my show. I swooned as he rolled his eyes and winked at me. Forget the ads, just give me my Mark Harmon and Tom Selleck fixes every week. I can dream, can’t I? If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share!

Feeling Fine

Feeling Fine

I knew I had been missing something and couldn’t figure out what it was. Whatever it was that I was missing always made me feel good and I hadn’t done it in a long time, well, in fact, two years before Tom passed on to greener pastures. My life’s not over, right? I have lots of good years left, well, not as many as I used to have, but all things considered, I think I have a few. Why not? I’m a Marine after all! I considered the options, to do or not to do, and dreamed about it for long time, maybe days. My first problem was that I needed to find someone to do it with. Tom and I did it together, but he’s gone now, and I don’t know many people who might be willing to take his place, even for this one quick romp. My friend told me she and her husband do it every day, sometimes twice a day, which seems like a lot, but then that’s her. She’s younger and has a lot more energy. She sometimes brags about it, which seems a little awkward to me, but it doesn’t bother her a bit. I just remember that it always made me feel really good, and I could use a feel-good moment, or half hour. I know that it was once relaxing and refreshing and filled my energy bucket and perhaps I could include the experience to perk up one of my Wrinkly Bits series’ episodes. My imaginary friends/characters, Audrey and Logan, would probably moan and groan and their outlooks on life would become excited. I could already envision them cuddling up and moments later, leaping into this la-la land of happiness. On Friday, I had lunch with some long-time friends (all female) and they talked about it freely and a couple of these ladies left early so they could go home and do it before dinner. They said they sometimes did it all afternoon. Holy cow. I could see them becoming more energized and animated, just thinking about it. I was getting more excited as time passed. Yes! This was probably what I had been missing. I arrived home to see my lawn maintenance guy mowing and weeding my grass. He looked like he could use some more energy. But he’s a nice man, and I didn’t want to bother him. He probably would enjoy it, but my neighbors might talk, and he probably had a full afternoon anyway. Enough stalling, it was time for action. I’d be feeling fine lickity split. It was finally time to try something I hadn’t in months, I mean years. I went in the house and did what I had been dreaming of. I took a nap. If you enjoy Wrinkly Bits, please share!