My moms gone, my dad's mind is going

After four years you'd think it would have gotten easier to go into their house.  I've hated going into that house since my mother died.  It's more than hate really.  You know the feeling.  Your chest tightens, you can't breath right, you start to sweat.  It's awful and I don't know how to stop it.

And now, with my dad not living there it's even worse.  The walls are bare, bookshelves are barren and the for sale sign is planted firmly in the front lawn. 

This weekend there will be a yard sale, hoping to sell the last bits of furniture that the family hasn't claimed. I feel like a part of me has died all over again.  My moms gone, my dad's mind is going and I just can't seem to get a grip on it all. 

A week before mom died, she had made the decision that it was time.  She had had enough. She was in a nursing home with the hopes of getting strong enough to go home again.  That was not to happen.   With each passing day, she got weaker and weaker and it was then and there she decided it was time for her to go "home".  And within in a week, she did.

When my mother made that decision, she informed the Dr.s that she wanted to go to hospital, they agreed and off she went. 

My husband and I met the ambulance at the emergency room with our granddaughter in tow.  When they brought my mother in on the stretcher, she was lucid but a bit slurred; hurried but not anxious.

Taking my hand, she was trying to tell me something but just couldn't get the right words out. 

She kept repeating the same thing over and over about what she wanted and I just couldn't get it.  And then I finally did.  It was the name of the funeral home where she wanted to be laid out.  At the same time my aunt and uncle arrived who had been visiting with her that day and pulled my husband aside..  They filled him in on my mom's decision that she was done; no more tests, needles or medications.

Knowing this information, needless to say, I burst into tears.  My mom is telling me where to be laid out and now I know why.  With that, she took my hand and asked me if was ok for her to want to stop fighting, to want just finally rest.  What can you say to that?  How selfish can a daughter be?  Should I have said to her to keep fighting for me, to keep living so her family could see her but for her to be miserable and in pain?  Of course not...

I told her it was ok; that I loved her and I put my head on her chest and cried.

For the next several hours in the ER while waiting for a room, family members coming and going, our mother proceeded to tell us while going in and out of lucidity what to have at her wake; make sure your dad doesn't cook, and to please make sure we have chips.  If it wasn't so sad it would have been funny.  This lady was serious.

It was a difficult week to say the least.  Until we could get her into hospice, she was uncomfortable, unable and unwilling to eat and so frail.  Our dad was in denial, wanting her to come home; hoping that she would get well enough too, all the while his health and mental capacities were being tested to the limit. 

When we were finally given the ok to move her to the hospice floor, my sister Susan and my dad, who had been with her all day, took that last elevator ride with her, making sure that she was cleaned and dressed in new pajamas and put in a warm bed.  Exhausted, she took my dad home knowing that the rest of the family would be there soon to continue watching over mom. 

I believe her last words to my sister were "I'm going to miss you girls". Meaning my two sisters and myself.   I hear those words so often in my head.  If she only knew how much she is missed. 

With seven of us at her side that evening and all comfy in her bed hooked up to a morphine, breathing so softly and peacefully for the first time in months she slipped away from us. 

The family members that weren't there were called, as well as dad to come and say their last goodbyes.

Life hasn't been the same since. 

My dad suffers from dementia; it's been coming on for years and getting worse and worse.  Two months ago the decision had to be made by my sisters and me to put him in an assisted living facility.  Although it was the only decision that could be made, it was by far one of the most heart-wrenching things that we have ever done. 

He seems happy enough, although confused and unsure of where he is and who we are.  Once we remind him who we are he remembers, but rarely before.  We might be his cousin or his sister or just one of those nice ladies that come to visit him. 

I miss my dad that used to be. The one that used to make donuts after a home town football game.  The one who made steak and eggs on Christmas morning. The one who taught me how to chop fire wood with an ax. I just really miss my dad.

I know that there is enough of the old dad in there that he misses him too.  That's what hurts the most.  That there is a small piece of him still in there that knows what's going on. 

In the years since our mom has died it has been hard from him.  Living alone in a big house, missing her more and more each year.  Getting frustrated and confused and for a time angrier with each passing day. Disliking anyone we hired to help care for him. Only wanting his daughters to take on the responsibility of his daily needs. Never really being satisfied. 

My dad is a great man who has always been there for me; always.  Maybe not the easiest person to go to but a kind, compassionate man who loved his family more than anything. 

That's where my guilt comes in.  Not only did I hate going into that house because my mother wasn't in it, I hated going there because of what my father had become.  The angry, nasty man that I didn't know anymore. Of course it wasn't my dad's fault that dementia was taking a hold of his mind.  It is a disease for Christ's sakes.  I took everything that poor man said personally.  The hygiene issues weren't something that I could handle easily; but my sisters had to because at different times they lived there due to different circumstances.  One lost her home in Sandy and one works on a cruise ship and lives there when she isn't at sea. Nonetheless, I neglected my duties as a daughter and a sister because I couldn't take it.  I did the bare minimum because one of them was usually living there.  On the occasion when I went for more than an hour or so, and stayed to watch a movie with my dad, something that he loved, I'd leave and have to sit in the driveway and compose myself before I could even drive. 

At my home I'm dealing with PTSD, bipolar, depression, all multiplied by two and all the other ins and outs of life, family and work.  I feel like the rug is about to be pulled out from under me at any give moment.  But then, I take a deep breath and try to get my footing; try to stand straight and firm and go on.  I try to smile all the time, act like all is well with the world. 

I know we all have things in our lives that we carry, mine might be different than others but they are no more trying or stressful; but they are mine and they are no excuse for my inability to handle the death of my mother or my dad's illness.

I alone have to deal with the fact that I dropped the ball with my dad.  I can only hope that I can some day forgive myself and make it up to him. 

There was a time when I prayed that God would take my dad so he would find some peace. 

Now, when I visit him and see him smile, all I want is for him to live a long and restful life so I can continue to have more time with him, even if one day I'm just a nice lady that comes to visit. 

Sex over fifty! Fact or Fiction?

Sex over fifty.  Three wonderful words that women across the globe chant as they get closer and closer to that magic number.

Now, I'm not saying all women can relate to what I am talking about, but enough of you can, and those that can't; well, I'm jealous, pure and simple. 

I had always assumed that once I went through menopause my sex life would go through the roof.  No more worrying about becoming pregnant. Never having to say no because it was "that time" again.  Nope, sex was going to fun, spontaneous and frequent.

I have had numerous fantasies about it.  Now I could seduce my husband on a whim.  Sex before work, sex after work, sex sex sex.  That would be us. It would be no holds barred...  Sex in the kitchen, car, floor; you name it, we would do it. 

Well, maybe not everywhere.  I don't think there is a man alive who could hoist me up onto the kitchen counter like in the movie Fatal Attraction.  Great scene, but, not for this lady.

Our kids would be off living their own lives and we would be alone; ready to let ourselves go and explore the magical wonderful life of sex without restrictions.

I could not wait!!

Oh dear God was I wrong. I am beginning to think that this myth was brought about by older women who were jealous of their younger sisters and didn't want to feel they were being one-upped.  Or, a fantasy to tell the younger girls and then watch them as they neared that age and realized that sex over 50 was something women could only dream about.

Sex, I'm not sure I know how to do it anymore. They say it's like riding a bicycle, you never forget, but I'm not so sure.  56 years old and fumbling around in the bedroom like a naive teenager. 

So when all is said and done, I am by all practical purposes, a virgin again.

What to do, what to do? 

I could seduce my husband saschaing across the bedroom in a sexy-slutty outfit.  I don't own anything like that but I could buy one.

First stop, Fredrick's of Hollywood plus size department.  Does Frederick's have a plus size department.....SHOULD they have a plus sized department? 

Anyway, I would search for that perfect outfit.  One that would make me look thinner than I am, take years off my life and positively guarantee that my husband and I would enjoy hours upon hours of sexual satisfaction and pleasure.

What to buy?

Thong or little shorts.  Decisions decisions.

Neither is a good choice for my particular body type, but when you are trying to be a vixen, you just have to suck it up and go for it.

I could purchase a leotard, but I believe that would be much too much spandex.  Besides the fact that it would take hours trying to stuff myself into them, once my husband tried to take them off of me, the force of my flesh escaping from the elastic could quite possibly kill one of us, or at the very least, take out an eye.

Thongs.  I could certainly put a thong on but I don't think I would ever find it again.  Thong - out.

Little shorts.  With thighs like mine, and ladies you know what I'm talking about, the inside of the shorts would ride up in my crotch while the outside of my shorts would be where they belonged. Not very attractive.  Little shorts - out.

How about a long gown flowing and elegant. I don't think that would work either.  All that material could prove to be hazardous; we could choke to death if we got caught up in all that fabric.

I think I'll go with pajama pants.  I'll use silk; at least that's sexy.

The top.  For sure, it would have to have a build-in bra.  Each breast would need it's own section.  Otherwise, while I was seductively walking across the room to my man, by boobs would be swaying in the wind just beneath the hem of my teddy.  Flapping and swaying breasts does not a happy me make.

Not attractive and down right uncomfortable. 

Pajama top it is.

For decades, I wore high heels to work and out to play in the evening.  Because of this, I have a beautifully deformed foot that will not allow me to wear heels for longer than one second.  Heels, out.

To make things all the more exciting, I guess I could bring toys into the mix, but if you have read my other post about sex toys, you already know that the mere whirring sound of a battery sends me running in fear.  Sex toys, out.

Where does this leave me?  In my pajamas, shuffling across the room in my fluffy slippers to my husband, no toys and no heels and most likely, no sex. 

The only thing left to do is...........

Wake him up.

Happy love making everyone

HURRICANE SANDY

I have always said that things happen for a reason.  I’m almost never sure why they do when it happens, but slowly but surely the true meaning comes to light and I am once again reminded that life can take you on many twists and turns, sometimes scary ones, but eventually, you will find your true path. 

The same can be said about Hurricane Sandy and the week that preceded it.

It was a hectic week which included the good the bad and the ugly.  Matt and I are at a point in our lives where things just might be turning around for us; some of our family is hurting and others are dealing with health issues. 

It was one of those weeks where you didn’t know whether to laugh or cry; run and hide or jump for joy.  All these feelings and emotions swirled inside me like the impending storm that was just on our unforeseen horizon. 

Tropical storm 18; what tropical storm?  I was amazed to hear that there was a slight chance that we might get some sort of repercussions from this storm a week later.  That’s the first I heard of it; about seven days before it hit. 

It seemed that Tropical Storm 18 had the potential to turn into a strong hurricane and head up the east coast.  My first thought, like many others, was that it wouldn’t happen.  New Jersey hadn’t had a hit in years.  Irene, when she hit last year, as bad as she was only hit us as a tropical storm and our area wasn’t hit hard at all, thank God.

No way would this phantom Tropical Storm 18 hit us, let alone nearly head on.

Oh how wrong I was.  The events in my life leading up to this weekend should have forewarned me; but like so many other times, it did not.

As the week went on and 18 turned into Hurricane Sandy, with a storm to our west and an arctic blast to our north, it appeared we just might be in for what the experts had dubbed, Frankinstorm.

With Matt working so many hours, Shayne, my oldest, came over to help us batten down the hatches. 

So, with Shayne and Anthony on the job, I knew if something needed to be done, it would.

Both being Marines you would think that they would have spent a lifetime growing and bonding up until that point.  Not so.  With ten years between them, as much as they loved each other, there was more tension and resentment than anything else. 

The Corp. helped to bring them closer, but still, the divide was great.  I could only hope that in time, that great crevasse would close and they would find in each other what I always knew was there; a strong love and respect for each other that had been buried for too long

The relationship between my husband and Anthony was almost none existent as well before Anthony joined the Corp; through no fault of his own.  My husband lived in a sad and lonely world for a long long time.

Matt found his way when Anthony was half way around the world, fighting for our freedom in Afghanistan.  

As it would turn our, my little Marine would come home with severe PTSD.

When Sandy hit, one of my first thoughts were of my Priorities. Oh how they change. Does my hair and makeup look ok, does this outfit make me look fat, to how will my husband sleep again tonight without his sleep apnea machine; how can we help our youngest son deal with his anxieties, make it through another day without power and relieve his stress a bit.  What can we do for our neighbor or family member who lost part or everything? 

How petty and complaisant we become in our everyday lives that we forget what is truly important.  Believe me, I have my moments.  I realize that I am one of the lucky ones.  I have my roof, possessions, and my family with me. 

So many don’t have that.

So, with the storm over and still no power and the roads un-drivable due to downed wires and trees, we did what we needed to do.

With no tv, phones, computers or video games, we actually conversed with each other.  We played board games, spoke of our dreams for the future and on occasion, of our fears from the past.  In the evenings when the temperature would go down, my boys gathered up all the branches and limbs that we lost during the storm and we had bonfires in the base of our charcoal grill.

We laughed, cried and just enjoyed each other like we have not done in a long time.  At that moment we knew what we had in each other and we cherished it. 

Our daughter and her family are on the other side of town.  They fared well and like us, enjoyed each other’s company without the interference of modern technology.

Along with the aftermath of the storm, my dad collapsed in his home, was taken to hospital and admitted.   The stress of the storm and his aging body gave out for a brief moment it seems.  Rehab after the hospital and then back home. 

Age is not a good friend to my dad and time will tell what my sisters and I can do, and worse yet, what we might have to do to maintain dad’s health and quality of life. 

All these things swirled around before, during and after the storm with so much destruction still left. 

My one sister’s home flooded, with the water on her street thigh high.  Lots of people had the same thing happen I realize that; my sister has been in that home for 30 years.  Never has she seen water anywhere near her home. 

While my one sister was dealing with a flooded home, the flooded home of her daughter and her neighbors business under 10 feet of water, our other sister was thousands of miles away, worried and unable to get in touch with us, but sporadically. 

Now, like countless others her home is torn up, possessions out for the garbage and nothing to do but wait for the next insurance adjuster to come and let her know what she can and can’t do and what is covered and what isn’t.

But through all this, we have our families, our friends and our lives. 

How many people lost everything they had, or worse yet, their lives? 

We were lucky.  We came out unscathed and closer to one and other than we have ever been.  My sons admire, respect and cherish each other, as they do their sister.  This will never change regardless of where they live or how far apart they are from each other.

Whatever happens in my life with Matt; whether or not things change and happen the way we hope or go in the other direction, we have each other and more than ever, appreciate each other.

All those petty differences and bullshit that we see as life changing and all so important are nothing more than distractions from our life.

I can only hope I can hold on to my priorities for a time; and not need another storm to pull me back and make me see what is really important in my life.

 

Breasts, No No's and Heinies

At 56 years old, and three children under my belt I am neither embarrassed nor awkward during my annual spread-eagle exam. I love my Dr, which makes a great deal of difference; and to be blunt, if the nurse or my Dr. see something on me that is different than the thousands of butt, breasts and no no's that they have seen, I'm screwed anyway so who cares.

My gynie is semi retired and only sees us old girls. No more babies for him, nope just us post menopausal beauties.   He wears suspenders with his flannel shirt, always takes time for questions in his office after the exam, and never seems rushed. 

Most of the women I work with go to him and we are forbidding him from retiring completely.  Maybe I should send his wife a note informing her of this decision.

Over the years I have had my share of Gynies tell me I'm fat (Like I really, hadn't noticed) while I was laying naked on that stupid table with my legs swung up over my shoulders.  I'm sorry, but couldn't he wait until I at least closed my legs, or better yet, had my clothes back on.  Why wait till I was in a position that resembled an upside down umbrella holder.  I mean really.  I also had a Dr. tell me that my who who was deep (yup, deep). I was 15 or 16 at the time and at a Planned Parent Hood office.


There he sat, in his catcher's position between my legs (at this age I was mortified and he literally had to pry my knees open with the help of a nurse) and as he was rummaging around in there he proceeded to tell me that I have a "deep one".

What the hell does that mean? Is that good? Is it bad? Should I apply for a movie in the next porn film that comes my way? I have no idea. All I know is that moment I wanted to crawl in a hole and die;  (no pun intended) with my deep one, of course.

My latest exam proved interesting as well.  As my Dr. was starting the examination with the jaws of death as my daughter calls them (explanation to follow) he was having trouble opening my cervix. Now, my breasts started to mutiny years ago. Sagging, swaying and swinging by my waist every time I walk. But my cervix, now this was just too much to handle. I swear he needed forceps to pry that sucker open so he could take what he needed for the test.

When he was finally finished, he assured me all was well; I then assured him it was sealed shut because it had died many many years ago.  Remember the great Kong attempt? Exactly! Need I say more?

OK, back to the jaws of death. When I took my daughter for the first time for her examination, I explained it all to her, except that is, THE JAWS OF DEATH. I can almost hear the theme from Jaws whenever I say that.

She was frightened and unsure, as we all are on our first visit, but I promised her it would be OK and I proceeded to park myself in the waiting room and worry.  This is my child that at the age of 13 was hit with bipolar.  To say this appointment was stressful for both of us is an understatement.

Suffice it to say, the exam went well, but as soon as we got into the car, a look of horror came over her face as she screamed at me "Why didn't you tell me about the jaws of death". I had to be honest, I just didn't think she would go if I had.

Well, my exam is over once again for the year; I'll wait for the result of my pap test and then off I will go to my least favorite of womanly duties as far as our health is concerned. THE MAMMOGRAM!!! da da da daaaaa

I guarantee you that a man invented this machine.  You can bet your ass he would have redesigned it if he had to put his balls in there for a hernia test. 

Once again, I digress.

How such a big mass of flesh can be smashed to within a micro fraction of an inch I will never understand. You would think that the force of the hydraulic crusher would be enough to kill all your nerve endings and your blood vessels. I don't know how it doesn't and to be honest, I don't want to.

I have only looked at the result of the crushing machine once and thought I would faint.  I won't look again.  I can see it now, fainting with my breast clamped between two metal plates.  I would be left limply hanging there making my one boob hang lower than it already does. 

Makes me shudder.

But there again you have to stand there, letting the technician lift, move and manipulate you breast; all the while in the back of your mind you know what is coming.

Hold still, don't breath, this will only take a second. Second my ass. As the firm metal plate descends slowly, all you can do is wait. 

No one told me about this pain when  I first went.  Now I know why; like my daughter and the jaws of death, I would not have gone. Bite me, I'll take my chances.

I have been told that the smaller chested woman feels more pain the the giant tatas that I carry around.  At least with a large breasted woman, there is something to put there. Kind of like a blob of pizza dough slapped down on the counter. 

With a small breasted woman, they have to pull whatever is there and try to smash something, as little as it may be. 

After imagining that, I think I'll stick with what I have; not that I have a choice though do I?

Have I mentioned that I had my first colonoscopy?  I was surprised to find that that was the easiest of all the tests we need to go through as we get older.

I wish I had known that from the start.  I was in an utter state of panic over this test.  Oh, I knew you had to drink this awful stuff that made you go to the bathroom for 12 hours straight and that you could only drink clear liquids.  Bad enough, but I managed to get through that just fine. 

It was how they did that test that scared me, and boy was I wrong about this procedure. 

Had I known that I would be lying flat on my back, covered with a sheet when they put me under I would have gone into that procedure room ready, willing and able. 

But, because I'm and idiot and keep forgetting that fact, I thought that I would be lying on my stomach and that the table would be hinged in the middle.  It was my understanding that the table would be turned on to bend in the middle with my rump rising up like the morning sun. 

I would look like a giant upside down V.  Ass eye level for the Dr. to do his roto rooter magic.  When the procedure was done, I assumed the table would close, leaving me flat on my stomach again.

Talk about being a mess about this.  I mean maybe if I were thin, but to be overweight and have my ass shot up like that was making me crazy. 

Finally, I asked one of the guys I work with about it and he was nice enough to tell me the truth and not lead me on thinking the wrong thing about the procedure.

So, as I lay in wait to be put under, I quietly told the nurse that I was embarrassed due to my weight and she assured me that they were all professionals in the room and that it was a life-saving test; not to worry. 

As the technician started the drip to put me under, I could swear I could hear the faint sound of laughter.  God help me and my imagination.

So, I've lived to have my breasts, crotch and ass all looked at, felt up and probed. 

I'm healthy, happy and cleaned out.

What could be better?

If only I could be that comfortable showing my feet..

Oldies but Goodies

It's been quite a few weeks here at the Santa house.  Tensions and problems within the workings of relationships, health and family members.  Just life I guess.  Who doesn't experience times when it seems that almost everyone in your inner circle is having some kind of turmoil or angst? 

That, along with my mother's birthday coming for the second time since she died in 2009.  It doesn't seem to ever go away.  And with the goings on in our lives right now, I'm convinced that if she were still here, she could make it all better.  My mother could always make things better.  I guess that's what mom's do better than just about anything...

One look or the simple touch of her hand on mine; that's all that was needed sometimes to make all the dark and bad stuff go away; at least for a time anyway.

Mom would have been 93 in June; she had a good long run.  It doesn't make it any easier though, she was my mother pure and simple and although I know that she was ready to go when the time came, I wish I could have just one more minute with her; just one. 

Compound that with the passing of a gentleman I went to school with.  56 year's old.  Much to young to be taken from his family.  I saw him two years ago and although our meeting was brief, I am so thankful that I have that short memory of him.
 

I believe he leaves behind a daughter, grandson and countless family members and friends.

I have not been able to get him off my mind. 

Too close to home maybe.

The memorial service was sad, as they always are.  There were so many people from all different age groups and backgrounds.  You never really know what a small world it is until you see just how many lives one person has touched.  What a legacy; to have meant so much to so many in so many different ways.


It was a very odd day.  Along with the condolences and words of comfort to the family, it was also like a mini class reunion only profoundly sad with guilty smiles passing over people's faces every time someone forgot for a moment why we were there and dared to share a funny story or laugh nervously.

Phrases like "I can't believe he was so young" while in the back of our minds it was, "we are so young, how could this happen; to one of us?" 

For quite a while I just watched his mother greet people with a dignity and poise that I found strengthening. 

I hope that she found some comfort in knowing that so many people loved her son.  You shouldn't have to bury a child; it's that simple.


I don't think I will ever get used to funerals.  At least I hope I don't.... 

Anyway.

Things seem to creep up on you, and then all at once your plate is full once again and you have no recourse but to begin that slow crawl into depression and helplessness.  Extreme, maybe; but the feelings are there and they scare the hell out of me sometimes.

With all these things swirling around in my mind, I have been struggling with what to blog about for weeks.  I started at least four different blogs, a different subject each time, always starting off with a bang and then the dreaded white pages.  Nothing.  Nothing funny, sad , silly or profound.  I was completely blocked.  What an awful feeling.

Now granted, I realize I'm not writing for the masses and the world as we know it is not going to stop revolving if I don't post, but I am happy to say that people look forward to my writing, thus more stress.  But, that alone makes it worthwhile for me to push ahead and just keep trying. 

It was because of my feeling down and my husband not knowing what to do to cheer me up, he suggested that we go to our local pub to listen to a group that we like to see whenever they are in our little town. 

Oldies but goodies; you can't get any better than that.

So, off we go in 100 degree heat to have a few drinks and hopefully just decompress for an hour or two.

When we got there, I still had work, problems and thoughts of my families struggles on my mind.

I wasn't expecting a miracle, just a cold beer and some time to clear my head. 

It's funny, when you least expect something to happen that's when it does.   As the music started to play to a half full bar, I was almost immediately taken back years, to a place and time that hold cherished memories for me. 

I sat there, eyes closed while a veil slowly and very gently covered me creating a feeling of complete calm.  In that instant I was on the beach, a 13 year old with my girl friends; giggling and laughing because we knew that "the boys" would be there soon.  We would, of course, be shy and coy and silly hoping that one of them would ask us to take a walk on the jetty, play in the arcade or just sit on the beach and watch the surf.  We would talk about anything and everything from dances to clothes to parents.  We knew it all at that age and we loved life.

As Harry and Billy played DO YOU BELIEVE IN MAGIC I wasn't in that bar anymore, I was back where it was safe and I was taken care of.  I wasn't responsible for anything or anyone but myself.  My parent's took care of all the rest.  No worries.

For me, music is so beyond therapeutic.  It's like sweet lover whose only thought is to comfort and heal. 

Growing up, music was played all the time in our house.  Classical, opera and show tunes; and Johnny Cash of course.  Memories of my parents loving and sharing their passion of music with us has had a lasting effect on me, as my out of body experience at the bar proved.

My worries, fears and anxieties just drained off me like sweat on a hot summer day.  I was liberated of any thoughts that I had had just moments before.  The longer they played, the farther away from the present I got.  It was wonderful; I didn't want to come back.

I didn't realize it when I was younger, I don't think any of us do, but now, I'd give anything to go back.  To experience my youth with the knowledge of what I know now.  Nothing would be taken for granted as we as kids tend to do.

But you can't can you?  You just have to take every day as it comes and just keep going.  You need to remember that you are loved and that you aren't alone, not really. 

I am very fortunate.  I have a family that loves me.  I have friends that most people can only hope to have.  I'm loved and I know it and I am so grateful for that. 

Still, there are times in every one's life when they feel isolated, with no one to turn too.  That's when music is my only recourse.

Dramatic?  Maybe a bit. It's just been that kind of a month I guess.  I keep going, keep surviving and keep hoping that things will get better, that the people that I love will be OK and that all will be well with the world. 

When I feel the need to escape again, I know all I have to do is listen to music and I'll be taken away, even if it's just for the duration of song. 

But that's OK too.  You have to be alive to hurt, to feel sad and to grieve. 

And for that, I am so very grateful.

Tattoos, sluts and flubber

Tattoos. The forbidden fruit of the art world. The underworld of respectable society. 

No decent, God-fearing person should or would have a tattoo. Tattoos are for the easy, wanton, unbridled people of the earth.

Slutty women and low-life men. WRONG!!!!!!

You might not like tattoos, but don't judge those who do.  Lovers of tattoos are a diverse group of men and women who transverse the shackles of race, religion and economical bindings.  An expression of one's inner thoughts and dreams.


My husband has two, my son's have them as does my daughter and daughter-in-law.  Need I say more?


It's my turn.  I want a tattoo dammit.  I've wanted one for years now but my stupid stereotyping wouldn't let me even consider thinking about it.  In my mind, if you are fat you shouldn't get a tattoo, it's that simple. 


Tattoos were for the svelte, sexy woman and the hulking, tan stud.  I am neither of these, nor have I ever been. 


Fat women with dirty feet (in flips of course), permed hair (which makes them look like they have a pin head) and stained shirts that are too short for the bulging stomachs should never ever get ink.


Giant biker women from hell.  Could be the name of a horror film, but that's what I think of when I envision me with a tattoo. 


Now, I don't have a perm and I rarely, if ever expose my feet, which by the way are clean.  I might have a bulging stomach but I never wear shirts too short, lest the bulge escapes.  Very embarrassing.


BUT, for me just being overweight was enough of a reason for me not to get one. 


Until now that is.

A friend of mine is a tattoo artist and she will be doing the honor for me in about a year on her next trip east.  It will be like deflowering a virgin in some ways. 

I'm thinking wine and mood music.

I have one year to find the perfect tattoo to compliment my frame AND to prepare for the pain which I am sure I am going to endure.


My youngest son has informed me that I am going to cry like a baby.  He is probably right.


The next big decision; what to get permanently etched in my skin?


There are so many kinds of tattoos that I can pick from I'm not even sure where to start.


Tribal bands are popular.  Hmmmm, maybe not, I don't think there is enough ink in a tattoo gun to go around my guns let alone how a tattoo artist could work with such a gelatinous mass of ever moving flesh.


Visual alert; my arms are so giggly that I would think a tribal band would look more like a rubber band, stretching and ever changing its shape as my arm blub moved in the wind.


So, tribal band - OUT.


Tramp stamps.  My youngest son as forbidden me to get one; period.  Not that I wanted one anyway.  I wouldn't be able to find anything that would go there.  You see, if you haven't already guessed, I'm a big girl.  For something to go in that particular spot, it would have to be huge in size. 


I love birds, so I guess I could have the Wandering Albatross tattooed in full flight on my rump.  Head raised, of course, lest it look like he is flying right down my pants.  The Wandering Albatross have a wing span of 11 feet so I think that just might work.  But, my son won't allow that so back to the drawing board.


Tramp stamp - OUT


A tall ship tattooed on my chest would resemble a ship in heavy seas.  Nope, too big for my first tattoo. 


Since it is predetermined that I'm gong to cry like a baby, I definitely need to think smaller. 


I don't want one on my foot, she might actually see my toes while tattooing; can't have that.  Wrists would hurt too much.  Face, no, that's out.  Buttock, (heheheh that work makes me laugh. I am so immature)  That will never happen. 


What's left?  My upper back/shoulder. 


What can I put there to show who I am and what I'm all about?  I need something that will speak to me and that I will never tire of.


Cheeseburger, no.  Wine glass and cheese spread; I don't think so.  Beer bottles stacked in a neat pyramid.  Nope.  I think that food and beverages are definitely out.


But what???


I GOT IT!!!!  I love fairy's, unicorns, wizards and anything and everything to do with the magical world of make believe.  Make believe, pretty much where my mind is most of the time anyway.


A fairy, that's what it has to be.  She will be beautiful, muted in color and almost shy in her nature.  It will be the perfect tattoo in the perfect size for me. 


I'll be so seductive when it's finally done.  My life will change because of this work of art that will be displayed on my body.  I'm actually shivering with anticipation.


I can see it now............


Picture it, I'm sitting in a dimly lit bar with cigarette smoke eerily swirling around me. ( I know you can't smoke in bars but this is my fantasy so zip it)  I'll be in black 4" heels, tight jeans which will be complimented by an off-the-shoulder blouse; long silver earrings with my hair in waves framing my face. 


My tattoo will be there, in all its glory just waiting for the wandering eyes of a man, any man to see. 


Soon, our eyes will lock, he'll approach me with lust in his heart; his gaze darting between my eyes and my tattoo, but never losing focus. 


Slowly he will walk confidently across the room, never taking his eyes off of me. No one else exists except the two of us as this meeting is unfolding.


When he finally reaches me, his hand will ever so gently touch my shoulder.  It will be at that precise moment that the haze is swept away, the smoky bar room will vanish and I'll once again be slammed back to reality; my reality.


In a flash my fantasy was over. 


Shit, if I'm going to dream like that just thinking about getting a tat, I should have gotten one years ago.  Sign me up bubba and break out the needles.


Suffice it to say, I'm ready. 

Cougars, Pumas and Mammoths

Well, I've said it before and I'll say it again; my body is continuing in full-mutiny mode the older I get.  I just turned 56 and I look more and more like a melting, drippy candle than a women in her prime.  Not only is my weight loss causing my skin to sag, but age and gravity are no less forgiving.


I have always been blessed with good skin; my problem now is that there is too much of it.  I actually have jowls;  I resemble my bull dog Teddy.  If I could just pull back that skin I don't think I would look so bad.  Maybe I could staple it behind my ears or wear a special kind of chin strap, you know, one with a bow; just for special occasions that is. 

My arms; that's an entirely different story.  When I wear short sleeves I resemble what Popeye's arms might look like at the age of 100, you know what I mean.  Just above the elbow where it juts out and then drastically juts back in. It's unnatural how the fat flow proceeds down ones arm.  Awful.  If I have on a short-sleeve shirt and get caught in a good wind, I could literally take off.

Lovemaking is another issue entirely.

As Dorothy once said in an episode of The Golden Girls, "ladies, when you make love to a man, always lay on your back, otherwise your face flab hags over"  She was right.  Not only does it make your face look like a Shar-Pei, but its what happens to your breasts that is even worse.  

If you are a large breasted woman in your fifties, you know exactly what I'm talking about. The shape that they take on when you are on top, sensuously leaning over your man, can only be described as what a Italian sausage might look like coming out of a stuffing machine that has suffered a catastrophic malfunction while pushing the meat into the skins. 

And girls, it isn't much better on your back. 

I don't know about you, but when I lay on my back, my breasts completely disappear around the sides of my body and the skin on my face lays back towards my ears. I swear you could tie it in a knot behind my head.  The only good part about this position is that my stomach, although still large, lays flatter. 

I am reminded of Jabba the Hut.

Getting up from this position while with a man can be tricky ladies.  If you move to fast, your skin will reverberate at such a speed as to cause your lover to think your trying to do some sort of erotic dance that unfortunately has gone completely wrong.

Wiggle, jiggle and roll ladies.

I wonder if men distress about their bodies the way women do?  Could it be possible that men are just as self-conscience as we are?  Do men worry about their ever-expanding waistlines? 

I have never heard a man ask if an outfit made his butt look big or if a certain color or style suited him better.  Do they go to the bathroom before lovemaking and dissect what they look like, hoping the their partner won't see their imperfections?

I doubt it.  This is the species that will fart and push your head under the covers or look at you with longing in their eyes while scratching their balls.  I have no doubt that they could give a rats ass about their bodies in bed; which I think, is a good thing. 

If only I could be so confident. 

What am I getting at?  My point to this full-body dissection is this.  What the hell are we at this age and how do women find the confidence to date.

I realize that I am not in the dating circuit, but the thought does frighten me as to what if?

Are we cougars?  I know I'm not if Courtney Cox is the definition.  I can't imagine myself ever being compared to a cat, of any kind.  I have never once been in a bar, or anywhere for that matter, and had a young stud come up to me to confess his unbridled passion and desire for me, even though he doesn't know me at all.

Isn't that what men do when they think you are a cougar?  What's the point of being a hot, older woman if men aren't going to approach you and shower you with compliments before making hot passionate love to you? 

I will say this though, once when I was in my twenties, out and about at a bar with friends, I had an older man (40s), i was in my late 20s, come up to me and tell me I was the second prettiest girl in the bar.  I was so flattered by this second place prize, for a contest I didn't even know I had entered, that I blushed and giggled for the rest of the night. 

I was actually flattered that a random man felt the need to tell me my looks met with his approval, albeit second place.  I really need to set some higher standards for myself.

As stated in a previous blog, I also had a man tell me my lips were the best he had ever seen and wanted to touch them with his finger; after he dipped it ever so seductively in his white wine.  This was also the year a fisherman approached me in the convenience store where I worked and told me exactly what my lips would be good for. 

Lord save me now.......

I draw them in, that's for sure.  Can't I ever just once have a sex God of a man approach me and want me above all else?  I wouldn't go, but it would be nice to be desired by someone who could have anyone he wanted, but chose me, the cougar. 

All aboard for Fantasy Island.....

Puma or Panther? Doubt it; I can't slink, let alone pounce around anything let alone a bedroom and my skin color leans more towards fish-belly white than the beautiful blue-black of a panther. 

No, I think I lean more towards the Woolly Mammoth, especially when I don't shave as often as I should.   

I know, I know, we must all love our bodies at each stage of life.  Blah I say.  I know that's true, but for me, all I can say is thank God I'm not in the dating scene.

First off, what the hell would you talk about?  What pills you take every day?  How long it takes you to walk up-right when standing cause your joints have locked up? How many times you get up in a single night to pee? 

You could always compare what specialists you each go to; how many times and of course, how many procedures you have had. 

What a lovely conversation that would be over drinks. 

Second, I would never take my clothes off,ever.  I don't think that I could drink enough wine for me to be comfortable disrobing in front of someone other than my husband; who has had the pleasure of watching over the years as my body has morphed into the gelatinous mass that it is today.

Can you imagine disrobing in front of your new-found lover only to have him laugh or excuse himself to the bathroom, bolt out the front door never to call you again?  Fate worse than death I tell you.

I realize that men get out of shape as they grow older also; it just doesn't seem to matter as much.  Have you ever seen a fat guy criticizing an overweight woman, or drooling over a beautiful woman he might see in passing, absolutely sure that she would want him if he approached her?

Clueless.


Anyway, all I know is that I would love nothing more than to love my body, as it is and to be proud of the way I have aged.  To be happy even though no one has labeled me as a sex goddess or sensual cat. 

I can only hope.

Until then I'll just have to settle for looking like a human candle.  I could always put a wick on my head and rent myself out during the holidays; plant myself on someones front lawn and light it up. 

Well, maybe not.....