One Thousand, Eight Hundred and Twenty Five

I’ve just finished watching Julie and Julia (again). It occurred to me that success seems to be achieved while you’re busy doing something else. At least, that is what I gleaned from the movie, which must be why I liked Forest Gump and Oh Brother, Where Art Thou, so much.

That happens to be my most treasured fantasy you know, when success literally smacks you in the back of the head while you’re frantically trying to make something else work. So, here is a young woman who sets a goal for herself to prepare all of Julia’s French recipes within a year. I’ll be darned if she didn’t do it too, not to mention finishing the book and having it turned into a movie.

Well, I thought, I’m a frustrated writer, musician, artist, chef, ice skater, ballroom dancer, gardener, poker player, horse trainer, and knitter. Maybe that is what the problem is. I’m just not focused enough. Maybe I should just pick something and jump in with both feet. After all, it’s the perfect time of year to set a goal. Right?

I just made a list of my partially developed hobbies. I realized that I have been playing the guitar for the last thirty-five years and have never advanced further than, The Puppy Song. I don’t think I have enough time left to master it.

I rendered portraits a couple of decades ago and turned myself inside out to please people and get their images young enough, having the right style and quantity of hair, and with attractive noses and teeth. I felt like a cosmetic surgeon. Sigh.

My mother wanted me to skate in the chorus line of the Ice Capades. Even with the bar lowered, my Axel jump was a disaster.

I’m an Arthur Murray dropout, my garden was eaten by enormous green bugs, and I don’t have the energy to turn a saddle sore into a callus again. Yes, you do have to grow a callus on your tailbone to ride a horse.

I don’t think my tater-tot, lima bean casserole will make it into a cookbook.

Since it was mentioned in the movie that Julie thought she had A.D.D. (Perhaps I do too, ya’ think?) and that was the reason she never finished her novel.

I thought, as an intensely focused hobby, I might collect five thoughts per day from those suffering from A.D.D. If we start tomorrow, by the end of 2012, I will have collected one thousand, eight hundred and twenty-five thoughts. That’s a very impressive thought collection, don't you think? Of course, if you submit a thought, that would mean you are granting me permission to use it. Incomplete thoughts are welcome and the more humorous, the better. Keep it clean and original. If you use someone else’s thought, give ‘em credit.

Come on, don’t suffer with your A.D.D. Maybe if we have fun with it, the spell will be broken and A.D.D. will become nothing more than an unpleasant partial memory. Since it is more fun to participate in a group, I will expect everyone to pull their own A.D.D. weight.

Comments are welcome….uh….now...wait...what was the topic?

What, Me Worry?

Growing up, I learned many valuable things from my mother. Things like, the television gets really clear just before it blows up and if you swallow a fingernail it will puncture your intestines and never eat a banana before going to bed. The most beneficial piece of advice though, has carried me through most of my life; always expect the worst and you’ll never be disappointed.

I like to look up the meaning of words, it's kind of a hobby of mine, not to mention that knowing the meaning of words comes in quite handy if you're a writer. I looked up the word, 'worry', and this is what I found:

wor·ry
   [wur-ee, wuhr-ee]
1.to torment oneself with or suffer from disturbing thoughts; fret.
2.to move with effort: an old car worrying uphill.
3.to torment with cares, anxieties, etc.; trouble; plague.
4.to seize, especially by the throat, with the teeth and shake or mangle, as one animal does another.
5.to harass by repeated biting, snapping, etc.

I just realized that this adds a whole new experience update to my mother's Linked-in profile, if she had one, and if she were alive.

Of course, there are things that have to be taught by example, words just aren’t enough. There is an art to worrying that has been developed primarily for aesthetics rather than utility. Hands must be wrung dramatically. My mother had brick-red knuckles. I have tried, but have never been able to achieve the same shade although I’m happy with my current skin tone which borders on unripe watermelon.

Crossing oneself is helpful if of the Catholic religion. I have crossed myself just to see what it is like but I’m not Catholic so it doesn’t count, but when the back of the hand is pressed to the forehead coupled with a facial grimace immediately following the cross, the effect can be fantastic. This stance is usually to induce guilt in others but can also foster compassion. If however someone tries to reassure the worrier, they may receive a look that suggests something bad is going to happen to them. Pacing can be effective but only if done while muttering.

“You’re always the one who gets hurt,” has stuck with me since childhood. Funny, it sure seemed that way as I was growing up. I realize now that probably all children get hair brushes tangled in their hair and have to have them cut out, and have been knocked down by a stray dog leaping through a screen door or written about in the medical journal of 1968 because of complications following a tonsillectomy, and I’m sure there are plenty of kids who have been run over by the family car.

If you don’t tell someone to drive safely, or be careful, they will be in a horrible accident. I don’t know what the statistics are on this, in fact, I don’t know what the statics are on a lot of things but, “they say,” by not cautioning someone before they set out may cause them to become unstable and make poor choices. I don’t take any chances, I tell loved ones to be careful. It always makes my mailman smile.

If you don’t tell someone you worry about them, you will be in a horrible accident. I think my mother confused love with worry. If she didn’t worry about you, she didn’t love you. If she didn’t love you, she didn’t worry about you. It made sense to her.

I’m still not sure if anything bad will happen if I eat a banana before going to bed but I don’t intend to find out.

Experiencing The A.S.S.

Germany has developed a unique device, actually a suit, which is an, Age Simulator System, or ASS for those who enjoy acronyms. It is thought that this suit will help young designers of electrical appliances, cars and medical equipment improve designs by being made aware of the specific difficulties of those in their autumn years. God forbid we say the ‘O’ word. Old, old, old, old…there, I said it, thrice.

The suit has weights sewn in at various points to simulate heaviness, built-in ear muffs to decrease hearing and the helmet has a visor that restricts the line of vision and wraps it in a dull yellowish tinge. A quote from one of the first to try the suit was, “Just crossing the street was an adventure, sitting down on a bench was a pain and getting up was exhausting.” A twenty-three-year-old explained that the joints in the suit deliberately stiffened, preventing her from getting her leg over a bike. Yet another said he fumbled around in pain as he reached for his wallet, with the gloves pricking his hands at every moment. I’ll bet they were happy to have their ASS fall off. The price of this suit wasn’t mentioned, but I’m sure with all the features mentioned, it’s not cheap.

Why is it so important for us to know what it feels like to be old? How would experiencing ten minutes in any kind of simulation help us to be kinder people? Shouldn’t we be kind and make things easier just because we should?

I think the ASS was developed so we won’t be afraid to grow old…to die. We will you know, grow old before we die, if we are lucky. There are ways to know what it feels like to be old without spending vast amounts of money. Here are a few exercises that I guarantee will simulate the natural aging process.

Go to the nearest sleep gallery, jump up on the bed closest to you and try to prance around the room by jumping from bed to bed. Be sure to keep your knees bent when crossing over the water beds. Two times around the room should give you a good idea of what arthritis in the knee joints feels like.

Next time you’re at a Grand Opening, stare into the spotlight they have roving the sky. I would suggest a good thirty minutes as the perfect amount of time to experience the reduced vision associated with cataracts.

Drink several 32 oz. beverages, but don’t go to the bathroom. Go to a comedy show. This will simulate incontinence, believe me.

Ask a friend to stand behind you, place an air horn against the back of your head, and blow it for one full minute. If performed correctly, this will replicate the major hearing loss that most elderly people experience. It may take some time to recover from this test, be patient.

Fill a large wading pool with water. Run as fast as you can through the water several times around the circumference. Be sure to wear rubber sole deck shoes. This test is for experiencing the feeling one gets from standing up too quickly. If you fall, you may hit your head on a sprinkler head and that would be the self-induced coma simulator for those who are curious as to what that feels like.

Let’s not be afraid of the natural wearing out process. Thumb your nose at death, go ahead, it is fun. I have laughed in the face of death (even after eating garlic), had brushes with him, flirted with him and even gone so far as to give him a lap dance. See? I’m okay.

The only thing that really bothers me about aging is that I seem to be shrinking and I have more weight to lose than I originally thought.

Third Eye Lasik

I have been made painfully aware of my much-too-concerned attitude about my physical body and social conformity. Just the other day, I was having lunch in a local café when I looked up and noticed a man was staring at me. The strange thing was that he was not looking at me through the two holes in his face that we know as eyes. He was actually gawking at me through his third eye! As if that wasn’t enough, I clearly heard his thoughts inside my own head. He was telling me that I was mentally unsteady, lacked focus and had a dread fear of amnesia. He screamed for me to just forget about what I can’t remember. I was so offended that I flicked a forkful of cole slaw at him, targeting his brow area. It worked. His spiritual vision was blocked. The café manager quickly escorted me out, but I managed to yell at the smarmy, third-eye peeping Tom, that he should have more respect for the chakra handicapped. I’m just glad I stopped him before his inner eye revealed my fear of being evaluated negatively in social situations.

It is common knowledge that we have physical and non-physical senses. Of course, I have a very strong fifth sense about these things, but activating my third-eye or what some call, the brow chakra, has been a very arduous task. I have tried gazing into the flame of a candle for an hour or two, calming my thoughts, watching my cat’s eyes to establish a meditative state and even staring at my face in the bathroom mirror for prolonged periods. It was hard to keep a straight face during this exercise, and giggling interfered with my inner peace. I felt superior when I noticed that my reflection blinked first and reveled in the victory until I realized that my ego was becoming much too involved and turned the session into an undesirable competition.

It was this state that brought me to Swami Kapesh Kumar. I found his ad in the personals while searching for my soul mate. Swami Kumar has perfected a surgical procedure as an alternative to activating the third eye by means of meditation. It involves the use of a ball-peen hammer. With one swift, forceful and nearly painless tap, he is able to dislodge the third eye from its lazy status and instantly create a glittering star-studded aura.

The giddiness usually wears off within an hour after awakening, and is followed by an overwhelming sense of well-being. The only drawback is the red dot located just above the bridge of the nose. He says it should fade in time. I’ve seen this dot on middle-eastern women before, but I had no idea it was the result of third-eye lasik surgery.

You'll Tide

So…here we are again. The time of year that happens like clockwork but always manages to take me by surprise. The season spirit drives us to the malls, to the kitchen and festive gatherings. The only place it ever drove me is crazy. Though we are reminded, it is time to renew our faith; we mustn’t forget to renew our Visa and Master cards too. As if my credit cards aren’t still wheezing from last year.

Time to get out the nutcrackers…the cards, the bubble lights, flicker flame lights, LED Christmas lights, angels, nativity scenes, ornaments, cinnamon-scented pine cones, kneeling Santa collections, the holiday-decorated spin shades for the lamps, garlands, fairies and stockings.

By the way, I found out how this silly, hang a stocking on the fireplace mantle idea came about. It turns out that St. Nicholas passing by the homes of maidens too poor to afford a dowry, money that a bride gives to her groom for her wedding. (I always wondered what that big, huge, humongous, honkin’ wad of money I gave my ex was called). Anyway, he would throw gold coins down the chimneys where they would fall into stockings which were hung over the fire to dry. Heh. Yeah, right.

Actually, I don’t have to decorate at all. A couple of my neighbors have been involved in a decorating competition for some time now. By December 15th, it’ll look like Christmas threw up right here in my little cul-de-sac.

Stocking stuffers used to be candy, fruit, small toys, those Chinese finger traps, and if you were a complete bad ass, a lump of coal. The other day I read an article that had a list of suggestions for stocking stuffers. They included, a digital picture frame ($199.), comfort slippers ($50.), portable GPS system ($399.), wireless stock market tracker ($85.), motorized grill cleaning brush ($30.), electronic recipe guide ($25.). GEESH! DOESN’T ANYONE LIKE FRUIT ANYMORE???

I even found a website that is selling an adopt a vine for one year. A perfect gift for any wine lover. You get a welcome letter, a booklet about wine, a personalized pen and a vine adoption certificate. The vine is located at a famous British vineyard. Upon registration, you get a map and directions to the vineyard and a certificate that entitles you to a free tour and wine tasting.

I have a better idea. What about an adopt a flat-screen tv for a year? The perfect gift for any television lover. You would receive a copy of the owner's manuel, a personalized remote, a bunch of information about the history of television, and one full day of movies and two special events...booked in advance, of course. Just send a check for $300. payable to me, and I'll see that you receive your gift package before Christmas.

Sadly, it’s gone beyond commercial at this point and I wouldn’t be surprised if people will start registering for their Christmas gifts and try to get you to believe it will relieve you of the stress of making a decision. If that’s the case, I’ll tell you where I’m registered right now, Longo Lexus, Tiffany & Company, Countrywide Mortgage, Princess Cruises and Ramsgate Yacht Sales.

Yeah, and lets don't forget to cram our faces with candy, pie, turkey, stuffing and those green beans soaked in mushroom soup. I considered taking a class from a well-known chocolate and patisserie school to make Petit Fours, but then I realized I hadn’t taken the prerequisites…Petit Ones, Twos and Threes. Incidentally, if you’re wondering what to do with that fruitcake that no one wants, they make a great floatation device.

This year, I think I will just enjoy a life size snowman, positioned in the middle of my front lawn and fashioned like a caganer.

A Moment of Truth

I’ve always prided myself on being an honest person, for the most part. I mean, there are those little white lies you tell, “sorry I’m late, I forgot about the time change and didn’t set my clock,” or, “my, that dress makes you look ten pounds lighter.” I like to think of it as being thrifty with the truth. Whatever.

Speaking of being pounds lighter, I was notified that I would need to report to the DMV, to renew my driver’s license. I was a little perturbed by this, because they had been renewing it through the mail for twelve years. I was perfectly content with keeping that particular photo, no matter how old I had become.

So, after waiting over an hour in a long line, listening to sighs and complaints, I reached the clerk at the counter. She looked at my application and asked, “Is all of your information the same?”
I was about to say yes, but some unseen force commanded me to say, “No.”
She looked up. “What has changed?”
“My weight.” I hadn’t changed the weight from the time I applied for my very first driver’s license, at age sixteen. My license claimed I was a lithe, one hundred and fifteen pounds. I figured if I ever had an accident, they would be looking all over for me, underneath the fat woman.

She blinked, and then stared at me, as if I were about a half-bubble off plumb, for admitting to such a thing. “What weight should I put down for you?”
“145.” I lied again! I had actually topped my single birth maternity weight, and was pushing for twins. Of course, if the DMV were smart, they would have a scale with a billboard-size display. You would be fined for every pound exceeded on your driver’s license. Not to mention, everyone in the building could see what you weigh. It sure would take care of the state’s financial deficit. And obesity would be a thing of the past.

She wrote down my answer and sent me over for another picture. I’ve always wondered why they don’t offer finger-size peanut butter sandwiches before they take the shot. This way, when you’re sucking in your cheeks and using your tongue to scrape the peanut butter off the roof of your mouth, they could get an even more attractive photo than they already do.

Know what’s ironic? My doctor finally convinced me to lose weight by threatening me with cholesterol medication. So, now I’m down to one hundred and twenty pounds. That’s only five pounds away from the original weight on my license. Just goes to show, you should let sleeping dogs lie.

Don't Contaminate The Crash Site!

Have you ever had a computer crash? Well, let me tell you, from my own experience it isn’t pretty. I must say though, I now know more about what not to do than what to do in a computer emergency.

I know I won’t perform CPU on my CPU (central processing unit)… ever again. Yelling at a computer will give you a whole new category in feelings of powerlessness. Watching as data slips away can be a frightening encounter but hitting the keyboard will do nothing more than tip over your bowl of corn chowder. By the way, it is impossible to blow corn chowder out of a computer keyboard. It was at that exact moment that the tower began to grind and squeal. It must have been the sound of the head whatchamacallit ramming into the spinning serving platter that stores stuff. After my tenth attempt at rebooting, I must have caused more damage. At least, that is what Franklin, my computer doctor said. My visit went something like this:

Franklin: Can you describe what was happening when your computer broke down?

Me: I had just finished talking on the phone to my friend, Rita about her overactive bladder. She says her bladder muscles contract inappropriately if you can believe that. Her doctor wants to put her on an antidepressant to paralyze the muscles but the side effects are scary. Blurred vision, dizziness, dry mouth, fatigue, nausea, insomnia…I think I’d rather pee my pants.

Franklin: I mean, what was your computer doing when it stopped operating?

Me: Oh, well I went to look up the website for the bladder foundation. I remember reading that you could remedy an ailing bladder with pelvic floor exercises. I think she should also consider a holistic approach and start taking Butterbur supplements.
I laughed. That reminds me of Barliman Butterbur, you know, the owner of Inn of the Prancing Pony in Lord of the Rings?

Franklin: Then what did you do?

Me: When?

Franklin: When you searched the website.

Me: Oh yeah. Everything froze…even my mouse.

Franklin: And then?

Me: After turning the damn thing off, I rattled off cuss words until I completely ran out. Finally, I said a prayer and then anointed it.

Franklin: With what?

Me: Well, I didn’t think oil would be good for it and I didn’t have any holy water so I spit on it.

Franklin: So, you committed violence against your computer.

Me: Oh, for God’s sake. Are you going to turn me in? Can’t you help me find the little black box that explains why the crash happened?

Franklin: This isn’t a plane crash.

Me: Okay, what about checking with the Sacred Hall of Computer Records or a scanning device of some kind?

Franklin: There is no sacred hall, there are no special tricks to research what led up to the crash unless I can look at it, and the only records for your computer would be inside it.

Me: So, it’s like a really big brain with information stored in different areas?

Franklin: Baby Brain.

Me: Excuse me?

Franklin: I’m assuming you are using a desktop PC.

Me: Well, it’s sitting on my desk, yes.

Franklin: Baby Brain.

I felt my chest tighten and my lower lip began to quiver.

Me: I feel like I’m locked in a big dark box and the directions for getting out are written on the outside. What I need is for you to read them to me, loud and clear in language that a five-year-old child could understand.

Franklin: My five-year-old daughter would have diagnosed the problem and had the computer up and running by now.

It took me a few moments to compose myself.

Me: Alright, Franklin, I’m going to draw a chalk line around this disaster. You just get over here and charge me your $100 an hour. But you better install an airbag because I’m never going to go through another crash like this again.

Merry Christmas To All, Especially All Those Polite.

Black Friday. Recent acts of violence while shopping may cause us to look at Christmas in a new way, especially those whom have fallen victim of pepper spray. There is an answer to this dilemma. Shoppers who have been sprayed will need to tap into their inner eye of faith where no spice can blind it. The eye of faith can lead to perfect parking spots, 75% off linens, 40% off on Oscar de la Renta Sweaters and don’t forget to pick up a pair of Macy’s Rampage Boots for $19.99, they will come in handy for next year’s Black Friday, unless the world ends on December 21st, in which case none of this will matter.

What if the overall faith in Christmas has been seriously compromised? We could choose to remember that even though it may be a holiday intended to bring families and friends together with seasonal food and drink, dancing, games, and a festive generosity of spirit or we may just need to heed the warning and prepare ourselves for those must-have items.

If you insist on using pepper spray to eliminate the competition, be sure it is organic. Halogenated hydrocarbons can cause severe allergic reactions. Asthmatics suffer more and exposure can cause a violent, allergic, life-threatening reaction known as anaphylactic shock. So, for God’s sake, if you are asthmatic and insist on carrying pepper spray, you may want to consider a formulation that doesn’t contain oleoresin capsicum and avoid possible blowback. A normal reaction to pepper spray is a horrific burning sensation, nerve irritation, runny nose, coughing and temporary blindness. The debilitating effects last for more than 30 minutes, and lessen over several hours.

I would like to offer a few Black Friday safety and self-defense tips for the future:

If you are sprayed with pepper spray, DO NOT RUB the contaminated area! When you touch a contaminated area you aid the pepper spray in opening up the capillaries.

Do your best to grope your way to the nearest grocery store dairy section. Applying whole milk to the affected area should help to take the burn away.

If someone blocks your efforts to obtain milk, apply a common wrestling technique such as the El Kabong which simply involves breaking a guitar over an opponent’s head.

Next, you will need to mix a solution of 25% Dawn dishwashing liquid and 75% water in a large bowl. Plunge your face into the bowl for 10-15 seconds at a time. Recovery time depends on your skin type. It can take anywhere from 15 to 45 minutes before symptoms subside.

You may again face opposition in the kitchen/bathroom aisle. The best maneuver here would be Rolling Thunder. It requires the action of a forward roll towards your opponent using the complete rotation to spring up onto your feet and into the air to perform the attack. I guarantee that when they see a grunting, red-eyed, salivating, crazed person leaping at them, surprise will be their first reaction. When you drop to your knees and raise your arm up between the opponent’s legs, striking the groin with the inside of your elbow joint, be sure to scream out, “Cheap shot!” This will not only create unimaginable pain but they will believe you have out shopped them. Success!

I hope these activities haven’t spoiled the Thanksgiving holiday, which is meant to bring families together and to develop an attitude of gratitude which was wisely expressed by, Charles Haddon Spurgeon, England’s best-known preacher for most of the second half of the nineteenth century.

“You say, ‘If I had a little more, I should be very satisfied.’ You make a mistake. If you are not content with what you have, you would not be satisfied if it were doubled.”

Culture Shock

I went to my doctor last week to be treated for a chronic sore throat. She said she would need a specimen which by the way was obtained by sticking a three foot long Q-tip into my mouth and swiping the back wall of my throat. Yeacck! My gag reflex was in good working order.

She said she would have to grow a culture and let me know what was found in order to prescribe the proper antibiotic. As I left her office, I imagined a glob of fuzzy throat bacteria growing in a petri dish, dining off some gelatin-like protein substance. Eew.

She called me yesterday, and I found that this was not the case at all. She began describing a fascinating abundance of cultural features that had emerged from my test.

The uppermost region of the dish offered everything you might think of for a relaxing and enjoyable vacation. Sunshine, white beaches, clear water and warm climate. Just adjacent to that was a colony that offered cheap handmade articles such as crochet works, knitwear, pottery, wood-carvings and paintings. A little further down were imperial palaces, gardens and temples. A river flowed through it which led to magnificent views of rock formations and forests and into a teeming metropolis with exceptional architecture and pulsating with life. The crowning glory of the dish was a gigantic metropolis chock full of activity, tall buildings and an endless sea of lights.

I was speechless. To think, all this was taking place from a minuscule daub of my phlegm placed in a petrie dish just a few days ago.

“This is miraculous!”, I said. “Who can we report this to? World Magazine? Newsweek? Time? Maybe U.S. News and World Report?”

There was a long silence before she answered. “We can’t report it to anyone.”

“Why not?” I whined. “I’ll bet the Enquirer would pay thousands for a story like this.”

“Well,” she began. “I offered the dish a stimulus package to encourage growth but inflation accelerated above comfort levels. This caused residents to pass laws regarding global food prices and create policies on subsidies and price caps. This in turn contributed to about ten percent of unemployment.”

“What does that mean?” I huffed. “You’re beginning to sound like CNN”.

“I can only do so much”, her voice filled with impatience. “Bailouts and grants were limited and I had to take into consideration the lack of side lanes, paved shoulders and uncontrolled development of roadsides causing low travel speeds, poor level of service and less long-distance traveling. Without transport services, the culture was doomed.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about dish collapse! Financial crisis! Debt! Predatory Lending! Conflict! Collapse of the housing bubble! Famine! Systemic Crisis! Flood! Destruction!

“What does it all mean?” I was trembling with fear.

“It means I am calling your pharmacy to order you 500mg of Amoxicillin three times a day for ten days. Isn’t it nice to have a doctor with such a great sense of humor?”

Baby Boomers, wake up and smell the coffin

I Know the title of this blog is a bit shocking, but I just finished reading my hometown magazine and I was aghast at the amount of advertisements there were for cosmetic surgery. I almost feel like a big fat failure, due to the all too obvious consequences of my normal aging process. Not to mention, I am down to my last feminine wile. Please don't ask me which one, I have forgotten and misplaced it as well.

When, as a society, did we place so much more importance in how something or someone looks rather than who they are? Maybe it has always been this way, but I believe we're way over the edge. Gone are the days of successful ageing, or being revered for being rich with experience. The elderly are no longer turned to for their wisdom or worldliness, but sadly reduced to a 20% discount and considered a second-class citizen.

Want to know who I blame? Car manufacturers! That's who! Notice how the names they give cars reflect the way society behaves? We started out with the model T and the Model A. Simple, timeless, and absolutely no underlying message. Then came the nouns. Viva, Previa, Nova, Probe, symbolizing reaching out. Animal names became popular. Mustang, Colt, Durango, Falcon, Impala, Cougar. GRRRRIP the road! Go for the jugular! Names morphed into a sort of lifestyle. Land Rover, Dakota, Yukon, Tahoe, Tacoma, projecting adventure and ambiance. The biggest culprits are, Infiniti, 5th Avenue and Park Avenue, whether you're playing Monopoly or driving a car, the message is the same...larger than life, rich, and beautiful.

I would like to recommend some no-nonsense, down-to-earth names for cars that actually tell it like it is. No sugar coating, just the unvarnished truth and then let's just see where it takes us. Hopefully, our addiction to outer appearances will begin to diminish and we can relax into our comfortable wrinkled bodies and instead, work to expand our spirit.

How about:

Ford Derelict – The main function of this utility vehicle is to drive you to drink. Navigation is performed solely on Bott dots, as tires collect cognizant and constant feedback from the lines on the road. Deluxe interior features include, thirty-three cup holders with automatic lid capabilities, to avoid violating open container laws, driver’s sun visor is equipped with detachable eye patch, to eliminate double vision when inebriated, dual function windshield wiper fluid/beverage storage, with toggle switch, to wash windows or serve your favorite beverage to the central cup holder directly from the fluid well. Lush, leather interior, is available in champagne beige or burgundy red.

Mid-life Chrysler – Youthful design and enough power to take you from sixty to hero in six point five seconds. Equipped with a younger, fitter, replica of your spouse or, if you prefer, a current rock or movie starlet. Complete with soft-focus mirrors behind the sun visors and also on rear view mirror to blur those pesky wrinkles. Satellite navigation is pre-programmed with younger crowd night spots. On-board slang dictionary is constantly updated to include the latest terminology. Inset moisturizing and anti-wrinkle lotion dispensers in each door and bucket seats with Mesotherapy to eliminate cellulite. Handy overhead botox dispenser will keep frown lines from forming due to road rage. (we should have at least one model to maintain our vanity).

Dyslexis SL – Whatever car you currently drive, this model is the exact opposite. Left is right and right is left. Or is it the other way around? As a bonus, this model, will automatically and without notification, backtrack to correct directional miscalculations. Speedometer begins at 120 mph and ends at zero. Luxury signage transposer, will photograph and flip the image of any road sign in as little as five seconds. A lavish treat for any driver suffering from Dysleiax…Dsylexi…Dyslexia.

Oldsmobile Bulimia – Don’t let Consumer Reports frighten you away from this vehicle. Once a portion of all fluids have been purged from the engine, this little roadster has very few rivals. Suspended fluid pan protects garage and driveway surfaces from stains and corrosion. Flushed fluids are fully recyclable. This model is light on its wheels and sport tuned. Actual mileage may vary.

Dodge A.D.D. – The perfect vehicle for, on-the-go, inner city driving. Optimal performance limited to short trips. If longer excursions are necessary, the battery cables can be re-routed to stun the engine at five minute intervals to prompt responsiveness. Stereo scans available music stations every 10 to 20 seconds and is programmed to jump from news-to-news broadcasts every 15 seconds. Turning signals and windshield wipers tend to activate before being initiated. Caution: This model is known to have trouble executing turns and tends to rev the engine without notice.

Just my 2 cents.

The Appliance Whisperer

I couldn’t sleep last night. Two hours of tossing and turning compelled me to remove myself from my sleeping platform and shuffle into the kitchen for a glass of water or perhaps a chunky peanut butter and banana sandwich on lightly grilled Turkish flatbread.

I was almost through the living room when I thought I heard conversation. I stopped to listen, half expecting to hear the familiar voices of our neighbors telling each other where to go and where they could stick unpleasant things, when all of a sudden I realized that the voices I was hearing were coming from the kitchen. My thoughts were racing which I believe may be the cause of my insomnia in the first place. Thousands of daily stragglers stumble in at ungodly hours hitting both walls of my temporal lobe. Who could sleep through that?

I inched closer to the kitchen and listened to a strange rasping. It was sort of a Mezzo-soprano droning that sent chills up my spine. Its comments were perceptible now. “If she opens my door one more time and sticks her butt-ugly, no-make-up face, morning hair, looking like a troll with an updo, in one more time I think I’ll blow my compressor.” I held my breath. My ears felt as if they were distended as I strained to hear more. “I don’t think she has aired out my crisper in months! There are mystery veggies oozing in the back and growing God-knows-what kind of bacteria. It offends me.”

“I hear you,” a deeper voice replied. “My hood is greasier than a used car lot and my burner knobs are cracked. Really burns me up.”

A shrill voice piped up, “I’ve seen the same stupid orange Fiesta dishware for years and my spray arms are exhausted from fending off week-old dried food chunks. I’m losing teeth and rust is eating its way through my intake valve as we speak.”

My hand flew up over my mouth. Dear God, was it me they were complaining about?

“Just you wait and see what happens to you!” the soprano voice said.

“I’m new, never been used,” a younger voice said cheerfully.

There was a knowing chuckle. “Yeah, we were too once but look at us now. One day you’ll be struggling to melt a piece a cheese over one of her Tuscan chicken crock pot sandwiches and she will just toss you in the garbage.”

“Crossbreed!” a barratone voice bellowed. “What the heck are you anyway? A toaster or an oven? She used to come to me when she wanted a hot meal. Now I have cobwebs on my rack and dust bunnies in my broiler. I might get a once-a-year job when she shoves in an oversize fowl. Talk about feeling useless!”

“Can’t we all just get along?” came from the direction of the blender.

“Easy for you to say,” the refrigerator chimed in. “You and your sharp blades and tight base gasket. Didn’t you get here at the same time as toaster-oven? New, never been used, fourteen speed, 450 watts of ice crushing power!”

“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I should be ostracized,” the blender whined.

“I thought Oster was your name,” said the stove. “I guess that would make you Ostercized.”

A burst of laughter filled the kitchen. I took a step forward to get closer. The floor squeaked. Suddenly the laughter stopped and everything went silent.

I almost did a half in-half-out back flip with a ½ twist in tuck position when my husband tapped me on the shoulder and asked what I was doing.

“I’m trying to hear what the appliances are saying about me but they are non-responsive.”

He gave me a quirky look and turned around and went back to bed.

Laughirmations

People who know me can attest to the fact that I am an avid fan of multi-tasking. However, I am most drawn to the tasks that can be performed while I am sleeping. You have heard about them, ‘earn money while you sleep’, ‘become smarter while you sleep’ and my most often tried, ‘lose weight while you sleep’. Of course, I have not mastered any of these techniques but that doesn’t mean I am not open to the idea that some vigorous sawing of logs can’t manifest a desired goal.

I recently came across the title of an article, ‘You can become gorgeous in your sleep’. This thrilling promise intrigued me and I was compelled to read some of the suggested methods but before I tried them I researched the aging process. Big mistake.

I found that our skin is composed of two main layers, the epidermis and the dermis. Both of these diminish in aging and the dermis thins by about twenty percent. The blood supply drops off with time and wrinkles develop. That coupled with the loss of collagen, a cement-like protein that holds cells together is what causes appearance of aging. What I found is that I am literally coming unglued. This gives the ‘War on Aging’ movement a whole new meaning for me even although I consider myself a lover not a fighter. The underlying message here is the older I get, the better I was.

The difference between my earlier attempts at sleep goals and the one I am attempting now is in the preparation. Getting richer, smarter or thinner involved affirmations whispered to me while I slumbered. Obviously, my subconscious is a much more resistant opponent than I suspected. I think it will take a lot more than encouraging whispers for me to become rich, smart or thin.

The first suggestion for waking up gorgeous was to sleep on your back. Now I don’t know about you but after I fall asleep I don’t know what position I assume although I have at times woke up in the duck and cover position that I learned in elementary school. I would have to be resourceful to insure I stayed on my back all night. I asked my husband to straddle a chair over me once I found the most comfortable position on my back with my head slightly elevated. Wedging myself between the legs of a kitchen chair was the only way I could be sure to maintain this corpse-like posture.

The second suggestion was to use a humidifier in the bedroom but between my husband’s resonate snore and the constant hissing of the humidifier, my dreams involved snakes sucking madly on straws long after their beverage was gone. I woke to my own screams, sat up rigid as a tombstone and bumped my forehead against the wooden dowels on the back of the chair. My husband was happy to hear I decided to discontinue these two techniques. Besides, I was tired of waking up like I had just entered a wet-tee shirt contest.

I washed my hair and combed a deep conditioner into it. I put on a shower cap as suggested so I wouldn’t ruin my sheets. Then I diligently applied Frownies (patches that adhere to your skin while you sleep to prevent your face from making the facial expressions that cause wrinkles)and afterward applied a thick ultra-hydrating moisturizer. Next I glopped petroleum jelly on my eyelashes (to prevent them from becoming brittle and falling out), hands and feet. I wore gloves and socks to seal in the moisturizer. Next I applied several layers of medicated lip balm the color of old lace and slipped in my teeth whitening trays.

Words cannot describe the expression on my husband’s face as I slipped into bed next to him. So I won’t try. When I turned out my light, the only thing I said was, “No more waking up to split ends, yellow teeth, a pale, pasty complexion or droopy bags under my eyes.”

His response was, “This is how you’re going to wake up gorgeous?”
I awoke early the next morning with the shower cap over my face as I gasped for air. The teeth whitening trays were lying neatly on my husband’s chest. My socks and gloves were on the end of the bed and the sheets were mottled with grease stains. I must have rubbed the petroleum jelly into my eyes while I slept because it took hours for the blurriness to go away. It was when I looked into the mirror that I realized that I am gorgeous. The petroleum jelly had provided a sort of Joan Collins filter to my naked eye and all the lines and wrinkles on my face had vanished! I had discovered the secret! This is the reason God planned for our eyesight to diminish…so we can’t see what happens to our bodies. I have limited my beauty regimen to one thing. Petroleum jelly. Now we’re all gorgeous. If only I could convince everyone to use it.

The last thing I’m going to say is, “younger people, why don’t you mind your own damn business!” You’ll get there too one day. The next time I see one of you jogging past my house with your three-hundred dollar running shoes and hand-held dumbbells I’m going to pick up a rock the size of a fibroid tumor and holler, “Serpentine, runner… serpentine!”

Six Weeks

Just think, in one eighth of the gestation time it took to build me, I can fall in love with myself. That is what the ad promised me. The course would give me everything I need to create the outcome of loving myself and receive help and guidance from Mother Mary who is channeled by an unknown seeker. By signing up for the course, I would be giving Mother Mary permission to suggest actions to take that would profoundly affect the way I feel about myself. Loving myself, would be the result of taking the actions Mother Mary would recommend each week and help me find my inner compass. I paid $50.00.

Week one: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I was just about to slice off a second hunk of chocolate peanut butter pie. Enveloped in a moment of clarity, I set the server down.

Week two: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I was just about to flip off the driver who wheeled into the parking space I had my eye on. Nodding in agreement, I exercised restraint of tongue and finger.

Week three: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I was considering mentioning to an acquaintance in the nicest way possible that her bracelet, the size of Alaska, was competing with her rocket ship earrings. I suddenly realized the rattling of her baubles were drowning out the negative comments she was sharing about a mutual acquaintance.

Week four: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I refrained from beating an annoying salesman with a display rack. I took a deep breath, smiled and wished him a nice day.

Week five: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” Instead of yelling at the neighbor’s dog pooping in my yard, I gently picked him up, bagged the poop and set both on their porch. No, I did not light the bag.

Week Six: Mother Mary comes to me, speaking words of wisdom…”Let it be.” I looked up from my laptop and gazed around at the many writers sitting with their own laptops at the local Starbucks racking their brains to touch their reader’s soul with the perfect product review and ignoring their fellow coffee drinkers. Instead of releasing a primal scream, I asked the woman at the next table if I could get her opinion on her favorite restaurant for an article I was writing.

As I completed this course, I realized that I never need be ambassador of the world, custodian of fashion, minister of the road, or overseer of bad manners again. I need only watch my own side of the street by monitoring my own behavior, my own diet, my own clothes and simply treat others as I wish to be treated.

Who would have thought that this two-thousand-year-old direction would be the very thing to turn a hard-headed, fix-you-upper into a keep her eyes on her own paper kind of woman?

I can’t say I am in love with myself but I did give me a wink as I put on my make-up this morning. I’m toying with the idea of buying me a new outfit and next week I think I’m gonna take me to dinner. I got the skinny on a great restaurant at Starbucks.

Mother's Day

Good Morning, Joel,

It's been a while since I posted a blog and I remember how much you said you enjoyed reading them. Today is Mother's Day and I felt your presence this morning so this one's for you.

Gabrielle texted me and wanted my recipe for French Toast. She's making a breakfast in bed for her mom. She's grown into such a beautiful young lady. Age ten going on twenty. She's sensitive, loving, talented and extremely bright. You would be so proud of her.

I want you to know how much I miss you and if you were still here, I would remind you of my favorite times of being your mother, like rocking you in our chair until you fell asleep and feeling your heart beat against mine. When you were two, you loved pretending that you were talking on the phone which is why the extension was always off the hook in the master bedroom.

The day you went off to kindergarten and I thought you would be scared but you weren't, you were excited. You didn't cry, I did. You always shared whatever you had, wondered why some people were mean, loved animals and seemed happier when earned something than when it was given to you.

You said lots of things that made me laugh. "I just stuck my tongue out at God." (Age 5) "Was the world in black and white when you were a kid?" (Age 7)You watched too many old movies. "When you turn 40, do you stop having sex and listen to the WAVE?" (Age 9) "Why do they always ask that trick question when you interview for a job? Why do you want to work here?" (Age 16).

I miss taking you to Woodcraft Rangers, to the library to work on the reports you forgot were due the next day, to Disneyland, Magic Mountain, the snow, Reseda park to feed the ducks, the beach, and to play on the metal Robot at Santa Clarita Park. I miss going to 31 flavors and I remember one particular day when you asked why people were laughing at you (age 6). You had vanilla ice cream from ear to ear. I told you not to pay attention, they just didn't know how to eat ice cream. Of course, you always wanted vanilla ice cream no matter what the flavor of the day was. I order it myself now and think of you while I eat it.

I miss the sleep overs with your friends and waking up on Sunday mornings with sleeping bags plopped all over the living room, not even knowing who was in each one. I miss making you cream of wheat and watch you blazing a trail with your spoon so the butter would run down in a spiral. I miss watching you play video games on Saturday morning, skate boarding and riding your bike. I miss scrambling for money because the ice cream man was coming. I miss open house at school and your sixth grade graduation when I embarrassed you by crying so hard that I snorted when your class sang, Wind Beneath My Wings.

I miss hearing you laugh, sing your favorite songs when you thought I wasn't listening and not being embarrassed to be seen with me when you were in your teens. Thanks for taking me to see Ghost among many other movies. I loved it just as you said I would and I loved you more when we ran into some of your friends at the theater. It's not easy for a sixteen year old to tell his friends he wanted his mom to see the movie.

I cried each time you left to go to the prom. Three times! You never believed me when I said you were a hunk. I loved going with you to the tux shop and the time you chose the beige tux with the black lapels and I thought you would get criticized for being odd man out but all your friends were blown away and they loved it. I cried hard at your high school graduation but you were too far away to hear me to get embarrassed.

I was proud that you went to college and graduated with honors while you were working and supporting a wife and baby. I cried again. And again. I was proud each time you told me you were promoted and got a raise. I was happy to see you with your daughter. She's a lot like you.

If you were here today, I would tell you that life is hard, some folks will always be mean, ice cream is better when it's all over your face and there will be times when people let you down although it isn't because they don't love you. I would tell you I love you and never stop. Never stop. Never Stop.

You are always a blessing, never a loss. I thank God for giving me the privilege of being your mother and I am flattered that he trusted me with you. You were loaned to me for a time and I will always treasure that. I know you are really God's kid.

Blessings to you and yours and I look forward to the day when you will escort me into the next dimension.

I love you to the moon and back.
Momma

FUN WITH TEXT AND PAIN

Wow, the internet was buzzing with freaky news yesterday. Two articles were especially interesting. First, a woman at the Berkshire mall fell into the indoor fountain while texting and walking. Unfortunately, the security guard who posted the video on You Tube was fired. I imagine this unforgivable breach of security may lead to a career change. On a lighter note, I posted the video on my wall, as we know a video is worth a thousand words.

The second article that caught my eye was about a 44-year-old woman in New Zealand who suffered a small stroke caused by a hickey. She went to the emergency room after she found that she couldn’t move her left arm while she was watching TV.

Who would think that a love bite could be so dangerous? It seems that if someone sucks your neck close to a major artery there is a chance of bruising the vessel and creating a blood clot which is what happened in this case. The clot traveled to the woman’s heart and caused the minor stroke which left her partially paralyzed. She was treated with an anticoagulant and the clot disappeared within a week. Whew!
Doctors poured through medical literature to find an example of this happening in the past and they found nothing.

This makes me wonder…why can’t I write things like this?!! This is good stuff. Two women are finding fame and fortune because of measureless stupidity. I’ve done stupid things but they never get filmed. I’ve seen stupid things that will never get reported.

There’s definitely something to be said for being in the right place at the right time. Remarkably, in these cases, bad news is good news. The texter will most likely sue the Berkshire mall and win her case. Indoor fountains will be permanently banned. Hickey lady will begin to tour high schools with her warning about the dangers of neck sucking.

I only have two questions. What the hell is a 44 year old woman doing with a hickey? And why do you have to move your left arm when you’re watching TV?...OMG, unless of course her amorous lover was sitting there.

Current Events

Happy New Year!

I logged onto my computer this morning and a listing under local news caught my eye. It was titled, Botox: guilty of crimes against beauty? As I read the article, I experienced a strange feeling that I had read it before. I have to admit that I have had many of these types of encounters and have even gone so far as to consider myself borderline psychic. Of course, that was before I read the date of the article, Thursday, 23 September 2004, and realized that I really had read it before.

Are we running out of news? Why would this article be posted under current events? Are they trying to make me think I am crazy? Hah! No challenge there. I was prompted to scan my ancient document files and found a very short story I wrote in 2004, I’m assuming this was the article that inspired, Botox and the Three Dares. Hope you like it.

Liz peeled the paper backing from her name tag and stifled a sigh. "Marla’s such a twit," she whispered to Ruth while pressing the tag over her right breast. “I can’t believe she’s doing this.”
Ruth looked around the room anxiously. "Well, why did you agree to come if you are so dead set against the idea?"
The corner of Liz’s mouth tipped up. "You wouldn't want to go anywhere without your voice of reason would you?"
"Oh stop it. You're just mad because she thought of it first."
"You've gotta be kidding, I'm not going to let some quack shoot me up with Botulism." Liz nodded in the doctor’s direction.
"Well, personally I don't think that getting rid of a few laugh lines is all that bad."
Liz huffed out a breath."Laugh lines? How would Marla get laugh lines? She's been married to Barry for fifteen years."
“She was just released from rehab you know”, Ruth whispered. She got hooked on pain meds after her breast augmentation. Barry said it got really bad, she was flirting with death.”
Liz smirked. “I heard it was more of a lap dance. See where all this vanity takes you?”
"Look, just talk to him, he's coming this way,” Ruth said. "Hello Dr. Barton." She smiled sweetly and shook his hand.
"Ladies. Enjoying the party?" His glance drifted down to their feet and back again. "Any questions I might answer?"
Liz reached for a glass of wine from the table. "How many forehead furrows have you conquered today?"
Dr. Barton looked at her solemnly. "Not everyone is a good candidate for treatment."
Ruth leaned close to Dr. Barton as she pointed to an infinitesimal discoloration on the bridge of her nose.
"Do you know what this might be?"
He examined the area briefly and smiled. "My dear, it is nothing more than a small footprint left by time, of course the foot size will grow and won’t be satisfied until it has trampled away all evidence of your youth.” He slipped an arm around her shoulder.
“Come to my office.”
"Where is that? In the bedroom?" Liz said thrusting her face close to his.
"Liz! Dr. Barton is trying to save us from premature ageing.”
Liz rolled her eyes. "Oh good then, pass the hors d'oeuvres and consent forms."
"Tell me Dr. B, how exactly does the Botox work?" Ruth asked.
Dr. Barton pushed back his lab coat and drew a gold watch from his vest. He pressed his thumb on the catch and snapped the cover open to stare blindly at its face.
"When Botox is injected into the muscles surrounding the eyes, for instance, those muscles can't scrunch up for about six months. If an area of the body can't move, it can't wrinkle." He returned the watch to his pocket.
"Sounds great if you're playing poker, it's so hard to maintain that numb look with a winning hand."
Ruth looked concerned. "So is there a chance that something could go wrong?"
"Well of course it could!" Liz chimed in. "Your muscles will be paralyzed! I mean doesn't Brad complain enough about you being non-responsive in bed? How do you think he will like you staring back at him with a blank expression? Permanently!"
Now, Liz," Dr. Barton put his hand lightly on her shoulder. "May I call you Liz?"
Liz winged an eyebrow up.
"The injectable form of botulinumtoxin is perfectly safe.” He smiled broadly and
held up a swearing palm. ”There is absolutely nothing to worry about. Now, may I take your picture with my UV camera?"
Liz brushed past Dr. Barton. "You want another drink?" She glanced back at Ruth.
"Don't mind her Dr. B, you can take my picture." Ruth grinned.
"Just fill out the form and wait for me in the next room I'll be right with you."
Dr. Barton strolled over to Liz. "Sure you don't want to join your friend?"
"Am I the only one concerned here?" She waved her hand indicating the eagerness in the room.
Dr. Barton raked a hand through his thinning hair. "Nonsense, nothing to be concerned about, everyone is doing it."
"Excuse me for being skeptical doctor but I believe anything that has the ability to attack my muscles poses as a severe threat." Liz downed her wine and reached for another glass. "I mean if it were injected in my chest, it would have a profound impact on my breathing wouldn't it?"
He lightly touched her cheekbone with his pinky finger. "Yes, but it isn't your chest…it's those pesky little lines around your eyes."
"Dr. B, will you be injecting me soon?" Ruth rudely rattled the form next to his ear.
Marla sauntered over with a rather annoyed looking chap in tow.
"Liz…Ruth, so glad you could come to my Bo party." She had a fierce grip on the gentleman's arm. "I'd like you to meet Hunter."
"Well hello, Hunter." Liz smiled and extended her hand, but Marla jerked him aside before he could reach it.
"Hunter is an actor between pants, ah parts." Marla said. "He came to offer me emotional support. I despise needles…don't I Hunter?" She threw him a pout.
Hunter smiled wryly. "In spite of appearances," he reached out and took Liz’s hand. "Marla is not a ventriloquist and I am no dummy." Liz caught the defiant tone in his voice as he pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “As a matter of fact, I just landed a part in one of the daytime operas. I’ll be playing the part of a transient who blows into a small town and falls in love with a co-dependent debutant obsessed with giving him a make over.”
“Oh? Which soap would that be?” Dr. Barton asked.
Hunter looked at Dr. Barton and gave Liz’s hand a squeeze before releasing it. “Women Betrayed.”
Dr. Barton nodded knowingly. “Yes, I inject the whole cast of that one.”
"Hunter dear, would you mind refilling my glass?" Marla shoved her empty goblet at him.
"Happy to." He took the glass, made a slight bow and gave Liz a spectacular smile.
Dr. Barton nodded politely and then drifted away to begin treatments.
Marla sneered. "So Liz, are you still in retail?"
"Yes, Marla, I still work at the boutique in the mall."
"I just love that red dress you're wearing, in fact I love it more each time I see it." Marla's collagen filled lips quivered before forming a smile.
"Thanks."
Marla turned to Ruth. "Tell me Ruthie, is Brad still looking for work?"
"I'm afraid so, I really shouldn't spend the money for the injections but,” her voice trailed off as she twirled a lock of her hair and stared at the tops of her shoes.
"Well, he must be coming up to the last of the unemployment checks," Marla winked. "Then again, you must be ever so tired of staring at those unsightly lines in the mirror. Thank God for Dr. Barton, huh?"
Marla clasped Liz's forearm and spoke softly. "You know Liz, I have the name of another dermatologist. He works wonders with enlarged pores, I'll give you his number before you leave."
"You're too thoughtful Marla.”
"Oh, excuse me will you? Hunter is trying to get my attention." Marla scurried off toward the dining room.
Liz’s eyes followed Marla and she slowly shook her head. "Should I have offered her a toothpick?"
"She did kind of make a meal of us didn't she?"
"Picked our bones clean." Liz said through gritted teeth. She switched her attention to her new acquaintance and smiled. "What do you think of Hunter?"
"God, he's really cute and he keeps looking over at you,” Ruth said with a giggle.
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind running my fingers through that thick dark hair of his."
"Liz! What would Marla say?"
"Who cares? She's married and I'm single…all is fair in love and pores.”
"Whatever Liz, I'm going to get my injections now. Are you sure you won't join me?" Ruth gave her an encouraging nod.
"How old do you think Hunter is?" Liz asked.
Ruth leaned forward and squinted to see his features. "I would guess he's a good ten years younger than us."
Liz turned and snagged one of the consent forms from the table and regarded it carefully. She held it up and as she tore it neatly in half when her gaze met Hunter’s.
“You know Ruth, I have a hunch that not too long from now, I’m going to be feeling about ten years younger.”