Archive for the ‘I wanna’ Category

Not bad for an old broad ...

We turn not older with years, but newer every day. ~ Emily Dickinson

Some time back while perusing facebook, I came across a status update from a friend whose grandfather had just celebrated his 90-something birthday. In the comments it was asked if he’d spoken of any regrets he might carry from his many years of life. The answer went something like this:

The one thing I regret most is having felt old in my 50s and 60s. I wasted those decades because I had convinced myself that I was too old to enjoy them in many of the ways I well could have.

Of course!

To someone close to hitting 100, 50 is a kid only half way through, and with 50 more years on offer.

Although there is little to no chance I’ll ever get anywhere near 100, I’ve incorporated this man’s thinking and keep the words of Mark Twain handy:

Age is an issue of mind over matter. If you don’t mind, it doesn’t matter.

And the fact is, I don’t mind. I don’t mind my age … I’m really crap with numbers, and like Erma Bombeck, “As a graduate of the Zsa Zsa Gabor School of Creative mathematics, I honestly do not know how old I am”, and in dog years, I’m dead …. and I don’t mind the ages of the people in my life. I don’t mind that my youngest child is 5 and that my oldest is 41 or that my last boyfriend is 39 or that some of my friends are in their 70s and others are in their 20s. I don’t mind that my mother is close to 80 … although I wish she was more comfortable.

I do mind that my son died at 38, my father at 69 and the boy I could have grown old with at 19.

As that prolific sage, Anon, once said:

Do not regret growing older. It is a privilege denied to many.

No. I don’t regret my years. In fact, there are few minutes that ring the regret bell for me.

I do, however, fear senectitude … not the numbers, but the toll … much more than I fear death, although both come in the natural order of things.

It is old age, rather than death, that is to be contrasted with life. Old age is life’s parody, whereas death transforms life into a destiny: in a way it preserves it by giving it the absolute dimension. Death does away with time.
~ Simone de Beauvoir

But I’m not there yet … neither destination … and although I’m faced daily with the evidence of my own personal senescence, I can still ignore much of it, so I do. I wear what I damned well please, parent little kids, dance with whomever I like, talk too much, sing loud, add tattoos to my collection, do tequila shots, take my top off at the beach … whateverthefuck I want to do, I do.

There is no pleasure worth forgoing just for an extra three years in the geriatric ward. ~ John Mortimer

No shit.

Given that I’m single again, I have been giving some thought to just how many years of cute I have left in me, so was encouraged by an article in the news today that showed Jane Fonda, 72, and Raquel Welsh, 70, looking and obviously feeling good.

Despite their combined age of 142, Jane Fonda and Raquel Welch were still turning heads as they appeared together at a charity event in Beverly Hills.

Okay … it sucks that men get away with this all the time without anyone making a big deal of their age (Did anyone ever think Cary Grant at 70 or Gregory Peck at 84 looked anything but hot?), but this is Planet Earth in 2010, so I live with it.

I know people decades younger who are too old for me … lackluster, boring twits with little imagination and no curiosity, wastes of space and youth … and that’s depressing as hell. Thoreau was too right when he said, “None are so old as those who have outlived enthusiasm.”

Anyone who stops learning is old, whether at twenty or eighty. ~ Henry Ford

I know that timing has been lucky for me. I’m a Boomer and people have been talkin’ ’bout my generation for decades. I’m aging along with the likes of Keith Richards, although he has years on me, as he wades back through his foggy past and reminds us all what a fuckin’ good time we’ve had … and how much fun we’re still having.

And because my generation has buying power, marketing is finally setting out to make us feel pretty … after all, we’re neither blind, nor stupid, so do know that what hugs a 20-year-old ass won’t ride quite the same on one that’s been ridden longer … and models in their 40s, 50s and 60s are making the point of beauty beyond presumed boundaries well.

‘It’s been really fulfilling to create shots that celebrate the wonder of getting older.
‘It’s important to challenge what we see in our media with a broader reflection of beauty.
‘Enjoy the magic of these women, their confidence, their attitudes and their allure.
‘These wonderful faces express the joy of getting older – not something we see enough of.’

Would I turn back the clock if I could? Nah, although I’m not opposed to a bit of the old nip and tuck to make it look like the calendar missed a few pages and may go that route someday. I see nothing wrong with someone opting for a trade-in on a new set of tits or less eye baggage. I, like Oscar Wilde, do have limits, however:

To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.

As Brigette Bardot so aptly put it: It’s sad to grow old, but nice to ripen.

Yes … I’m ripening, and I’m okay with that. What was once firm isn’t so much now, my hair has less brown in it daily and I don’t shake off a hangover with anywhere near the ease I did a few years ago, but I’m still here and I’m still cute and I’m smarter than I used to be. And I have a good bloody time.

Unless I’m lucky enough to have death sneak up and bite me on the ass, the day will come, however, when I’ll wake up one morning and know I’m old. I’m hoping it will be a false alarm:

There is always some specific moment when we realize our youth is gone; but years after, we know it was much later. ~Mignon McLaughlin

Call me delusional, but I’ve not yet experienced that “specific moment” and I plan on putting that off as long as I can. After all …

How old would you be if you didn’t know how old you were?
~Satchel Paige

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In less than a week, I’ll be horrified by celebrating my birthday, and although for many this is justanotherday, it’s a big fucking deal to me. After all, don’t we all deserve at least one day out of every 365 to indulge and be indulged?

That’s the theory.

As a gift to myself, I’ve indulged in a bit more body art, as nothing says birthday like new tattoos as one heads into senectitude … or something.

Sam has already presented me with a lovely card, and Cj has promised to rub my back for five minutes on the day, gestures well appreciated and counted amongst my blessings.

For the most part, however, this year’s reality involves unrealized plans and hopes that my next year see things working out a bit more favorably.

Anyone with a better idea is more than welcome to offer it …

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For last year’s words belong to last year’s language And next year’s words await another voice. And to make an end is to make a beginning. ~T.S. Eliot

If there’s one thing the past couple of years have taught me, it would be to never assume things can’t get worse. They can. They do. And 2009 stands as an example of just how faulty my thinking was at the dawning of this year.

To say that I approach the closing of this admittedly arbitrary bunching of days with some sense of relief would be accurate, although no little trepidation accompanies the heralding of 2010.

Much like an attempt at herding hyenas, I formulate plans, well aware that so few factors lie within my control … or even influence … and try to prepare for contingencies that range beyond the boundaries of the comfortably conceivable all the way into OMG!-if-that-happens-I-won’t-make-it-this-time territory.

At the same time, I take onboard frequent admonitions to think positively, to take the bull-of-the-future by the horns and wrestle it into submission, in the hope that thoughts are things and we can create our own reality.

With that in mind, I’m dwelling at length on options I do have and taking T.S. Eliot’s words to heart. The whole “to make an end is to make a beginning” resonates and puts a spin on endings I can warm to.

With this holiday season being about as dreary and miserable as I can take, a determination to form a 2010 that will close to a more upbeat finale has formed, and it’s very likely that to begin that ending I may have to stamp “DONE” to quite a few aspects of my present, stop listening to “last year’s words” and await another voice.

Life is, however, a process and 365 days of the coming year will toss a lot of flotsam into whatever pool I manage to dam up. Some will float and some will sink and some may even be fun to play with for a while. My job now is to clear the debris and find somewhere to stand that won’t have me constantly treading water.

Now if I can just stop with the metaphors …

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Please click here to fill out a few little boxes that may lead me out of some of my cluelessness …

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Celebrate Life

The end of 2008 brought so many goodbyes … so much death … and it’s time I spent some time here reaching into 2009, welcoming the potentials and celebrating life.

I have hope, always, and the beginning of this year requires that I replenish my stores of it.

There is a lot of joy on the edges of the horizon, and so much love coming toward me. I want and need to be ready for it all.

Here’s an inspiration … something that reminds what it’s all about …

Thanks Jo and Paul …

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Is it a part of the healing process when one suddenly decides to “be friends” with men all over the world and chat for hours? Ya got me, but that’s what I’m up to at the moment. I’ll admit it … I’m a FaceBook junkie all of a sudden, even though I’m still pretty clueless on most of the ins and outs of the site.

Am not completely a shut-in, though, as I did go to the movies last night. First time I’ve done that here in 8 years or so, but when Magnar the Magnificent insists he gets me out of the house, I go along willingly. Saw “Wanted” and totally enjoyed it and the whole evening.

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Am I the only liberal, snotty, angst-ridden, happily married, over-fifty woman in the world who gets the screaming steaming thigh sweats over Bill Maher, or just one of a legion of middle-aged malcontents getting all hot and bothered to the strains of common sense wrapped in a manly, no bullshit package that seems as much a gift as a heart-shaped box of chocolates?

Since I don’t live on a part of the planet that get Maher-ified often … the occasional appearance on Larry King Live when that’s timed to air in our tiny CNN window in Seychelles is all I ever have available … it’s impossible for me to guess how his cute little pinched look, receding hairline and flat East Coast accent goes over in the US. I know he’s been around a while and is a hit, but do millions of American women there lie back, close their eyes and think of Comedy Central when their fire needs a stoking? I’m curious.

I don’t usually have ‘things’ for comics … musicians historically having the greatest likelihood of weakening my knees … since brash and edgy most often come across as cold and distant, and that just doesn’t wind my bathtub toy. I thought Dave Letterman was cute for a while, but then I met him.

(An aside … My mom was on Letterman’s show once when one of the other guests was Marilyn Manson. She thought he was ‘a very nice young man’. When I asked if he appeared to her as at all odd, she said, “No odder than some of the friends you used to bring home.”

Like I said, there are musicians in my past … sigh … )

But the Bill Maher tingles … what are those about?

Could it be I find him Electra-fying? He does have a nose very much like my darling father’s … stately, pominent and occupying a lot of face space … and in fact Bill (Do I dare call him Bill?) grows to more resemble my dad with every sporatic viewing I’m allowed.

Whoa! If this is some version of “My Heart Belongs to Daddy” I’d better start hunting for a towel to throw in, because I’ll be done with having sexual fantasies FOREVER.

Stepping back from the brink of Freudian slippery slopes, I’ll get to why Bill Maher has me thinking today that jumping his bones would be a pursuit worth getting lathered up for … this from the Huff Post — a blog from Bill on South Carolina’s plan to allow concealed weapons on school campuses, and a sexy piece of writing it is.

Linking sex to violence is so hot.

In South Carolina you need to be 21 to get a concealed weapon permit. So the undergrads wouldn’t be armed. Just the teachers and grad students. So it wouldn’t actually stop anyone like the Virginia Tech shooter, until he worked his way up from the sophomores and stopped to re-load, but here I am applying practical logic to an argument made by guys who come in their pants when they hear the words “muzzle velocity.”

Sharp witted, brilliant, caustic … and, yes, brash and edgy, but with such a hefty dose of musth in his take down that instead of cold and distant he seems hot and close enough to be breathing on the back of my neck.


Anyone have a cigarette?

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News of the discovery of a possibly habitable planet outside our solar system, the oh-so-lyrically named 581c, had me writing about … cue music … Adopting From Outer Space … fade music … on one of my pro blogs today.

When trawling for blog fodder, as I do every morning, it’s the adoption-related I glom on to first … they pay me for that blog … but certain items of interest resonate throughout the day no matter how done with the concept I may be after cranking out a thousand words or so around the info.

To nab a line from “The Big Chill“: This is one of those times. (Or something like that … Mary Kay Place, sitting in a church at the funeral of a college friend? Minister as M/C warming up the crowd? Ring any bells? Whatever.)

Apparently Planet 581c is the right size, shape and distance from it’s Red Dwarf of a sun to look likely, from 120 trillion miles away, to accommodate a version of life that we might even be able to recognize as living.

Sure, the science guys probably have themselves worked into a frenzy thinking about slime lichens or midgazoas when they talk about the place possibly supporting life forms, but you know darned well most folks are picturing ET or Klingons, at least.

I suppose we have to assume that any 581c-ains are a bit slower than we are, as it appears they haven’t yet discovered us. If they had, they would certainly have put up a billboard or something to let us know that they know that we’re advanced enough to be looking at them. That’s what we’d do, right?

Too bad they’re not light years ahead of us, as ever since I moved to this island I’ve been hoping someone would come across folks who’ve perfected that beamy-uppy thing Scottie manned in Star Trek forty-something years ago.

I hate flying, and when the nearest shopping mall is a four hour trip on a Boeing … that would be Dubai, thankyouverymuch … and my mom and daughter and granddaughter, son, brothers and friends can’t be within hugging range without at least 36 hours of cramped, recycled air torture, I’d give a lot to meet a 581c-ian with a portable transporter.

Maybe the next planet discovered?

new planet581c-ian?

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