The other day I spent five hours, FIVE HOURS, trying and failing to work with META to create a Facebook ad for my new novel. FIVE EFFIN HOURS of my life wasted. I was ready to take a sledgehammer to my computer, my phone, anyone who looked at me cross-eyed, or, to be honest, looked at me at all. My husband made the serious mistake of “trying to help.” The look of death, which I focused on him like a laser, sent him packing. I was losing my shit. That afternoon, I let out my rage at the golf course, whacking a little white ball as hard as I could. (Had some decent drives, so there was a silver lining, although my pitching and putting sucked.) In case you are concerned, I did seek help from a lovely young person who could navigate the bullshit, I mean Meta process, that was needed to upload an ad. (Still took us 3 hours.) But all this got me wondering, why the murderous outrage? Why do I find that I’m losing so many things lately… patience, sleep, hair, the will to live (just kidding about that last one, except in that moment of madness over the Facebook ad.)

Apparently, part of the “natural” aging process, meaning things that happen the older you get NOT caused by disease, illness, or medication side effects, includes losing stuff. Google knew exactly what to feed me once I typed in “Why do we lose our patience control as we age?” The smarty pants AI was happy to fill in the blank after “Why do we lose…” our hair as we age, our elasticity, our sleep, our ability to process mucus, bladder control, and our mind.

The simple answer to all of the above questions is that stuff wears out over time. The wear and tear on our bodies over the years results in stuff getting worn out, used up, reduced, reshaped, dried up, and broken down. People get desperate to reverse or stop the natural aging process and will try anything. For some issues, there are replacement parts – knees, shoulders, hips, hair implants, facelifts and tummy tucks. For other issues, people try vitamins, tonics, magic elixirs, spells and incantations. Whatever works.

Losing Hair

Lately, my hair has been shedding more rapidly than my non-shedding shedding Bernadoodle. A recent run of the vacuum resulted in the motor burning out because there was so much hair clogging the intake hose. When we pulled it all out, most of the hair was mine. What’s going on here? As we age, hair goes through shorter growth cycles, meaning production is grinding to a halt. The hair follicles in my armpits have abandoned the factory completely, and the team of follicles on my legs are working short shifts. The hair follicles that are still on the job are shrinking and putting out thinner, subpar work. I’d fire them, but thin hair is better than no hair. And don’t get me started on the workers in charge of color (the melanocytes); they have completely lost their ability to make pigments and have walked off the job, leaving me with a head of white hair.

Losing Elasticity
When it comes to the crepey skin (not creepy, although crepey skin is a bit creepy), it’s largely due to the body producing less collagen and elastin, two important fibers that keep skin looking supple and smooth. Years of exposure to the sun, the wind, and pollution don’t help, either. You can spend money on creams, lifts, tucks, and magic potions, but most of it doesn’t last for long. There is only so much skin that can be stretched tight before you begin to look like an AI version of yourself. My solution… cover that shit up.

Losing Sleep
As teenagers, all we wanted to do was sleep. Without parental nudging, we would have slept ‘til noon and stayed up ‘til midnight. But there were things like school, jobs, and chores that demanded our attention. Finally, retired and in control of my own destiny, with no one insisting that I get up, now my body decides it doesn’t want to sleep. Our body’s circadian rhythm changes as we age, making us feel tired earlier and wake up earlier as well. How many times have I looked at the clock and asked, “Why am I awake at 5 am?” There is nowhere I need to be, no plane to catch; I could sleep until noon if I wanted, but nooooooo, my internal clock is like an annoying rooster who starts cock-a-doodle-dooing at 5 each morning. No wonder I start asking myself if it’s too early to go to bed each night starting around 8:30. My brother and sister-in-law have a self-imposed rule that they can’t go to bed until the time has a “10” in it, such as 10:15 or 10:30. For my husband and I, sure there needs to be a “10” but it can be 9:10 or in the winter, even 8:10. I hold to, 9:30 or later, or else I’ll be awake at 4:30 or sooner.

Losing Bladder Control
Luckily for me, this one is not an issue…yet. Friends have hinted that it’s coming, like the ominous phrase from Game of Thrones… Winter is coming! They warn of the dangers of a violent sneeze or forceful laughter that can cause an inconvenient leak. Weakened pelvic muscles, an overactive bladder, or, in men, an enlarged prostate (For once, a malady that men have that we women don’t!) are all natural causes that may have you investing in Depends.

Losing Control Over Mucus
“What’s up with my nose running all the time?” I’ve heard people ask. It’s not an allergy. It’s not a cold. But there it is. A runny nose. In the morning, mid-day and at night. It seems like someone left on the snot faucet. The tiny hair-like structures in our airways that push mucus upward lose speed and efficiency. Here we go again. More losing of stuff we didn’t even know we needed. The cough reflex has lost power, making it harder to clear the normal buildup of mucus, and the aging airways lose (there’s that word again) moisture and elasticity, making mucus feel stickier and more noticeable. Better invest in facial tissue. You’re going to need it.

Losing Stuff
Losing or misplacing your stuff is different from losing your shit. As previously mentioned, I lost my shit over the stupid Meta program. Losing your stuff is about not being able to find your car keys, your sunglasses, the grocery list, or your eyedrops. Have you ever spent 30 minutes looking for your sunglasses only to be told, “Hey, they are on your head.” This is normal stuff. As we age, losing stuff happens more and more frequently. Normal aging affects memory for objects and where they can be found. It can also make it more difficult to remember people’s names, but not the person themselves. In case you think you are suffering from dementia or Alzheimer’s disease, there are ways to tell the difference (If you can remember this test). If you can’t find your keys, that’s due to the normal aging process. If you are holding your keys and don’t remember what they are used for, that’s when it’s time to see your doctor.

MindCheck, a webpage on the brain, had a useful analogy: “The cognitive changes of normal aging are like a computer that has been running for years—it processes things a bit more slowly.”

I visualize the little spinning wheel that appears when a page is loading on my computer. It spins and spins, and finally the page opens. That’s my brain. It spins and spins, trying to locate the information I seek. Sometimes the name of the actor I’m trying to remember is pulled from the depths of my memory bank, and at other times an error message occurs. “File not found.” At which point, I type into Google, “What is the name of the actor who plays Spider-Man and is also in the new movie, The Odessey?” The answer… Tom Holland. At this moment, I wonder why I even bothered trying to remember when in two seconds, the brain in my phone can pull up the answer?

Losing Patience

I admit, I’ve never been a patient person. I hate waiting. I hate picking the wrong line and watching everyone move forward but me. I hate waiting to turn left at a light when the first person in line doesn’t notice the light has turned green and by the time they do, only they have time to make it through. I really hate waiting on the phone after running the AI gauntlet of questions before they connect you with a live person. I have noticed that this lack of patience is getting worse, not better. When researching why this happens, I found three possible reasons that I wholeheartedly agree with.

1) After spending decades dealing with repetitive issues, hollow explanations, and stupid people (I added that last one), older adults are sick and tired of repeating these interactions.

2) Older people often don’t care what other people think, which reduces self-consciousness and drops the polite social filter that allows them to say what they really think about your new boyfriend or that hideous dress.

3) With less time ahead of them than behind, time feels more precious, making slow service, small talk, or disorganized systems (See stupid Meta process above) intolerable and infuriating.

Losing My Mind
With all of this “losing” going on and getting worse each year, it makes me question my sanity. Finding out that most of this stuff is a normal part of aging doesn’t really make me feel any better. It may be normal, but it’s not fun. So I guess there is nothing left to do but raise a glass to another year of vacuuming up lost hair, looking for my keys, blowing my nose, screaming at my computer, and waking up at 5:00 am. Can’t wait.

Humans like to name things starting naturally with their children because you can’t keep yelling, “Hey you! Quit pulling your sister’s hair,” for 18 years. Naming your child comes with a certain amount of responsibility. Parents must keep in mind how the name sounds, what it rhymes with, and whether or not the initials spell something you wouldn’t want embroidered on towels and bathrobes, such as Steven Earl Xavier or Allen Aster Stevenson.

When my first husband and I were coming up with names for our first child, I wanted a name that couldn’t be easily changed into another name. For example, Robert (my current husband’s name) could have people calling him Rob, Robbie, or Bob. (So how do you get Bob out of Robert anyway?) The same thing with my name. Christie can be shortened to Chris or Chrissy. In high school, they shortened it to CW, my initials, and then they shortened the W to just Dub, so I was CDub.

And then there is the middle name. It needs to roll off your tongue in a fit of rage, as in, “Christie Marie Walker, what are you doing?” All children understand at an early age that when their parents take the time to use their full name, they are in big trouble and should run and hide.

Then there is the litany of names shouted by parents who have more than one child. Starting with the oldest child, it goes something like this: “DeniseMarkKarenTomSaraTim.” The litany ends with the offending child’s name finally being reached, or when they stop at the dog’s name, who, upon hearing his name yelled, knows enough to slink off and hide.

When I was expecting my first child, I got so tired of answering the question, “What are you going to name your baby?” I finally came up with the perfect answer that shut down the conversation. Alonzo Garbonzo Costanzo. The horrified looks were totally worth it, especially from my husband’s eighty-year-old Italian grandmother. Of course, that was a joke, and Erica Ann and Brian Anthony Costanzo were born and named without weird rhyming, initials that spelled out something obscene, or names that could easily be shortened into some other name. But no matter how much forethought I’d put into selecting their names and researching their meanings (Erica means eternal ruler/ever powerful; Brian means strong/virtuous), friends found ways to change them. Erica became Eeka, and Brian became B.

Moving on from naming children, naming your pets is the next logical step since pets become part of your family. For the most part, I let the kids (meaning Erica) name the pets and their stuffed animals except for the dog because I didn’t want my dog named Doug the Dog. Erica had an affinity at a young age for alliteration, and so our pets were named Ted the Turtle, Boyd the Bird, and Goldie the Goldfish. Hoppy the rabbit was the exception to the rule. Maybe we let Brian name Hoppy. Brian’s teddy bear was called Teddy and Erica’s stuffed Orca Whale was called Orkie. Now you understand why I named the dog, although for a long time Brian called our golden retriever Dog Dog.

All this seems pretty standard, normal stuff, but then humans get carried away, giving names to inanimate objects like boats, cars, planes, and trailers.

I’ve owned two boats and multiple cars, and I’ve never once given them a proper name. It’s just not my thing. My Jeep is called the Jeep. The Ford F150 is called the truck. The jet ski is called, you guessed it, the jet ski, and my two former boats were called boats.

Yes. I can hear the cries of protest coming from friends, family, and specifically boat owners who have boats large enough to be moored in a marina, that naming these precious family possessions is part of the fun. But actually, there is more to it than that.

According to the American Automobile Association (AAA), “People name their cars because it helps them feel emotionally connected and makes driving more enjoyable. This simple act turns a machine into a trusted companion.”

A trusted companion? Really? My first car, a white Pinto hatchback, was anything BUT a trusted companion. It was more like a super villain that tended to lie down and die at the most inconvenient moments and places. I had a name for that car, alright. It was a Piece O Shit. But that’s not what I think they are talking about here. Back to the article from AAA.

“The main reason we give names to our vehicles is a concept called anthropomorphism. This is the tendency to give human traits, emotions, or intentions to non-human things. By naming your car, you’re not just assigning it a label; you’re giving it a personality and a role in your life. (Ah yes. The Pinto’s personality was like an unreliable friend who was constantly trying to embarrass me.) This process helps us feel a stronger bond and a sense of control over our vehicle.” (I had no control over that vehicle. It owned me.)

Boat naming has a long and glorious history. One of my favorite pastimes, when near a marina, is to scope out the boat names written on the back of yachts, schooners, fishing boats, and even the small electric boats called Duffy to find the cleverest name. Here are some of my favorites:

Duffy Electric Boats – Buoyonce, Dock Holiday, and The Sloop Doggy Dog.

Sailboats – A Wave from it All, Seas the Day, and Shore Thing.

Fishing Boats – Tuna Colada, Grim Reefer, Reel Love

Yachts – Seaduction, and my favorite… She Got the House.

Cars and boats might be the first things that come to mind when thinking about naming inanimate objects, but after a quick slide down your nearest internet rabbit hole, you’ll discover that people will slap a name on almost anything. From a suicidal house plant named Jim to a favorite guitar named Lucille by B.B. King, from sleeves on a much-loved coat being called Sleevie Nicks to a tool shed being named Shed Bundy, humans (as far as we know) are the only creatures on this planet that spend their brain cells coming up with clever and creative names.

While I don’t name inanimate objects, I do name creatures who come into my life, even if only for a short time. The most recent example was a pair of Praying Mantises. Out in the desert, I discovered several Praying Mantis egg structures (they look like little forts) on an abandoned 1 x 6 board leaning against the fence. Looking around, I found what I thought were the mother and father. While most people believe that the female will eat the male during or immediately after copulation, in reality it only happens about 30 percent of the time. This guy had dodged the bullet.

After three days of visiting and finding the two mantises in various hiding places around the eggs, I decided to name them Bonnie and Clyde. That way, I could report back to my husband each morning, “Bonnie and Clyde are still hanging out.” It was easier than saying, “The two praying mantises are still there.”

This lasted about two weeks, and then they vanished, hopefully not to be gunned down in a rain of bullets.

NOTE: Dear subscribers. This is one of those extra articles for those who are paid subscribers. Paid subscribers receive extra articles, contests, and the warm fuzzy feeling of supporting your favorite humorist… me. Click this link to get a 30% discount on the regular annual price for one year.

The first time I remember being aware of the term “Generation Gap” was in the late 60s and early 70s. It referred to the cultural distance between the Silent Generation (born 1928-1945) and the Baby Boomers (1946 – 1964). While Boomer parents listened to Frank Sinatra, Andy Williams, Dean Martin, and Tony Bennett, their children were tuning in and dropping out as The Beatles, The Rolling Stones, The Beach Boys, and The Doors had them singing and grooving to the new sounds and rhythms.

Music wasn’t the only thing that created a gap. My favorite uncle wore his hair in a crew cut until the day he died. All the men of that generation (that I knew) wore their hair short and neat, while their male offspring were letting their “freak flags fly” by letting their hair grow down and over their shoulders. Their daughters were abandoning their bras and embracing bellbottom jeans, bare feet, and halter tops.

This was all part of the generation gap. “I don’t understand these kids,” was a common refrain heard from the Silent Generation, who weren’t that silent when it came to letting their kids know there was something wrong with them.

Read more

It’s a common point of contention in our house… how long is it going to take to complete a project? I seem to underestimate, and my husband seems to (in my opinion) overestimate, and the real timeframe is usually somewhere in the middle. Here is what I never consider when preparing my estimate… the dreaded But Firsts/So Thens.

But First/So Then
What is a But First/So Then, you ask? It’s a serious affliction that turns a ten-minute task into a two-hour project, a two-hour project into a day-long endeavor, and a day-long endeavor into a weekend nightmare.

Here’s how it works. Let’s say you need to wrap a birthday gift. By my estimate, that should only take five minutes, ten, if you add a fancy ribbon, which I seldom do, add a card, add a minute. So max, it should take only eleven minutes. However, this doesn’t account for the inevitable But Firsts/So Thens.

Looking for and finally finding the long rolls of wrapping paper kept under the bed is the first time suck of this seemingly innocuous project. Then, while on your knees retrieving the paper, you discover the missing sock you’ve been searching for and head to the dresser to find its soul mate. Reunited (and it feels so good), you can’t put the dust-bunny covered sock in the drawer with the clean one, so then you take the socks and toss them in the washer. It would be silly and wasteful to run a load just for a pair of socks, so then you grab clothes from the hamper (also not enough for a load) and head to the bathroom to grab some towels. Laundry started, you return to the bedroom, where you look around trying to remember what you are supposed to be doing. Walking back into the living room, you see the unwrapped present, do an about-face, and find yourself back on your knees pulling out roll after roll of dusty Christmas, baby shower, wedding, and Minnie Mouse paper, which was perfect for that 2-year-old birthday party, but not for your Dad’s gift.

Pulling out all the rolls and dusting them off, you wonder if there isn’t a better way to store wrapping paper. Grabbing your phone, you search for wrapping paper storage containers and find a flat bin designed to slide under the bed that will work perfectly. But first, before you press that order button, you embark on research to make sure the bin is the best price and quality, so then you order the bin.

Still needing to wrap the gift, you decide to buy new paper and head to the store, but first, you need to stop at the gas station since the gauge indicates you are almost out of gas. So then, while you’re out, you stop at the post office and the grocery store before heading home.

The hour of the birthday party is fast approaching, and the present still isn’t wrapped, but first, you need to put away the groceries AND toss the wet clothes into the dryer, making sure both socks make the journey together. A check of the time tickles that first wave of panic. Maybe you should dress for the party so you aren’t rushed, but first you need to pick out what to wear and take a shower. But first you have to wait for all the towels to dry, so then you go back to wrapping the gift, but first you need to find the scissors, which were in the junk drawer yesterday because you remember using them to cut open a box. So then, you spend fifteen minutes looking for the scissors before giving up and using a knife. Wrapping paper cut (sort of), you return to the junk drawer for the tape, which, after one pull of an inch’s worth, you find the dispenser is empty, so then you spend more time looking for a second roll only to find every color tape—brown masking tape, blue painters’ tape, black electrical tape—except clear tape. Without tape, you decide to bunch the paper together like the top of a pineapple and tie a ribbon around it, but first, you need to find the ribbon, but then the buzzer goes off for the dryer. Great. The towels are dry, but first, I should take a shower.

Finally, dressed and ready for the birthday party, gift still not wrapped but stuffed in a pillowcase, you head out the door. Wrapping the gift took 4 hours.

My sister-in-law was the first person to explain the but first affliction to me, describing how she went upstairs to retrieve one thing from her closet but then spent the rest of the day organizing, sorting, dividing, and cleaning said closet, only to return downstairs hours later without the original object. The first step in alleviating a problem is to identify the problem.

Breaking the But First/So Then Affliction
Here are steps to counteract this common issue.

· First, admit you have a problem.

· Second, when you hear that voice inside your head whispering, “But first you need to …” ignore it and continue the original task.

· Third, stay focused. Repeat the phrase, “Wrap the present. Wrap the present. Wrap the present.” (or whatever the task happens to be.) until the job is done.

· Fourth, if your mind puts up resistance, insisting that these other things must be done first, fight back by writing down the additional tasks TO BE DONE LATER, AFTER the first task is completed.

· And finally, be strong. You can do it. Really. You can.

My favorite example of a classic But First situation was expertly played out in a skit by the late Phil Hartman on Saturday Night Live. Although he never says, “But first,” it’s clearly a situation where the simple task of gathering lumber to build a window box is waylaid by increasingly more and more tasks, until the original project is long forgotten. Enjoy.

@bautista31760Anal Retentive Carpenter - Saturday Night Live #AnalRetentiveCarpenter #SNL #SaturdayNightLive #SNLComedy #FunnySketch #ComedyGold #SNLClassics #CarpenterHumor #SNLHumor #SketchComedy #ComedyVibes #HilariousSketch #SNLJokes #FunnyTV #ComedyLegends #TVComedy #SNLSketches #LaughOutLoud #SNLFans #FYP

Tiktok failed to load.

Enable 3rd party cookies or use another browser

Labeled the counterculture sacraments by Life Magazine in a 1967 article and later immortalized by English punk musician Ian Dury in his 1977 hit single, “Sex, drugs and rock and roll,” became the anthem for a generation. Now that generation has a new anthem, “No Sex, Too Many Drugs, and Tuck and Roll.”

No Sex

According to the experts, a gradual decline in our libido is common as people age. This is disappointing news for the “free love” generation of the 60s and 70s. Hormones and health conditions, plus the side effects of several medications, can all work their evil magic to reduce sexual desire. So, here’s a weird mismatch. Men start losing about 1% of their testosterone each year starting around age 35, while a woman’s estrogen level keeps going strong until she begins menopause. Testosterone levels and sperm counts are highest in a man’s late teens and early 20s, which explains sooooo much of their behavior during this time. While, according to some studies, a woman’s sexual prime isn’t reached until her 30s. Seems like a mismatch to me.

Then there are the health conditions that sap our urge for a “roll in the hay.” Heart disease, diabetes, obesity, and thyroid issues can all negatively impact our sex drive. And then there are the drugs (not the fun kind) for high blood pressure, depression, and anxiety that have the side effect of suppressing your libido. Maybe you’re depressed and anxious because you aren’t having enough sex!

And then of course, there is erectile dysfunction, which you’d think was the end of the world based on how many drugs have been created to fix that problem. Heaven forbid, a guy can’t get it up, but let’s ignore all of the issues women go through that are dismissed because that’s just a “woman’s problem.” Grrrrr.

Too Many Drugs

Remember when drugs were fun? I personally don’t, since I was a little miss goodie two-shoes who didn’t smoke or do recreational drugs, but I know plenty of people who experimented with uppers, downers, speed, weed, and even some of the nasties like LSD, Heroin, and magic mushrooms. Some of them lived to tell the tale; others sadly did not.

Put together a group of senior citizens, and the conversation will eventually turn to their ailments and what drugs they are taking. Where can you get your prescription filled at a discount? Which medication are you on for your high blood pressure? Have you had any weird side effects when taking drug X, Y, Z?

Advertising prescription drugs on TV didn’t become legal until 1997. Once that dam was opened, the flood of ads poured in. Watch a show in the middle of the day, and you’ll be bombarded with everything from Adakveo to Zepbound. For a couple of months, I kept track of the drugs that were advertised. A couple of things struck me. First, the strange brand names. I picture a think tank of marketing geniuses trying out new names by putting together random letters. How about Tropunic? Ashyimpicnle? or Voluminy? (I made these up, but they sound as real as the drugs below.) What do they mean? Nobody knows.

Second is the long list of side effects, often worse than the problem the drug is trying to solve. Many drugs list similar side effects… nausea, diarrhea, vomiting, and some type of gross rash in unmentionable places. But other drugs list scary side effects that can include DEATH.

Here are a few of my favs.

Jardiance – improves blood sugar levels in people with type 2 diabetes. Worse side effects – Loss of consciousness, Gangrene with swelling near the genitals or rectum, and genital yeast infections. In the commercial, they say “anus” no less than three times. I mute the TV when that ad comes on.

Caplyta – used to treat schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, and depression. Worse side effects: an increased risk of DEATH in older adults with dementia-related psychosis, and suicidal thoughts in young adults. A drug to treat depression that gives you suicidal thoughts? This makes no sense to me.

Vraylar – is used to treat bipolar depression. Worse side effect: uncontrollable muscle movements, including twitching, jerking, and/or twisting that may become PERMANENT. I think this side effect would make me even more depressed.

Briumvi – for prostate cancer. Worse side effect: Possible blindness. Your cancer is held at bay, but you can’t see shit.

Tuck and Roll

And finally, we have the tuck and roll. What is this, you ask? According to the Ohio State Wexner Medical Center, the tuck and roll maneuver is a good basic, safe method to help prevent injury from falls. Nobody intentionally wants to fall, but if you do, why not increase your odds by falling in a controlled manner that might save you from breaking bones or hitting your head? Here are the steps.

1) Go with the flow. When you feel yourself falling, go with it. Don’t fight it. Try to stay loose. Tensing increases your chance of injury.

2) Get small. Bend your knees and elbows, tuck your chin to your chest. This is the “tuck” in Tuck and Roll. Think of it this way. Which is more likely to break into pieces when thrown to the ground, a ball or a tree branch? Be the ball.

3) Try to land on muscle, not bone. While muscles bruise, bones break.

4) Don’t flail about trying to stop the fall. Go with it. You’re on a roll!

Family and friends who know me are going to call “Foul” on this advice, since they have seen me take my share of full-frontal splats, trips, and falls, resulting recently in a cracked rib. What they don’t know is the number of times I’ve started to trip and “went with the flow,” landing on the ground and recovering without serious injury. I keep those embarrassing little adventures to myself.

Check out this video on how to fall correctly.

One of the milestones of childhood is being potty-trained. It’s a big deal. Not needing diapers is great, or is it? Once a child is potty trained, parents fly into action when a child announces, sometimes in the middle of a dinner party, “I have to poop!” Then there is the mad dash to find the restroom at the grocery store, the department store, or anywhere that is not home. When you think about it, potty training solves one problem but creates new ones.

Before any family road trip, Mom made sure my three siblings and I had visited the bathroom before climbing into our turquoise Pontiac station wagon. Inevitably, one of us kids would push back, saying, “But I don’t have to go.” To which Mom would reply, “Just try.” What Mom knew, and we older kids figured out, was that Dad didn’t stop until the car needed gas. “Hold it. We’re almost there,” was an oft-repeated phrase that became ingrained in my brain.

When I became a mom, I also told my kids to “go before we go,” but sometimes that didn’t matter, and we’d have to stop, even if there were no bathrooms for miles. If necessity is the mother of invention, then motherhood is the inventor of emergency pee stops. It’s easier to pull over, open the front and back doors of the car to create a privacy cubicle and let your kid pee on the side of the road than clean up wet clothes and stained upholstery when they can’t hold it anymore.

One time, when my son was a teenager, I had a call from the police to come and get him from a friend’s house. Apparently, the boys had helped themselves to the liquor cabinet. On the drive home, my inebriated son pleaded, “I know I don’t deserve your mercy, but could you please stop at a gas station and let me pee?”

My father’s words, “Hold it. We’re almost there,” (which we weren’t), almost popped out of my mouth. But the way he asked, “I don’t deserve your mercy,” disarmed me, and I pulled over.

Now, in my seventies, with friends the same age, stopping to pee every two hours is once again a thing. On a recent bike trip with a group of septuagenarians, it seemed like we had just started riding when people were stopping to pee. The guys walked away into the wild terrain, turned their backs to the group, and let fly. The women had to walk a bit farther to find a bush to squat behind. One friend who has an ostomy bag after a surgery sang out with glee, “I’m peeing right now.” Braggart.

I remember the first time I squatted behind a bush to pee. I must have been five or so. We were camping and taking a hike with Dad, nowhere near a toilet. Dad walked me off the trail and found a place behind a boulder, instructing me to pull down my pants and squat. When my little bare buns were tickled by a slender stalk of grass, I screamed like I’d been bitten by a snake and peed all over myself. It’s always a good idea to check for snakes, ant mounds, poison oak, and wriggly stalks of grass before you squat.

When it comes to peeing outdoors, guys definitely have the advantage. For guys, the world is their toilet. Of all the guy stuff, this is the only thing I envy. Who wouldn’t want to be able to write their name in the snow or “whip it out” and let fly? Which reminds me of an old political joke…

The President looks out at the White House lawn and sees an insult written in the snow with pee. Furious, he demands his staff investigate. Later, the security chief returns to say he has good news, bad news, and really bad news.

“Give me the bad news,” the President demands.
“Well, we tested the urine, and it belongs to the Vice President.”
The President is shocked and betrayed. “Then what is the really bad news?”
The security chief replies, “It’s in the First Lady’s handwriting.”

***

Traveling abroad brings with it new and exciting bathroom experiences. This is when you realize that the Western toilet is not the universal commode. While exploring the streets of Shanghai, I needed a bathroom. After walking a bit more, I saw women coming in and out of a small, free-standing building next to the sidewalk and hoped this was a restroom. Sure enough, there were sinks and several stalls. When I walked in, the three women inside stopped to look up at me. At 5’10”, I towered above the local women. As I approached the stall door, they watched and waited for what I didn’t know. Upon opening the door, I discovered a squat toilet, a hole in the ground with a porcelain place to put your feet. I turned around to look at the women, who were anticipating a reaction. Maybe they thought I’d turn and leave. Instead, I gave the universal sign for “Oh, well,” (a shrug of the shoulders with my palms up), before stepping inside. When you gotta go, you gotta go.

The problem, for me, with squat toilets is that it’s such a long way down. And then there is the issue of getting back up WITHOUT touching anything. Back in the day, no problem. Well, that’s not entirely true. Again, in China, this time, Hong Kong, I needed to pee before having a one-hour massage. Using sign language, I conveyed my need, and they pointed up two flights of stairs to a room with a free-standing stall made of lightweight plastic panels. Inside… the dreaded squat toilet. After relieving myself, I tried and failed to stand. I made the mistake of reaching out to the walls for support and almost tipped the entire stall over. Luckily, there were stacks of boxes outside the stall that stopped the whole thing from falling over. Finally upright (both myself and the stall), I exited the stall to find two staff members, eyes wide with concern, who had run up the stairs to my rescue, since it sounded like I’d released a bull in the China shop.

Here are a couple of tips for using squat toilets in China. Look for 男 for men and 女 for women. The men’s symbol looks like a block head running for the toilet, while the women’s symbol looks like someone crossing their legs because they have to pee badly. Also, bring your own toilet paper and don’t throw it in the hole. Place it in the trash can provided. Wet wipes for your hands are also a good idea. Have small change in the local currency, because many places have a bathroom attendant who will dole out toilet paper if you pay the toilet tax. This seems to be the case in Mexico and Morocco. Except for the language part, this advice holds for most countries.

Even when in a country with Western toilets, you’ll find that toilet designers have taken creative license with the shape of the toilet seat and the flushing mechanisms. In Morocco, there were round, oblong, and square toilet seats. The flushing mechanisms weren’t handles but buttons to be pushed, either on the top of the tank or on the wall. Don’t get me started on the bidet. Not a fan of having water squirted at my behind. Japan is the world leader in bidet usage, with over 82 percent of households equipped with advanced, tech-forward electronic bidets called washlets. I’ve seen one of those high-tech bidets, complete with blinking lights and a control panel that puts my TV remote to shame. If I need a manual to wash my bum, no thanks.

And finally, let’s end this toilet adventure by weighing in on the great toilet paper debate. Does the toilet paper hang over the front of the roll, or come from the back and bottom? I grew up with the paper coming from the back. My husband came from a family with the paper coming over the top. We spent the first year of our marriage switching the roll every time we used the bathroom. Eventually, I let him have his way. Over-the-top aficionados point to the fact that the design on the paper is meant to be seen on top. Paper coming from behind proponents argue that it’s easier to tear the sheet off since the roll acts as a stop to tear the paper. Cat owners will point out that over the top is a recipe for disaster, as their cats will quickly run through an entire roll. (See video below.)

I recently saw a toilet paper dispenser with a metal flap over the top that helps tear the paper evenly and would discourage cats from pulling all the paper off the roll, so I guess someone thought long and hard about this conundrum and came up with a solution. Problem solved. Next, World Peace.

Cat Pulling Toilet Paper

If you enjoyed this exploration of toilets, please leave a comment or like it. Thanks.

Picture this. You’re in a yoga class in the downward dog position. You happen to look back to discover a pair of elephant knees are residing where the knees of your youth used to be. At that moment, you make one important decision… never wear shorts to yoga ever again. This is what happened to me. Besides never wearing shorts, I gave up yoga altogether. There. Problem fixed, or is it? It’s fixed if you belong to the if-I-can’t-see-it- it’s-not-thing club, but then you’d have to cover yourself from head to toe because our skin is betraying us in all the usual places… neck, face, arms, legs, and that floppy area under the arms between our shoulders and elbows.

Our skin is the body’s largest organ and the most visible, covering an average area of 22 square feet, think about a 5 X 5 square carpet. The skin makes up about 16 percent of our body weight and has several jobs to perform:

· Protects all our inside stuff from the outside stuff like germs, pollution, and radiation

· Regulates our body temperature

· Conveys important information like, “Ouch! That plant has thorns.”

· Stores water, fat, and Vitamin D.

My skin has started slacking off on all of these important jobs, starting with staying attached. Take the pinch test. Pinch the skin on the top of your hand, then release it. Does the skin stay at attention for a count of 1-2-3 before lying flat instead of bouncing back into place? If it does, it means your skin has lost its elasticity due to the rest of your body producing less collagen and elastin. Also, that layer of fat beneath the skin thins as you age, probably the only place that thins with age. This causes the skin to sag, fold, and wrinkle like crepe paper. Hello, elephant knees. Hello, turkey neck.

Then there are the lines and grooves that have become permanent from smiling, frowning, squinting, or making any facial expressions. These repeated actions, over a lifetime, create grooves in the skin. I guess, if we want no laugh lines or forehead furrows, we should never raise an eyebrow in concern, guffaw at a joke, protect our eyes by squinting, or scowl in disapproval. What fun would that be? I’ll take the lines, thank you very much.

Wrinkles, sagging skin, and laugh lines only touch the surface of my complaints about my skin’s betrayal. What’s with the bruising and ripping open at the slightest knock about? I used to think that when someone said, “Oh, you’re so thin-skinned,” they meant I was easily offended. Now it means something more literal. My skin is actually thin and can’t handle the tiniest poke or bump.

A common occurrence is to find that you’re bleeding or have a huge bruise, and you have no idea when or how this happened. Is this because our brain is also failing? How could I have this huge, gnarly bruise or a cut gushing blood, and have no idea how or when I became injured? It seems the body of my youth was much better at bouncing off walls without telltale signs of injury. Today, any impact with a solid stationary object like a door jamb, corner of a counter, or the edge of a coffee table causes an instant bruise, and that’s before I’ve left the house. Step outside, and there are a myriad of benign objects waiting to assault my skin, including my collapsible golf cart and small travel backpack, both of which gave me instant bruises. A day pulling weeds is now a three-band-aid event. What’s the deal with this?

Apparently, it’s about layers. Our skin is made up of three layers, each with a job to do.

The outer layer, the Epidermis, is the one we see. As we age, this layer slows down cell replacement. Maybe it’s tired and has decided it’s time to retire, not completely, but slow down production. When we were young, our skin replaced its cells every 28 days. Now this lazy-ass organ can take up to three months to replace cells. No wonder those gashes take longer to heal.

The middle layer, the Dermis, provides the skin’s strength and elasticity. Another group of lazy cells has decided to produce less collagen and elastin, causing sagging and wrinkles. And the blood vessels in this layer become more fragile, which is why a two-year-old can run full speed into a wall and walk awake only slightly dazed without a mark on him, but if I put on my backpack and the buckle scrapes my arm, an ugly bruise rears its head instantly and takes seven days to fade away.

Then there is the deep layer called the Hypodermis. This is the layer of fat and connective tissue that is supposed to act as a cushion and insulator. The gradual loss of this subcutaneous fat leaves the body more vulnerable to injury. I guess my belly is fairly safe, since I have plenty of stored fat there, but my arms and legs need to take out an insurance policy.

With the skin being the largest and most visible-to-others organ, it’s no wonder there is an entire industry dedicated to counteracting the visible signs of aging. You can inject substances like Botox to relax facial muscles that cause frown lines and crow’s feet, or inject hyaluronic acid or collagen stimulators into the skin to plump up wrinkles. Both involve sticking needles in your face. No thanks.

More fun treatments involve laser resurfacing to remove damaged skin, microneedling your face using fine needles to create controlled micro-injuries to prompt the skin to heal itself (More needles, yikes!), or using a chemical peel where medical-grade acid takes off a layer of dead skin. None of this sounds fun.

Then there are the surgeries, called plastic surgery, because if you’re not careful, you’ll end up looking like a plastic doll. Facelifts, eyelid surgery, brow/forehead lift, and neck lift to get rid of the rippling turkey neck.

After reviewing all of these options, I’m going to follow the lead of Diane Keaton in the movie Something’s Gotta Give with Jack Nicholson. When Nicolson asks, “What’s with the turtlenecks, Keaton replies, “I like them, I’ve always liked them, and I’m just a turtleneck kind of gal.”

Since scarves and turtlenecks are cheaper and safer than surgery, I’m going to follow Diane’s lead.

Check out this clip from Something’s Gotta Give for the entire exchange.

Thanks for reading. Leave a comment with your least favorite skin issue. Sharing is caring.

Reading, writing, and a bit of arithmetic take up the majority of my time during my waking hours. Then there’s watching movies in the evening and three meals a day. What do all of these things have in common?

Sitting. So much sitting. Sometimes when I’m writing, I disappear into the words and don’t look up for hours. My clue for how long I’ve been sitting is the ache in my ass or the cramping of my fingers. And then there is my four-legged alarm clock.

Rae, my black and white Bernedoodle, has her routine as well, and if I should deviate from said routine, she lets me know with a paw on my leg, a bark, or numerous vocalizations that sound like I’m being scolded.

5:30 to 7:30 – Morning cuddles and belly rubs in bed.

7:30 to 8:30 – Time to rise and shine. Make sure Mom moves to the kitchen and makes breakfast.

Immediately after breakfast – Outdoor time with mom. Morning meditation.

Naps until lunchtime – Begging for snacks.

Nag Mom to go outside, repeat, repeat, repeat.

5:00 to 6:00 – Begin reminding Mom, with various vocalizations, that it’s almost dinner time. Repeat until demands are met.

Immediately after dinner – Outdoor time.

As the sunsets – Focus switches to Dad for walks and snacks. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

Last potty break – Outside one more time before bedtime with Mom.

Next day, repeat above.

What do I get out of all of this besides unconditional love and constant attention? Let’s start with the morning outdoor time. Rae’s favorite toy is a beat-up cloth frisbee that she knows by name. She runs and retrieves it, bringing it to me for our morning tug of war, which can get pretty wild. She shakes her head back and forth violently, using her paws like hands to capture my arm and pull the toy to her. I’ll bring my face close until we are nose-to-nose, making my own growling sounds, which she repeats. Inevitably, I end up injured, bruised, bleeding, or all of the above. At my annual body scan at the dermatologist, the doctor would point to a bruise or a scab and ask, “What’s this?” To which I’d answer, “My dog. My dog. My dog. We play rough, and my skin is like tissue paper.”

After about three or four tosses max, Rae is done. I throw the frisbee at her, and she’ll watch as it sails by. I imagine her thinking, “Hello. I’m not a Golden Retriever.” Playtime over, I lower myself down to the dirt driveway, spread my legs to make a place for her to settle in, and begin the calming-down portion of our morning.

This is where Rae raises her nose to the morning breeze to catch the scent of a rabbit, squirrel, or other intruder, her nose twitching and working overtime. In this quiet moment, mourning doves fly in, butterflies flit by in jerky moments, and hummingbirds keep up their search for blooming flowers. It’s so quiet. Rae and I both turn at the sound of a large fly passing by, disturbing our revelry. A strange-looking beetle, with a red body and black wings, saunters by as ants scurry out of the way. Rae watches but doesn’t engage.

Sitting in the dirt grounds me. Watching Rae’s nose working the incoming scents on the breeze hypnotizes me. Listening to the birds calling to each other delights me. This is my morning meditation shared with my constant companion, who seems to enjoy the ritual as much as I do.

During the day, when I’m at my computer for over an hour, she is there to remind me, “You gotta move.” Who needs a fancy “smart watch” programmed to say, “Time to move,” when you have a needy dog who thinks the world should revolve around her? Sometimes, if I’m on a roll, I’ll tell her, “Not now.” But she’s persistent in a way a watch could never be. A paw on the leg. Soulful eyes begging. A bark or her patented indoor vocabulary that sounds remarkably like Scooby Do. How can I resist? I hit save, and out we go.

Somewhere between 3 and 4, I’ve had it for the day. My eyes are tired, and now I’m ready to move. That’s when we’ll take a real walk before I settle into my favorite chair to read. Now this chair is only made for one person, but somehow it holds me, and a 40-pound dog, who insists on joining me. With most of her body spread across my thighs, she patiently (or not so patiently) waits for dinner. Her internal clock starts counting down the minutes, and as soon as I say, “Okay,” she leaps off of me and starts the dinner happy dance.

After dinner, especially if it’s warm, I’ll head outside to watch the sunset over the mountains. There will be some frisbee tossing, walking around the yard looking for rabbits and ground squirrels, or as my husband calls them, “Zombies!”

Again, I’ll sit in the dirt with my dog and take it all in. Birds grab one more sip of water at the bird bath before finding a place to roost as the sun goes down, lizards look for their insect dinner before slipping into the safety of a crevasse between two rocks for the night, and with the arrival of twilight, bats start their foraging.

During our evening movie time, Rae is resigned to watching us stare at a glowing box. She attempts to lure us outside by bringing us a toy, making muffled crying sounds that we interpret as, “Come on. There are rabbits to find. Zombies to chase.” Eventually, we give in, pausing the movie, and heading outside once again for a walk around the yard, sometimes in the moonlight, other times beneath an inky black sky with glittering stars.

It was on one such night that we discovered we had a night-blooming cactus. Its yellow blossoms peppered the tall green stalks. The next morning, we checked the cactus and discovered that all of the flowers were closed and looked dead. But the next night, they opened again. If it hadn’t been for Rae, we never would have known this was happening.

It takes the persistence of my dog, her warm brown eyes, her varied vocalizations, and a paw on my thigh to get me away from the computer, the T.V., the book, and out into the real world, and I thank her for it every day.

Next time, back to the series on aging. See you then.

Joints. Not the fun kind that you smoke to get high, but those points of connection within your body that make you different from a plank of wood. Without joints, you’d have two positions… vertical and horizontal. No bending, walking, sitting, moving, or basically doing anything other than being stuck in one position like the Tin Man before Dorothy brings a can of oil to the rescue.

There are around 350 joints in the human body. Some are immovable, others slightly movable, and then there are the ones easily recognized as joints, the freely movable. An example of a freely movable joint is the knee, while the brain is filled with immovable joints that, until you read this, you didn’t even know were considered joints.

The ones that concern us here are the freely movable ones that, as we age, turn into slightly less movable. You know the ones… knees, hips, ankles, elbows, fingers, the neck, and back.

Kids’ bodies are flexible like cooked spaghetti noodles. They trip, fall, bend, and tumble before bouncing back, continuing as if nothing happened, like a cat. I watched a video of a three-year-old on a zipline. At the end of the adventure, the zipline comes to an abrupt stop and releases (ejects) the unsuspecting child, whose body is jerked around like a dog thrashing a chew toy, before falling into the water below. First off, who puts a baby on a zipline? It seems like that should be illegal. Secondly, the baby—wearing a life preserver—appeared to be fine once she was retrieved from the water. She wasn’t even crying. Wow. Watching her tiny body twist and tumble through the air, I imagined that if that had been me, they’d be pulling me out of the water to be loaded onto a stretcher and taken to the nearest hospital.

It was shortly after my 40^th birthday that I began to notice morning stiffness. For you guys, that might mean something else, but for me, it meant that I wasn’t popping out of bed like a baby off a zipline. Sitting up (pop, pop, pop), standing (creek, crack, creek), moving my neck from side to side (snap, pop, snap), and then taking my first step of the new day (crunch, pop, crackle) created sounds loud enough to make my dog’s ears perk up. What was happening? Had I turned into a breakfast cereal drenched in milk?

Like an old car, all our moving parts begin to wear out, especially those that do the heavy lifting, like our knees and hips. Unlike an old car, replacement parts can’t be found at AutoZone. This “wear-and-tear” has a name, osteoarthritis, a chronic degenerative joint disease caused by the gel-like cartilage cushion wearing down like that 10-year-old pillow, which is now as flat as a pancake.

For those lucky enough to grow old in the mid-20th century and beyond, modern joint replacement surgery became a viable option, with ankle, hip, knee, and shoulder replacements among the most popular procedures. Do you remember the tagline of the TV show, The Six Million Dollar Man (1974 – 1978), and two years later, The Bionic Woman (1976-1978)? “We can rebuild him. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster.”

While the medical field has come a long way in body part replacement, they have yet to create someone who is “better, stronger, faster” but only better than before, but not as good as when you were twenty, and certainly not stronger and faster. Instead of reaching for that goal, science is skipping over converting the human body to a six-million-dollar man and moving straight to humanoids powered by AI. Why fix something that is broken when you can start from scratch and make something better? This is not to say that today’s humanoid robots are better, not yet anyway. But if science fiction is any indicator (and it often is), then we can expect today’s robots to become better, stronger, faster, and then we are all in big trouble.

Heavens to Betsy! There are dozens of phrases that use specific names. Do these people exist? If so, are they upset that we use their names?

Does the phrase, Heavens to Betsy, refer to a woman who was so divine, so perfect, that everyone who knew her felt she would end up in heaven one day, and therefore they should call her name in surprise? Nope. That’s not it. Most lexicographers (those people who are obsessed with the origin of words) consider the phrase’s origin “completely unsolvable” and the identity of “Betsy” unknown.

Read more

Life is cyclical. We start our lives dependent, wearing diapers, taking naps, and saying whatever comes to mind. As we age, we can end up dependent on others, wearing diapers, taking naps, and saying whatever comes to mind, but this time, people don’t think that it’s cute like when we were four years old.

My son was a great one for shouting anything that popped into his head with no clue that this could be a problem. Once, in a grocery store, he saw a man in a wheelchair without legs. In a voice that carried down the cereal aisle and back, he asked, “Mom. Why does that man have no legs?” I replied, in a quieter voice, “I don’t know, why don’t you ask him?”

Off he ran, sliding to a stop before running into the wheelchair. “What happened to your legs?”

The man said something I couldn’t hear. Then Brian came running back, a huge smile on his face. “Mom. Mom. He got his legs blown up in the war.” Of course, he thought that was cool and exciting.

The man looked over at me. I waved. He shrugged. He seemed okay with Brian’s inquiring mind. I felt it was more respectful to engage with the man than to stare, whisper, and avoid him.

Next up was the holiday lights incident. Our elderly neighbor had lost her husband in October. Come December, she hadn’t hung any holiday lights. Her house was the only one on the cul-de-sac without lights. One day, as we pulled into the driveway, Brian asked why Betty didn’t have any Christmas lights. I told him that her husband had died, and maybe she was too sad to put up her lights. As we were exiting the car, Betty was bringing her trash cans to the curb. Brian decided to confirm my explanation by shouting across the street, “Betty, are you sad because your husband died?” Luckily, Betty was hard of hearing and only waved at Brian before returning to her house. I, however, had heard his question clear as day, and had the good sense to be mortified.

Another time at the grocery store (where embarrassing things seemed to happen), Brian spotted a very obese woman at the end of the aisle. When he asked me, “Why is that lady so fat?” I grabbed his pudgy little arm, did an about-face, and sprinted down a different aisle, hoping not to run into the woman somewhere else in the store. There are some questions you just don’t ask, no matter how old you are.

Kids do say the darndest things, but so do adults, especially as we grow older. Is it because we are old and cranky and don’t give a shit what people think, or is there something else going on here? Apparently, it’s another “normal” aspect of aging. Great, just great.

What does science say?

Experts have found that as we age, it’s not only our height that shrinks, but our brains also experience age-related shrinkage as well. Luckily, in healthy adults, not all parts of the brain experience this “shrinkage” all at the same time. Unfortunately for the people around us, this shrinkage often occurs in the frontal lobes, which manage inhibitory and social cognition. This means, Grandma will blurt out that you look fat in those jeans without being asked for an opinion, and Grandpa will drone on for 30 minutes telling that story about the time he jumped out of a moving boat to save the dog, who was doing quite well without him, never taking in the social clues of his listeners, who have heard the same story a dozen times.

Our “filter” relies on cognitive processes such as inhibitory control, which stops us from saying the first thing that pops into our minds, no matter how much we want to. The filter also depends on social cognition, which means the ability to understand and predict other people’s behaviors, thoughts, and intentions. This helps us to recognize what behavior is appropriate in a particular social setting and adapt our behavior based on this. The whole, if-you-can’t-say-anything-nice-don’t-say-anything-at-all philosophy goes right out the window when you lose your filter.

To be fair to the mouth, it’s not the mouth’s fault; it’s the shrinking brain. Although if the mouth knew what was good for it, it would keep the lips pressed tightly together as that errant thought careened freely through the frontal lobes like a steely ball in a pinball machine.

There have been studies that found older adults respond differently to socially awkward situations than younger adults. For example, older adults have more difficulty recognizing when a statement might be embarrassing or tactless. Sarcasm may be lost on them as well. Combine this with not caring what people think about you anymore, and you have a disaster in the making.

Personally, I’ve been told that I can be rather blunt (I think I’m being honest), tactless (again, see “honest”), and rude (a bit too honest?). With the impending erosion of my “filter,” I want to apologize in advance to friends and family who may be the recipients of my unfiltered thoughts and opinions. Most of the time, I do try to keep my mouth shut.

But then…I can’t.

The whole, kids-should-be-seen-and-not-heard thing never really worked with me. Ask my mom. She’ll tell you. I thought my 10-year-old opinion was just as valuable as some random adult’s. And the whole, only-speak-when-you-are-spoken-to philosophy was totally lost on me. I had to learn to couch my words, keep my mouth shut, and read social situations once I landed in the business world, and I did. But now that I’m retired, I’ve been consciously shaking off some of those restraints, especially when it comes to the issues of the day. I’m more in the see-something, say-something camp. I try to be respectful of other people’s opinions, but I’ve stopped suppressing my opinions just to “keep the peace.” Is it my shrinking frontal lobes, or is it my I’m-mad-as-hell-and-I’m-not-going-to-take-it-anymore attitude? Whatever it is, I’m going to blame the frontal lobes, a failing filter, and a mouth that has forgotten how to stay shut.

Looks like there is a third Wednesday in April. This means if you are a paid subscriber, you’ll receive a bonus issue of Humor For Humorless Times on 4/29/2026.
Not a paid subscriber? You lose! Just kidding, or am I? I’m blaming my shrinking frontal lobes.

To my paid subscribers, thank you for supporting my writer’s journey. Being a writer can be a solitary endeavor, but with your support, I am encouraged to keep on keeping on. I hope you enjoy Chapter One of my new novel, Patsy Hits the Road. Leave a comment to be entered into a drawing for a free copy—in the format of your choice. Good luck and happy reading.

Read more

People have said to me, “Oh, I could never write a novel.” I disagree. Anyone can write a novel. It’s a matter of putting words together into sentences, sentences into paragraphs, paragraphs into chapters, and the next thing you know, you have 75,000 words and a novel.

Is it a good novel? That is the rub, isn’t it? Writing a “good” novel takes work. Then again, who deems a novel to be good, bad, or indifferent? I’ve tried for years to find an agent who would promote my novels to a traditional publisher. After reading a query letter and maybe the first ten pages, they have all passed, even though I receive comments from readers both online and in person, telling me how much they enjoy my stories. (Is everyone lying?)

After spending over a year writing my novel, I’ll be damned if I’m going to toss it in a drawer because a bunch of agents can’t see my brilliance! (Okay, brilliance might be a bit of an exaggeration, but you have to believe in yourself, or how will you keep writing in the face of defeat?)

Like I said in the title, writing the novel is the easy part, at least for me. The words flow, the characters speak and do strange things I didn’t expect, the story moves along, until it reaches its destination, a satisfying ending. Then the real work begins.

Back in school, in days of yore, teachers would give your written essay two grades. The first was for content and creativity, and the second grade was for my personal trio of arch villains: spelling, grammar, and punctuation. My grades were consistently A/C or A/D. I know this is my Achilles heel, but like Achilles, I keep battling on.

Step one is to edit, edit, edit. By the time I hand over my novel to my first editor, I’ve read the thing from cover to cover several times and have run it through spell check and Grammarly. For my latest novel, Grammarly caught 782 mistakes, 750 of which were that pesky comma. When writing at the speed of thought, who can be bothered with commas! I understand the importance of a comma for clarity, as in the classic example, “Let’s eat, grandma or Let’s eat grandma.” However, will the world come to an end if I miss a comma? I think not, except maybe for poor grandma.

Grammarly, for all of its comma awareness, missed so many issues that my human spellcheckers found, especially words that are spelled correctly but are not the correct word. In my novel, Fearless, in chapter one, I had a man unintentionally wearing a skirt instead of a shirt. One little letter can change everything. And even the human editors miss stuff. With five different people pre-reading my novel, they all found different mistakes. If you think this is something only a self-publishing novelist must deal with, think again. I’ve caught mistakes in New York Times bestselling novels, and I bet you have, too. This makes me smile, as I tell myself, “I’m no different from those bestselling novelists!” I admit, it’s a delusion, but I’m going with it.

Next up, after the editing is complete, is the designing of the cover and the inside pages. I don’t mind this part. While I’m writing, an image of a cover appears in my head. If I were traditionally published, this would be the purview of the publisher’s creative team, with very little input from me, the author. Being a bit of a control freak, I would not be happy with relinquishing creative control.

On the other hand, I’d be thrilled with someone, anyone, taking over the next step … marketing. This particular job is so important, and yet I’d gladly turn it over to someone else. For this reason alone, I’d love to be picked up by a traditional publisher. I won’t bore you with the to-do list leading up to the publishing date. It’s daunting, boring, and necessary.

For my new novel, Patsy Hits the Road, I decided to take a couple of classes on marketing your book. And guess what? I’ve been doing it all wrong. (Visualize my chin dropping to my chest with a heavy sigh.) Apparently, you are not supposed to launch your eBook and paperback at the same time. You are, however, able to solicit Advance Reader reviews so that on the day the book launches, reviews appear the first week of the launch. (Thank you in advance to my Advance Readers!) Then the next trick is to make your book available for advance purchase with a presale. When people buy the book before it launches, they will receive their eBook on launch day.

All of these little tasks are designed to trick the Amazon algorithm into thinking you have a bestseller on your hands. I’m no magician, but I think this would be quite the feat if I could pull off that little piece of magic.

So here goes. For those of you who read your books on Kindle, AND are interested in buying Patsy Hits the Road, click this link to pre-order your book, before the April 18^th official launch day. Then on the 18^th, the book will automatically appear in your library. Prefer the paperback? That comes out on May 9^th, and for some reason, you can’t preorder the paperback. Don’t ask me why. None of this makes any sense to me. I’m just a lowly writer, switching hats from writer to editor, to designer, to marketer, often in the same day.

As a Jane Austen character said in her novel Northanger Abbey, “The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid.” Who am I to argue with Jane Austen? Don’t be stupid, order my book.

Here’s the book blurb:

Combine one part road trip with one part journey of the heart, sprinkle generously with humor, add a healthy dollop of compassion, and you get Patsy Hits the Road.

Seventy-five-year-old Patsy tries to outrun grief and find new joy when she hits the road with her best friend, Rosa, in a cherry red Mustang convertible. Following Route 66 through the California desert, across Arizona, north to Santa Fe, and beyond, the women rescue a tortoise, consult a palm reader, dig up sacred dirt, and sled down a dune. On the adventure, they sprinkle her husband Carl’s ashes around the Southwest, as Patsy comes to terms with life without her husband. Patsy finds a dog, loses the dog, and ultimately finds herself.

For those familiar with the rugged beauty of the American Southwest and the quirky nature of Route 66, the story will evoke fond memories. For those who haven’t had the pleasure of a “Yellow Line Bovine” hamburger from the Roadkill Café or the thrill of filling your shoes and pockets with sand as you slide down a giant dune, this story will inspire a road trip of your own.

Author Note: Grammarly caught 21 errors in this article; all except two errors were commas.

On April 8^th, paid subscribers will be able to read chapter one of Patsy Hits the Road here on Substack and be entered into a contest to win a copy in the format of their choice. Good luck.

Continuing our journey from the top of our head to the tips of our toes, we have arrived at the ears, those funny-looking protrusions that stick out from the sides of our head. First, let’s tackle the elephant ears in the room, the myth that our ears and noses keep growing as we age. Even though I’ve seen some pretty big ears on old men, the ear does not technically keep growing, thank god, or we’d all end up looking like Dumbo. But something is happening because ears do look larger as we age. Let’s ask an expert from a school we’ve never heard of, shall we?

“As we get older, our bodies become less efficient at producing new collagen and elastin fibers, which leads to the weakening and loosening of the entire cartilage structure,” said Dr. Alan Matarasso, MD, professor of surgery at the Donald and Barbara Zucker School of Medicine at Hofstra/Northwell.

Translation: The exterior structure of the ear is made of cartilage. Cartilage gets tired, droops, and sags just like I do around 3:00 pm, needing a shot of coffee or iced tea to make it to dinner. This lazy-ass cartilage contributes to the perception that the ears are larger, which they technically are, but they didn’t grow; they drooped. Now that we know that we’re not going to end up looking like Nestor the long-eared donkey, we can move on to the real issue of the aging ears, the loss of hearing.

Back around 1.8 million years ago, there was a Homo erectus Dude, who didn’t hear the approach of a Megantereon prehistoric saber-toothed cat, and ended up as cat food. Moments before his demise, he also didn’t hear his wife tell him he shouldn’t go outside the cave after sundown. Was it a loss of hearing, or did he ignore his wife? Either way, he ended up dead. Dead and forgotten until his skull was discovered in 1999 at the archeological site at Dmanisi, Georgia (not the state, the country), bearing two deep puncture wounds in the back of the head, matching the fang spacing of Megantereon. In this case, hearing loss could have been his fatal flaw.

Thank goodness no saber-toothed cats are roaming around today, but there are still plenty of sounds that are important for our survival. Some include being able to hear a fire alarm sounding in your home, or a siren warning of an approaching emergency vehicle, or your wife/partner asking you for the fifth time what you want for dinner, to which you answer, “What?” This begs the question, after how many “Whats?” is it legal to kill said spouse? Just wondering.

Besides being a constant irritant in a relationship, a gradual loss of hearing is considered to be a normal part of aging known as presbycusis. It usually starts sometime in the 50s or 60s, with about one-third of adults over 65 experiencing some hearing loss. Here’s what’s happening with me. If I’m home alone, I can hear a pin drop, a mouse scratching, or my dog’s tiny little fart, which makes me smile every time. However, place me in a crowd or at a table with a dozen people, and suddenly I find myself cupping my hand around my ear, imitating an old-fashioned hearing trumpet, to hear what the person across from me is saying. All I need to do now to feel like I’m a hundred years old is to shout, “Eh?”

Served with the main course of hearing loss comes a side dish of denial. “I can hear, just fine,” is a common refrain. My 92-year-old father-in-law swore until the day he died that he could hear “just fine,” refusing to be fitted with a hearing aid. My dad had a hearing aid because I suspect my mom was ready to kill him if she had to repeat herself one more time. It didn’t take long, however, for my dad to figure out that a side benefit of a hearing aid is that you can turn it off. There were many times at our loud family gatherings that I’d catch Dad surreptitiously reaching up and switching his hearing aid off, a relaxed smile returning to his face as he watched his noisy brood in serene silence.

One time, my husband and I were heading into a Bass Pro Shop. Upon entering the store, I spied a sign. Raising my voice and pointing at the sign, I said, “Look, Babe. They have free hearing tests today.”

To which he replied equally as loud, “What?”

While this garnered several knowing looks from the female shoppers and confused looks from the males, my husband and I thought this was hilarious. It was as if we’d rehearsed it, which we hadn’t. We’re just that funny naturally, or so we think.

My husband plays guitar, so he needs to tune his guitar before playing. He discovered that he was having difficulty hearing one particular note, B-flat. He didn’t think much of it at the time. Fast forward several years. I decided to sing a song in honor of my husband’s 60^th birthday. I teamed up with a local piano player to practice the song I wanted to sing, “Santa Baby.” My husband looks like Santa, and with my rewritten words, it was going to be a fun way to celebrate him.

Before we got started, the piano player asked, “What key do you sing in?” Not being a professional singer, I answered, “I don’t know,” to which he prompted me to start singing, and he’d find the key. I started singing as he pinked several keys before announcing, “B-flat.”

Suddenly, the clouds parted, the burning bush exploded into flames, and the angels trumpeted, a true revelation. B-flat. The same note, my husband couldn’t hear. This explained so much.

And finally, to answer that pressing question I presented at the beginning of this little exploration into hearing loss, what would have happened if Horton, with his giant elephant ears, hadn’t been able to hear those tiny Whos down in Whoville? Those Whos would have succumbed to the same fate as our prehistoric cousin, Homo erectus dude … death.

So, if you need a hearing aid, get one. It doesn’t mean you’re old. It means you’re smarter than Homo erectus Dude and might end up saving a microscopic society living on a dust speck.

Next time, I’ll be pausing the whole aging thing (if only… today I turn 71!) for something different to keep your mind off of aging. Then I’ll be back with Part Five in the series … the aging mouth. This particular body part has lost its filter, and I don’t know where to find it.

Years ago, as I was holding a menu at my favorite restaurant, I discovered that the description of the entrée was difficult to read. The name of the item, Captain Jack’s Delight, was readable, but the “delightful” ingredients were a mystery. Moving the menu away seemed to help, as did moving the candle closer to the menu. (This was before cell phone flashlights. Yes, I’m THAT old.) As the years slipped by, the menu moved further and further from my face until my arms were no longer long enough to compensate for what was happening to my eyes. What WAS happening to my eyes?

At the ripe old age of forty-two, this, whatever this was, seemed to be happening to all my friends as well. Asking around, I discovered losing your near vision was a “natural” part of aging. Aging? What the hell. Forty-two wasn’t old. I was indignant!

Unfortunately, this condition, called presbyopia, IS a natural condition, easily remedied by buying readers or cheaters, as some people call them. This gradual loss of the ability to focus on near objects, such as the warning labels on the pill bottles (which would be helpful), is caused as the eye’s lens becomes less flexible (just like the rest of our bodies) and hardens (unlike our abs), making it difficult for the lens to focus light correctly on the retina. Unlike practicing yoga for your knees and back, there is no such thing as eye yoga to keep your lenses flexible. Oh, wait. Of course, there is eye yoga, but it doesn’t do a thing to correct your vision.

Back in 1784, Benjamin Franklin became tired of switching back and forth from two pairs of glasses—one for distance and one for near vision. Being a clever man of many talents (he invented the lightning rod, the Franklin stove, swim fins, and an odometer), he also created “double spectacles” (bifocals) by cutting his distance lenses and his reading lenses in half and combining them into one frame. While at dinner in France, Franklin was able to see the food he was eating (which looked delicious) and also watch the facial expressions of his French companions sitting at the table. Not fluent in French, watching his fellow diners’ facial expressions helped him interpret the words being said. “I understand French better by the help of my Spectacles,” Franklin declared.

Today’s bifocals do not promise to help you speak a foreign language, although that would be very helpful if they did. That had me thinking. Are there glasses that translate foreign languages for you? Well, of course there are. I found a pair online. “AI Translation Glasses. A Real-Time Translator with 164 Languages Support, Smart Blue Light Blocking Glasses with Speakers, IPX5 Waterproof Bluetooth Eyeglasses for Travel, Business & Study,” and they come in silver. Oh, darn, I prefer gold. (Actually, silver is perfect, I was just being cheeky.) And that is just one of the many options. Who knew?

Bifocals can still be purchased today; however, many people opt for what in layman’s terms are called no-line bifocals, formally called progressive lenses. It was my serendipitous good fortune that just as my near vision began to fail and my arms couldn’t stretch any farther, I became the editor for several trade journals for the eyewear industry, giving me access to everything the industry had to offer. From progressive lenses with anti-reflective coatings, to Transitions lenses that transition from light to dark and dark to light, so you don’t need another pair of glasses for outdoor sun protection, (Although I still prefer a separate pair of sunglasses.) I had my choice of the best of the best.

Here is a yet-to-be-solved issue with readers to which even old Ben Franklin would have been hard-pressed to find a solution; they are never around when you need them. You can purchase a three-pack, six-pack, or even a twelve-pack of readers and still not be able to find a single pair when you open that menu at a restaurant or look at your phone for directions. You’ll know this is exactly what happened when you see a group of diners passing around one pair of glasses. Everyone forgot their readers except for one person, usually someone’s wife, who carries a large purse with everything you could possibly need in case of an emergency or a Zombie apocalypse.

This issue of misplacing your readers has not escaped those in the eyewear industry. They have come up with dozens of crafty and sometimes elegant solutions, from the standard chain around the neck with elastic loops to hold your readers, to elegant brooches with a loop incorporated into the design, into which you slide the temple. Because the chains, no matter how colorful and fun they are, remind you of your eighty-year-old grandma (and we can’t have that), and the brooches have to be removed and repinned every time you change your clothes (that’s not going to happen), most people simply move their readers to the top of their heads. It’s free and always available, unless, of course, your sunglasses are already there. Having your readers on the top of your head still doesn’t guarantee you’ll find them when you need them, right?

It’s not just reading menus that have people reaching for their readers. There are other situations where being able to see small details comes in handy.

When you are at home, and you step into the shower, you know which bottle is the shampoo, which is the conditioner, and which is the body wash, because you purchased those bottles. Even if they look the same, you arranged them in such a way that you know which is which. On vacation, however, try reading the tiny print on those little bottles of shampoo, conditioner, body wash, and hand cream, without your glasses. Who, among you, has made the mistake of entering the shower, turning on the water, only to realize you have no clue which bottle is which, and ended up shampooing your hair with body lotion? If you left your glasses in the other room, you’re toast. If I can remember, and that’s a big if, I read the bottles before I undress, then place them in the shower in the order I will use them.

Another pressing issue is the application of makeup. You can’t put on eye makeup while wearing your glasses, and you can’t see what you are doing without them. The first time I noticed this was becoming an issue, I had an ah-ha moment. So that explains those ladies I’d see as a kid, with the lipstick that wasn’t exactly on their lips and the eyeliner that had missed their eyes. I thought they were crazy people. Turns out, they couldn’t see what they were doing. While in the eyewear industry, I found that they make glasses where each lens can be flipped up, like opening a window. Look through one lens, apply makeup to the other eye. Flip the lens down, flip up the other lens, and repeat. Brilliant.

Have I purchased this amazing invention? Hell no. I only wear eye makeup when I’m going somewhere special, and then I just wing it. Once I have finished, I slip on my glasses and ascertain the damage. Is there a crazy person looking back at me, or am I good to go?

Next time, we’ll head over to the ears, those things on the side of your partner’s head that don’t seem to work anytime you need him or her to do something for you. Thanks for reading.

The recent Super Bowl, the Winter Olympics in Italy going on right now, and the upcoming 2028 Summer Olympics in Los Angeles have me thinking about sports.

When you register for the ticket lottery for the L.A. Olympics, you can pick five categories of events in hopes of being allowed to buy a ticket. These are broad categories from traditional events you’d expect to see at the summer Olympics, such as swimming, track and field, gymnastics, to the unexpected sports such as trampoline gymnastics, skate- and surf boarding, ping pong, BMX racing, sport climbing, and new in 2028, flag football.

Personally, I wouldn’t characterize myself as an athlete. In high school, I was on the drill team, not the volleyball team. While looking through all the possible Olympic sports, I found myself remembering what I’ve played on a very amateur level. I’ve bounced on a trampoline, although now, when I try it with my grandkids, it makes me pee. I’ve fallen off my share of skateboards and surfboards. I taught my son to play ping pong and was the reigning champion of our backyard table until he was about 16 years old. When I was 18, I took a rock-climbing class and repelled down the face of a mountain, and who hasn’t played a friendly game of flag football with your cousins and siblings before you sit down for a Thanksgiving meal? Now, all of these outdoor activities are official Olympic sports.

I realize not everyone “plays” sports. However, if you count all the games played as a kid, I’m guessing that at some point, everyone did have a favorite. My definition of “a sport” is pretty broad. From roller skating to bike riding, from jump rope to kickball, plus all the “official” sports such as football, soccer, basketball, baseball, hockey, et al., any activity can be deemed a sport. I’m sure, somewhere in the world, there is a Tiddlywinks champion.

Take cornhole, for example. If you are not familiar with the game, you toss beanbags at a slanted board with a hole at the top. The rules are similar to horseshoes, where you throw horseshoes at a metal pole. A lot of throwing is going on here. The scoring is basically the same. We used to drink beer, toss beanbags, and make lewd comments about rim-jobs (where the beanbag is hanging on the rim of the hole), a cockblock for when a beanbag is blocking the hole, or greased lightning, for when the bag slides directly into the hole.) Cornhole was just a fun game you played at a backyard BBQ until it wasn’t.

A friend of mine’s grandson received a college scholarship for playing cornhole and then went on to win the collegiate National Cornhole Championship. Way to go, Gavin! Professional players can make a living playing cornhole. Who knew? Maybe Cornhole will become an official Olympic sport someday. I hope Gavin makes the team.

Never at a professional or Olympian level, I picked my sports based on a nuanced set of criteria. Here are a few of the summer Olympic sports that will be featured in 2028 in Los Angeles, and why I love or loathe them.

Football
While I love to watch the game, I cringe whenever someone is hit hard, like when a receiver is hit in mid-air and then slams into the ground. I gasp as I imagine his pain. I played touch football for fun with grandkids, nieces, and nephews at Christmas. It was my kind of football game. No one was going to tackle me, and if I did fall of my own accord, someone would help me up. It was annoying that I couldn’t catch my seven-year-old grandson as he sprinted down the lawn for a touchdown. I watched with one part pride and one part humiliation as he did a victory dance in the end zone, something he learned from watching the pros.

Softball
As a catcher on my 7^th and 8^th-grade softball teams, I had the unenviable job of being way too close to girls swinging a bat. When they stepped up to the plate, I would remind them, “Don’t throw the bat.” In the excitement of connecting with the ball, the bat would fly, usually right at me.

As an adult, I played in adult park leagues, which were mostly about having fun and then eating pizza and drinking beer after the game. I played first base because I was tall and had a good reach, and was better at catching than throwing. When it came to batting, I was okay, but the problem wasn’t hitting the ball; it was running to first base. I needed a designated runner. I needed to hit the equivalent of a double to guarantee I’d make it to first base in time.

Swimming
Belonging to a swim team is not fun. Practice is way too early, the water is way too cold, and the swimsuits are not attractive. It’s basically an individual sport (except for the relay, which I did like), so when you lost, there was no one to blame but yourself. That’s a bummer. It wasn’t one of those sports that your high school friends came out to support, like football, baseball, and basketball. I eventually became a lifeguard at a private pool and a swimming instructor, so I put my early training to use later. Now, instead of swimming, I enjoy floating. Give me an inflatable donut, a drink with an umbrella, and a good book, and I can float all day. Looking forward to when this is an Olympic sport. I’m in.

Basketball
Because I was 5’10”, people thought basketball would be my sport. Wrong. Too much running back and forth, back and forth. It’s hard enough to throw that ball in the hoop without all the running around and people waving their arms in front of you. I played my fair share of H.O.R.S.E. in the driveway, where the basketball hoop was attached above the garage door. The only shot I could make consistently was the backwards, underhand shot. Back to the hoop, the ball in both hands, I’d swing the ball from between my legs, over my head, as I tilted my head back, and the ball flew in a graceful arch to swoosh through the net. I can still make that shot today, although there is a risk of tipping over backwards.

Soccer
All I have to say about soccer is that there is way too much running, even more than basketball. Enough said.

Volleyball
By far my favorite sport. I played on my 7^th and 8^th-grade school teams. I wasn’t good enough for my high school team, but I took up the sport again as an adult. I ended up coaching 7^th and 8^th-grade boys’ and girls’ volleyball at my kids’ private school. I loved it. What I appreciate about volleyball is that the other team stays on their side of the net. Yes, they will try to block your spikes, but they have to do so from their side. And if they touch the net even a tiny bit, BOOM, they get penalized. Take that.

It’s a team sport, so if you lose, it’s not solely your fault. There is no cold water to jump into, no running around, you can play in a gym where it’s nice and warm, or at the beach where it’s pretty. The only downside is that you need a bunch of other people who want to play with you. It’s not something you can do on your own. Enter golf.

Golf
Here’s what I like about golfing now that I’m older. There is no running of any kind. You don’t even have to walk much if you don’t want to. While it can be a social game, you can also show up, pay your green fee, and off you go. You can mess around on the putting green for free or hit a bucket of balls if you are so inclined. It can be expensive, but with a bit of research, you can find the best time to play to receive better prices. It’s a sport you can play with your grandkids and kids because golf is the great equalizer, and one of the few games where being younger isn’t necessarily an advantage. And then there are the cute golf shirts and pretty colored golf balls. My go-to color is orange.

What really makes the game fun is that we don’t keep score. We toss our balls out of the bunker, out of the weeds, or reposition a bad lie. We are not in a tournament, so no one cares. We hit the ball, walk a bit, talk a bit, hit the ball again, and eventually make it into the little hole. If we get a birdie, we do a birdie dance that looks a bit like the chicken dance, if we get a par, we do the par dance that looks like we are part of a can-can line, and if we get a bogey (one over par for those non-golfers) we celebrate that as well because one over par is better than two, three, four or five over par. Besides being a fun way to spend a couple of hours, it’s also an Olympic event, although I did not sign up for tickets to watch golf at the Olympics. Too much walking around, and to be honest, watching other people play golf is like watching paint dry.

I hope you enjoyed this break from my series on aging. What is your favorite sport to play and why?

Next time, I’ll get right back at it as I talk about our failing eyesight. Oh, joy. Thanks for reading. Click the little heart if you enjoyed this article, and you can always become a paid subscriber for shits and giggles and a few extra benefits.

Hair. And not the musical. Hair. It changes color, falls out, and pops up in new and unusual places. If you’re a man, it grows thicker in your ears (Is this why you can’t hear your wife calling?) and your nose, while the hair on the top of your head recedes like the outgoing tide, leaving a reflective dome brighter than the midday sun.

Most women don’t have the hair in the nose and ear issues, but the random hair that stands up and does a little dance from the bottom of your chin anytime there is a slight breeze. No matter how many times you pull the little sucker out, it comes back. Weird.

Remember the hair you used to shave under your armpits? I’m not sure at what age it happened, but now there is nothing there. Maybe it’s gray. Or perhaps I can’t see it because I don’t wear my glasses in the shower, but even with my glasses on, I can’t find any hair or stubble, for that matter. My hair seems to have given up.

Even leg hair, which I used to shave weekly, is a weak shadow of its former self. Again, I can go without shaving for an entire month before I notice something is worth the razor. What is happening?

It all has to do with those bloody hormones, or in this case, a lessening of. After menopause, we lose estrogen, which stimulates hair growth and other important stuff. So, less estrogen means less hair. But it’s not just the hormones. Hair needs a support system … healthy skin, juicy tissue, and happy follicles. As we age, our skin becomes thinner, with less subcutaneous tissue, and smaller, whimpier follicles.

So, what’s with the growth of weird chin hairs or mustaches? Well, that is the fault of another hormone, testosterone. Both men and women have estrogen and testosterone. For most of our lives, these two hormones are in balance, with women having more estrogen and men having more testosterone. But when menopause rears its ugly head, the balance of power is disrupted. Estrogen flees the scene of the crime and testosterone struts around pissing on everything, shouting, “Now I’m in charge!” before pushing out that random chin hair.

What’s going on with the hair gardens in men’s ears and noses? According to Dr. Lisa Kellett, who runs a dermatology clinic in Toronto, “the growth of ear hair in elderly men is the result of rising testosterone levels. Testosterone is accumulated over a lifetime, and levels continue to rise unopposed to estrogen levels with age.” So again, estrogen has left the building, and testosterone, left unchecked, is running around planting little flags, claiming new territories.

Losing the hair on the top of their heads apparently is a traumatic experience for men, especially if it happens at a young age. And because it’s a male issue more than female, studies were done, drugs were invented, hair plugs became a thing, and even special vitamins were created, all to help the balding man’s fragile ego. If losing hair on the top of the head had been something that only affected women (such as menstrual cramps, childbirth, and menopause), the solution would have been, “Quit whining and go buy a wig. And if you get one of those long blonde ones, I’ll meet you in the bedroom later.”

Besides the loss and growth of hair as we age, there is also the changing of the guard from original hair color to gray. According to science, graying occurs with the decreased production of melanin. Your hair follicles are like, “I’m getting tired. I’m retiring early. No more melanin for you.”

My first gray hair made an appearance when I was 25. I felt, indignantly, that this was a bit premature. Of course, I plucked it out. Then another appeared and another. That old wives’ tale that if you pull out one gray hair, ten more will appear is simply not true. It’s the same follicle producing the same hair, over and over again. Just ask that little annoying chin hair. The solution is to wear a hat or dye your hair.

I started with a weave. Selected strands of hair are captured, plastered with a noxious, pasty mess, and suffocated in tin foil until they surrender their natural color. The purpose of the weaving is to distract the eye from all the little gray hairs popping up like blades of new grass after a spring rain.

When there was so much gray that weaves weren’t enough of a distraction, I switched to dyeing my hair. This is an expensive endeavor, especially if you go to a salon, and more so if roots start appearing at week three, forcing you to go more often. This led me to the aisle in the grocery store (quality products there) to pick a color I could apply at home.

The problem with dying your hair at home is multi-layered. There is the mess, the smell, the yuck factor of sitting around trying not to drip on anything, and then having your kids hold their noses and squinch up their faces in disgust. Another issue with dying my hair at home was that I didn’t do a good job. (Cue the song, Beauty School Dropout from Grease.) I flunked hair dying. Since I couldn’t see the back of my head, I thought I was a pro. Looked good to me.

It wasn’t until I was standing in a line at church, waiting for communion, that a friend behind me tapped me on the shoulder and whispered, “What happened to your hair?”

I gave her the I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about-shrug.

“There’s this huge patch that’s a completely different color than the rest of your hair.”

Three steps later, I was receiving the body and blood of Christ. That didn’t fix my hair color debacle, so I went to a salon one more time to have it fixed, then decided to never dye again.

When I told my 18-year-old daughter that I wasn’t going to dye my hair anymore, she was appalled. “You HAVE to. I’m not walking around Europe with you with gray hair. Everyone will think you’re my grandmother.” Now, being a grandmother myself, I think, what’s so bad about going to Europe with your grandmother? But she was having none of that. Back to the salon, one more time before the big trip, and then that was it.

I proclaimed, with apologies to Chef Joseph, “I will dye no more forever.” And I didn’t. I was forty years old.

This is what happened next. I wore hats for a while to hide the white skunk line. I cut my hair to shoulder length to meet in the middle … gray hair moving down, dyed hair moving up. Eventually, I had my natural hair color back with a lovely weaving of gray creating silvery highlights. Then a curious thing started happening.

I began getting compliments on my hair from random strangers. At the grocery store, at the post office, people would take the time to comment, “I love your hair.” Wow. This never happened when I was dying my hair. It was probably because I did such a shitty job, and the Clairol color 6.0 made me look like all the other Clairol color 6.0s. These comments came from both men and women, which surprised me.

But there was one category of comments that came exclusively from women. “You are so brave.” “Your gray hair is beautiful, but mine wouldn’t look like that.” “I could never let my hair go gray; I’d look awful.”

Some people asked if I stopped dying my hair because of the harsh chemicals, for health reasons, or if I am embracing my age.

Nope. The real reasons? I was too cheap to go to a salon, terrible at dying at home, and too lazy to learn how to do it correctly. Not the answer most people want to hear from the supposed brave age-embracing heroine.

Have you gone au naturel? Share in the comments any hair-related experiences. Next up, a break from aging. (If only that were really possible.) I’ll be exploring the pros and cons of my favorite and least favorite sports.

Paid subscribers receive extra articles and will be entered into two contests per year. The first contest will be in April. The winner will receive a free copy of my new novel, Patsy Hits the Road, coming out April 18th.

Before we start, a word to younger generations that might be reading this. This series should be read by YOU, yes, you. We older peeps don’t need to know about aging. We are living it, but boy, do I wish someone had warned me about what to expect. Maybe a book called What to Expect When You’re Getting Old could be a standard gift when you turn 40, but not to be gifted earlier. When you’re in your 20s and 30s, aging is not something you are worried about. You’re concentrating on finding a job, finding a mate, and finding your kids wherever the little buggers are hiding, like inside a circular clothing rack at the Ross. (Brian!)

Then you hit 40, and things begin to creak, snap, and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies in milk, and you begin to wonder, what’s happening? Well, I’m here to tell you. You’re getting old.

During the ancient and medieval periods, the average life expectancy was often somewhere between 20 and 35 years, with the Neolithic age (28-33), Bronze Age (28-38), and Early Middle Ages (31) all with low averages. If you survived being born and childhood, you could live to be older, but the high infant mortality rate really skewed the average. Pre-industrial Europe was similar, with the average life expectancy ranging from 35 to 40. Even in the 19^th Century, life expectancy at birth was about 40 to 43 years, partly due to poor sanitation and diseases.

By dying before or around 40, people were robbed of experiencing the delightful changes of the human body as it pushes 60, 70, 80, and 90 years old. My goal this year is to educate myself and others about what the heck is happening and why, with a series of pieces that will cover the aging body from head to toe. I’ll keep away from all the nasty diseases since this is supposed to be funny, and nasty diseases are decidedly not funny, although some of the drug names and side effects are (we will explore this at another time). I will concentrate on the natural processes that happen as we grow older. I’ll work my way from the top of the head to the tip of the toes and find out … what the hell is happening here.

Let’s start with height, shall we?

I’m not sure how tall I was when I was born. Since babies don’t stand, they are measured lying down and recorded as so many inches long. It’s not until you can stand that the term “tall” comes into play. Back as far as I can remember, I was tall. Taller than other kids in my class, especially the boys. My second-grade boyfriend (yes, I had one) was a good head shorter than I was. It’s not that I remember, but I have a photo of us holding hands, so I have empirical evidence. Throughout grammar school, teachers line up their students in either alphabetical or height order, with the W, X, Ys, and Zs or the tall kids at the end of the line. Either way, I wound up at the end. The only kids taller were two boys who had been held back TWO grades.

In high school, it was difficult to find a slow-dance partner who was taller unless one of the basketball players was interested, which they weren’t. Finding pants long enough to touch the top of my sneakers and sleeves long enough to come to my wrists was a challenge, and I often found myself shopping in the men’s department. Back then, I guess clothing manufacturers assumed only boys and men were tall. Not true.

Being taller than average did have some advantages. I could reach things on higher shelves, see over the heads of most people at concerts and movies, and adults would assume I was older than I was, which came in handy when trying to buy the occasional bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill wine.

Once of an adulting age, being tall didn’t seem to matter as much. My height rarely crossed my mind anymore, except when a shorter person asked me to pull something off a high shelf at the grocery store.

Then there was the time my brother (six foot 2 inches) and I were in Hong Kong and took a trip to Lantau Island to see the Tian Tan Buddha (Big Buddha). While not the biggest Buddha in the world, the Tian Tan Buddha was a rather tall fellow at 112 feet. Instead of paying for a tour, we acted like locals, taking a bus to the island. To board the bus, we joined hundreds of people in a switchback line that would have made Walt Disney proud.

There we were … two giraffes in a herd of zebras. That childhood song, which of these things is not like the others, kept dancing through my mind. That’s when I noticed the two women in front of us. At 5’2” at the most, it was like they were standing two steps below us. In my head, I named them Sylvia and Doloras, as they reminded me of a couple of grandmas from a generation when those names were popular. Here’s my interpretation of what took place.

Sylvia kept sneaking peeks at my brother and me. Then she nudged Doloras gently, before leaning in to whisper.

“Doloras. Don’t look now, but two giants are standing behind us.”

Of course, Doloras couldn’t help herself and turned completely around. Her eyes stared at a place just below my breasts, before she tilted her head up to see our faces. Her eyes went wide, and her mouth dropped open, as my brother and I waved at her from up above.

Sylvia grabbed Doloras by the elbow and yanked her back around. “I told you not to look.”

Of course, all this was spoken in Chinese, but the reactions are universal and easy to interpret.

As we inched our way to the next available bus, Sylvia and Doloras continued to sneak little peeks, and we continued to wave, which elicited a twittering of giggles more suitable to prepubescent girls than 60-year-old grannies.

All this to say, I’m tall, I’ve always been tall. I’ve been 5’10” since I was a freshman in high school, so I was completely unprepared for what happened during a trip to Urgent Care.

Being a first-time patient at this particular Urgent Care, they needed to take all my vitals, including height and weight. I stepped on the scale, and the nurse read out in a voice that I deemed louder than necessary a horrible number that was my weight. I wasn’t obese, but the number was still offensive. Let’s leave it at that.

Then she lowered a little metal bar, nestled it on the top of my head, and announced, “Five foot, nine inches.”

“Excuse me. I’m five foot ten.”

Without feeling, she countered, “Nope. Five foot nine.”

Something was wrong. “I’m sorry. But I’ve been five foot ten most of my life.”

Again, without sympathy or understanding my distress, “Not anymore. Now you are five foot nine.”

“Do it again,” I demanded, not very politely.

The nurse sighed and waited for me to back up to the wall where the device stood on a pole. Shoulders back, head tall, eyes straight ahead, I inhaled deeply and held my breath, thinking this would make me taller. Nope.

“Five nine,” she announced.

What the actual fuck, I thought. (Sorry, Mom. I use that word a lot now.)

Back at home on my computer (we didn’t have portable computers called phones back in the day), I looked it up. Why do people shrink?

Here’s what the snarky internet said. “People shrink as they age primarily because spinal discs lose fluid and flatten, vertebrae can compress (especially with osteoporosis), and posture changes, all reducing spinal length, while feet also flatten slightly and muscles weaken, contributing to a shorter stature, a normal process starting around age 40.”

There it is. 40. And that’s why we need the book “starting around the age of 40” because that’s when all the bad stuff nobody tells you about starts happening.

Not only was I shocked, but I was also a bit pissed off. Remember that horrid number, my weight? When you calculate your BMI (Body Mass Index), it’s a combination of height and weight. At 5’ 10”, my BMI was 27.3. Now, at 5’9’, it was 28.1, and if I lose another inch, it will be 28.9. With every lost inch, I was growing fatter without gaining a pound. It’s like if you stretch Gumby, he grows thinner, but if you mash him into a ball, he looks like a fat little bugger.

At my next regular appointment, I told my doctor about this travesty of justice. Of course, he already knew this was going to happen and wasn’t surprised or concerned at all. Again, a book would have been helpful, people. With nothing to be done (except losing some weight, which always seems to be the answer), I dragged myself home, a shorter, sadder person. Back online, I found that men lose 1 to 2 inches by the time they are 80, while women lose 2 to 3 inches. Why is it that when it comes to bad shit, women excel, but when it comes to equal pay for equal work … just saying.

While I am an inch shorter (maybe even shorter since I haven’t been measured in a while), I’m still taller than most of my friends, who are also shrinking, so there’s my silver lining, a giant among the great shrinking masses.

Next up, I’ll be continuing the journey of the mysteries of aging, starting with the hair on the top of our heads before moving down to the eyes. I hope you will join me on this journey and leave comments about your discoveries of annoying things that happen naturally as we age.

The human body makes odd sounds, often when we least expect it, causing uncontrollable laughter in others and bringing shades of ruby embarrassment upon ourselves. Let’s review the odd and wondrous sounds, shall we?

BORBORYGMI – the rumblings and gurgling noises made when air, fluids, and digested food travel through the digestive system. First, let's address the elephant in the room. How do you even say borborygmi, and who came up with this ridiculous name? Most people hear the sounds their stomachs make and say, “My stomach is rumbling,” not, I’m experiencing borborygmi. Seriously. If you have ever rested her head on someone’s stomach, you know there are squeaks, squeals, gurgles, and pops that sound like a car racing through an underground parking garage. Sometimes they are so loud that other people can hear them across the room. The other morning, I kept hearing these odd, high-pitched whines and gurgles. It wasn’t me. It was my dog. No really. It was the dog. One of these borborygmi sounded like a cat screaming. Rae’s head popped up, and she barked. “That wasn’t me,” I told her as she eyed me suspiciously.

SINGULTUS – the involuntary diaphragm spasms causing that characteristic sound from the closure of the vocal cord that we call hiccups. The thing about hiccups is that they’re just not one hiccup. Multiple hiccups go on and on. I could handle one little hiccup, but the constant jolt to the diaphragm hurts. I hate them and have employed multiple strategies to make them stop. Holding my breath and gulping in more and more air, a bit at a time. Then you slowly release the air and wait. False hope when nothing happens, and as soon as I relax, bam! Another hiccup racks my body. Having someone scare you is supposed to work. My husband will sneak up on me and yell, “Boo.” This makes me scream, and then the hiccups return. Drinking cold sugar water sometimes works, but when I’m driving down the highway, that’s not an option. What works for me is bending over and drinking cold water from the far side of the glass. The trick is not to let the water run out your nose, and again, not doable while driving. Instead, I try the holding-the-breath thing—hiccup, hold my breath, hiccup, then jump out of my seat when my husband suddenly yells boo. It’s torture. Hiccup.

STERNUTATION– the forceful, involuntary expulsion of air from the nose and sometimes, mouth, better known as a sneeze. Have you ever heard a baby sneeze? It’s so cute. A tiny squeak. Their face squinches up, and the sneeze makes their entire body jump. I’ve known a few women who sneeze like a baby. It’s the tiniest, cutest little burst of sound that everyone thinks is so adorable. Then there are the monster sneezes. These sneezes can wake the dead, or if you are alive, scare you to death. They are loud, explosive, and the equivalent of an atomic bomb going off right next to you. If I’m in public, I will try and control the volume of my sneeze, but at home, I let the sucker fly. It’s like a 7.5 on the Richter scale. My entire body is involved. An entire body sneeze feels great. Very cleansing. It’s not so great for anyone else in the room.

There are superstitions about sneezing. In some cultures, sneezing means someone is talking about you. Ancients believed that a sneeze was a way for the gods to reveal the future instead of a bit of dust finding its way up your nose. A sneeze could be a good omen, a bad omen, or a sign that the soul was about to leave the body, which was why people said, “God bless you.” My husband, the atheist, is offended by this and instead yells, “Good one,” which I find hysterical.

In the Chinese culture, a sneeze in the morning means someone is missing you, but a sneeze in the afternoon means you’ll receive an invitation. In Poland, a sneeze means your mother-in-law is speaking poorly of you. I can debunk this one, since both of my mothers-in-law loved me, and I sneezed all the time.

ERUCTATION – the releasing of gas/air from the stomach through the mouth, otherwise known as a belch or burp. Most people attempt to keep their burps on the lowdown. But in some cultures, burps or belches are considered a compliment. China & Taiwan: An audible burp shows you enjoyed the meal and are full, a genuine compliment to the chef. In Turkey, Egypt, and the Middle East, for instance, a loud burp after eating is a sign of appreciation, signifying the food was good; not burping might imply you didn’t like it. While in Japan and in Western Cultures, burping is seen as rude.

FLATULENCE– the expulsion of gas from the digestive tract via the anus. Unlike our other bodily noises, flatulence is somehow the most offensive and funny as evidenced by the dozens upon dozens of slang words used to describe this natural bodily function: fart, toot, puff, wind, fluppie, cut the cheese, let one rip, a ripper, SBD (Silent But Deadly), air biscuit (sounds British to me) breaking wind, stinker, bubble butt, bottom burp (Hey, don’t insult the burp!) passing gas (actually very accurate) blowing off, squeaker, and whiffer, to name but a few. Why so many names for a simple bodily function? If you eat, you’re going to fart. It’s just a fact.

When my husband and I were first dating, he thought I never farted. That was because I never farted in front of him. I’d tighten my sphincter and wait until I could fart in private. I’d never fart in the car, in the movie theater, in a restaurant, or at his or my house. I’d find private spots … the bathroom, of course, or duck around a corner or step into another room. Imagine his surprise, once we were married, the first time I let one fly in front of him. That is when he told me that he thought I never farted.

Here’s the thing about farts. They are intrinsically funny. I grew up going to a Catholic school where we went to mass once a week and, of course, on Sunday. Should some kid fart during mass, there was nothing short of a miracle that could stop other kids from laughing. I still laugh when a kid farts. It’s funny. I laugh when my dog farts.

My dog is very shaggy. Lots of fur. So normally, there is nothing to hear. But, if she is sitting on the tile floor just right and lets one go, it creates the cutest little squeak that brings a smile to my face. What makes me laugh is when she looks around as if to say, “What was that?”

Dogs get blamed for other people’s gas all the time. Sometimes I think that is why gaseous people get a dog in the first place, so they have someone to blame.

I’ve always called passing gas a fart. But other families have found that word offensive. It is a four-letter F word, so there’s that. My brother had his kids called farts bubble butts, as in, “I bubbled butted,” when his kids were little. Now, as an adult with children of her own, my niece’s kids have embraced the fart. They fart often and proudly, especially at the dinner table. These two adorable twin girls will look you in the eye after they rip a big one and tell you, “It’s okay. They are supposed to smell.” And of course they are right. You can’t argue with their logic, even if they are only 3 years old. They may be right, but it’s still stinky, which is why their mom keeps a can of Febreze in every room.

You can’t deny farts are funny. How many jokes are there about sneezing? But jokes about farting are as numerous as the farts around the campfire in the bean-eating scene from Blazing Saddles. Here are a couple of silly fart jokes you can share with kids or grandkids, courtesy of a Google search. They may make you giggle, too, and if you fart while you’re laughing, no one will be the wiser.

“Why do farts smell? So non-hearing people can enjoy them, too.”

“What do you call a teacher who doesn’t fart in class? A private tooter.”

“What do you call a farting fairy? A Stinker Bell.”

Starting the New Year off on the right foot with some informative information on bodily noises. Yes, I’ve hit a new low, so it’s upward and onward from here. Happy New Year.

I hereby resolve NOT to make a New Year’s Resolution this year. Nope, not going to do it. I’ve made resolutions for over 50 years. How many have I kept for longer than a couple of months? Only one that I can remember. I did an at-home exercise program with weights for an entire year. I really did. Did I lose a single pound? Nope. Was I stronger? Maybe, but I’m not entering a weightlifting contest anytime soon, so what was the point? My goal was to lose weight. I always want to lose weight. Tonight, I’d probably make the same resolution. Lose 20 pounds and exercise more. But no. Enough is enough. I’m not going to set myself up for another failure. Who came up with this stupid tradition anyway?

Turns out it was those crazy Babylonians from 4000 years ago who weren’t satisfied with their other pioneering achievements in math, astronomy, law, and architecture, including the famed Hanging Gardens of Babylon, so they decided to create New Year’s Resolutions to make the rest of us feel inferior.

Read more