Yep, That’s Me, Just Last Week

I’ll Be Damned, I’m ‘Mid-Century Modern!’

So, the new term for my age bracket is Generation Jones, but while wandering through an antique store today, recognizing most everything as something that had either been in the houses I grew up in, or in houses of friends when I was little. I was taken to giggle when a couple walked in (probably in their early 30s) and exclaimed, “Oh, how marvelous! Mid-Century Modern!”

Then, me being me, announced, “Oh, cool, I’m 65, so I guess that makes me Mid-Century Modern too!” A man called out, “I’m 62, so not far behind you!”

The owner, a tight lipped, Karen-esque vibe person, audibly “Harrumphed.” The Grinch, pre-heart growing three sizes is probably her hero. I, again, being who I am, and refusing to let people minimize me, saw a metal table, with small, tile mosaic squares, grouted with mortar, then asked, “How much are each of these?”

She didn’t even look up from her phone and snarls, “Four HUNDRED and fifty dollars.”

I looked at my daughter and said, perhaps loud enough for The Grinch owner to hear, “Oh, how grossly overpriced for a craft project. Your Aunt April made one of these when she was five.” My reply to The Grinch, “Hmmm…. Interesting”, punctuated by one raised eyebrow, a skill I learned from Dad.

Now, whether she saw the eyebrow or not, I know she knew I was there.

Why do people have to be pretentious? Look, damnit, your shit stinks too. I might have purchased a tray I had my eye on, but because of your negativity and assumption that I could not afford anything in your store, I quickly whisked my daughter out. You lost a sale because your face looked like an old prune and the words out of your mouth sputtered like lye.

Me, I’m just taking my fabulous Mid-Century Modern Self out the door and purchase items at the place next door where they welcomed me, and said just to “let them know if we needed any help”. Of course, we purchased two items and began talking to the older gentleman and the woman who looked a hair younger than me.

We got to hear the story of how he met his wife in Alabama and how she had passed a few years ago. The younger woman showed us the framed picture and you could see the love in the wife’s eyes and the love of her husband. It was a truly rewarding experience.

Damn, people, it just doesn’t take any effort to be nice! It really doesn’t. But, back to “me.” Ha/ha Am I always nice…no. I am human. Am I super proud to be 65 years old, doing 23 military style push-ups every other day and two sets of 23 frog on my non-push-up days? Damn straight I am!

Hey, I am not going down the broken down, bitter road of complaining, sweat pant wearing, crotchety person who yutz’s, and makes those around her hate their lives.

As for The Grinch, well, my mom would say, “Well, maybe she was jealous because you’re thin.” Yep, that’s something my mother would actually say. I had no idea what she was talking about and asked her once, “Mom, how is that be possible that they are jealous because of something I can’t control?” (Oh, I went through my, eat and diet faze in my 20s. Diet Coke and I were best buddies)

She said, “Because they want to be thin too. It’s just easier. Clothing fits easier when you go to a store, there is a larger selection, health is better, I mean, there are myriad reasons.”

At the time, I couldn’t imagine that anyone would or could be jealous of me, because all I perceived were my flaws, or what I considered to be “flaws.”

I spent way too much time wanting to be someone else, to fit some kind of social mold that society had determined was “pretty” and I would never fit it. Turns out, I never needed to. And now, at age 65, I love me and I try my damndest each day to be the best me I can be. Some days, I come up short.

I am on the other side of a 20-year relationship and before that two other long-term relationships that were all toxic, each in their own ways. I have had only one non-toxic relationship and his best friend told me, “Mare, you are the right girl at the wrong time.” Broke my heart so bad, I thought I’d never recover. First big love of my life. I digress. This is about me. Mid-Century Modern Me!

Okay, if I had a dinner party, and could invite whomever I wanted (and they would be totally excited to come, each bringing a dish which would not be revealed until the party), I would invite…Ari Shapiro (his memoir is a must-read), Jordan-The Elegant Stylist (I follow her on Instagram and she is a total motivating, be you, 60-year-old dynamo), eight parents of my most recent preschool/pre-K class, AOC as she is all about shaking things up with compassion for people and for the Earth, my two sisters and my daughter. Oh wait, damn, I love my nieces and nephews and two great nephews. Okay, that’s going to have to be a separate dinner party. Lastly, three dear old friends, one new friend and my first love.

How did I get to “Dinner Party of Your Dreams” from “Mid-Century Modern Me?” That, my dear friends is the joy of writing. You can go where ever the hell you want to go. And I just did.

The above-named people, are all life-giving souls, and I imagine all the laughter, the stories, the crying (because we are a deep feeling bunch…well, can’t imagine the First Love crying in public. Sarcastic comments, witty reparte’-yes)

, the fire pit going, beverages flowing and breaking bread in a spirit of living life to the brink of absolute delight.

Ahhhh, even imagining it, pleases me. See, see the beauty of Mid-Century Modern Me?! Hey, I’d invite my therapist and his wife, as he is one of my favorite people, but I’m, sure that would be conflict of interest.

He saved me, when I was so broken, I did not know who I was or how I would make it to the other side…the side of peace, the side of beauty, wonder, aliveness, possibility, joy…and now, I am here. I am never going back. Because I am “Me!” Unapologetically Mid-Century Modern Me.

Thank you for reading my piece today. What would you bring to a “Pop Up Dinner Party?” Let me know!

Look, I’m an introvert. Important that you know that so you’ll have a frame of reference for my absolute dread of…THE ICE BREAKERS!

When did it become a requirement, that people engage in mandatory “Get to Know All the Strangers in Your Building” activities?

Hey, I can barely stand writing my own nametag and that being one’s “Entrance Ticket” to Dante’s Inferno Level 1: Ice Breakers.

There’s the, “I’ll be passing out a list of questions. After everyone has theirs, you’ll travel around the room with a writing utensil, and collect a signature from the person who can answer ‘Yes’ to your questions.”

Then, the papers are passed and contain questions such as: “Have you ever eaten rocks?” “Are you a First Born and desire to be a dictator?” and so on and so forth. The person at the end of “Time” who has filled their sheet with signatures for every question, receives some stupid prize and basically, we know who the king or queen extrovert of the group is, because somehow, they managed to speak to every damn person in the ten short minutes we had to perform this humiliating exercise.

Or, there’s the “Here’s a card. Ask each person in the room the question on your card. By the end, you should be standing in the square with people who also have your card. Good luck!”

Wait, there’s more! “Line yourself up by birth month without saying a word, or without writing anything. Go!”

I told my daughter about these and she laughed and said, “Oh, yeah. The worst was when we’d have to sing, “My name is Johnny” and the kids chorus back in the same hideous tune, “His name is Johnny.”

So, tomorrow, I go back to work. What fresh hell of an Ice Breaker awaits? “Tell how many years you’ve been teaching and share your best moment.”

I mean, it would be far more entertaining to “Share the moment in your career you wanted to run screaming from the building.”

But, that will never happen, because these Social Calisthenics are for the extroverts and we must stay peppy and positive!

Venting and snarking are forbidden.

I get it, you want everyone to set goals, get on the “Fresh and Perky Bandwagon,” and truth be told, that comes naturally to me. I don’t need some artificial setting to induce those feelings.

They have just the opposite effect on me. I feel like I should be in the corner, dressed all in black, dragging on a filterless Marlboro, legs up on the table, crossed, with boots on.

Come on, share an Ice Breaker Experience with me. Please! Let me know I’m not alone. If you do happen to love them, I still respect you, and want to hear your side too. Thank you for reading my piece today. Now…let me find my black attire.

Okay, look, I know that no one lives forever, at least in the form we are currently. Read on, lest you think I am delusional and that I believe I’ve discovered some fountain of youth.

As you know, I do have a fountain, that is making me crazy! I scrubbed that damn thing down to rid it of algae (my current plague-visually better than the blood red of a few weeks ago) and there it was, crisp, clean, working…for three days.

And on the third day, it decided it was on strike I guess. I plunged my hands in to the murky swill of algae, pigeon poop and god only knows what else, to try and rehook the tubing to this nub attached to the power. I turned it off overnight, and back on the next morning, and it worked…for one day.

The algae are back in full force. Only now, I have shallow rooted water plants and a few snails to hopefully save the day. But, then I read, that the pump can suck up the snails and bring them to a certain death. Great. I’ve become a snail killer. I don’t want to be a killer! Hmm…I was okay killing the algae. Damn. I’m a killer.

“So, what did you do this summer?”

“Oh, I murdered some ancient spores of algae and sent some snails to a certain death so I could have a pristine fountain.” (Don’t worry, I’m not going to paint the bottom, blue.)

I specifically read yesterday from a variety of reliable gardening sources that Creeping Jenny is a great, shallow rooted plant for small ponds (and seeings as my fountain only works whenever the hell it feels like it, basically, it’s a stagnant pond), but after I plunked it and the snails in, I came back inside all pleased with myself and read conflicting ideas.

Great, so now, not only will I be a killer of spores, and snails, but I will clog the fountain pump with the residual soil bits and it will stop working all together. This purchase was supposed to be the gentle trickle, lulling my constantly anxious mind, into a restful state. Folks, this is not working.

But, I digress from my initial subject. (Oh, I’ve done more than digress but I do get carried away.) No. I have no “Kick the Bucket List.” Oh, no, that’s not true. I really, really, really want a Literary Agent to love my latest manuscript so much that she/he/they want to represent me, work with me, assist me in cultivating my late in life writer career.

The rejection letters say, “All it takes is one yes. I’m sorry I’m not the one for this project.” Okay, that’s kind, but where is my “Yes Person?” Where is that person who reads my query letter, my first three chapters and says, “Oh, I love these characters and I must know more. I love this writer’s voice! Let me email her right away.”

I have not, nor will not give up hope. I do have to get out of my self-imposed “Sloth/Hermit Mode.” Not because I don’t like it. I do, but I made these index cards, like Mom used to make, with each room in the house and listed all the cleaning chores.

I have been able to cross things off (Go, Me!) but not enough. There is something about a certain amount of discomfort, about pushing myself, that makes me a better writer, a more fearless writer, and the sequel for my current manuscript is so good…I think I hear it calling! Or is that the sound of snails being sucked up in the fountain pump?

So, there it is, everyone. I mean, when you Google my name, the first Mary McKnight was a strychnine killer from I believe the early 1900s. What festive company to be in! I do come up second, but let’s face it, you have already seen “strychnine killer” and the magic is rather lost, yes?

Thank you for reading my piece today. Do you have a thought rambling about in your mind? Share, please share! I truly do love everyone’s stories when people comment. Signing Off for Now. Mary McKnight-algae and snail killer.

Oh, look at my shiny, lustrous, thick, long, silver hair, I thought to myself after I had brushed it this morning. Then, as I was doing the daily clean-out of the few strands left in it (the brush, not my head), I noticed a bed of dust at the base of the bristles.

What in the world? Am I actually turning to dust, the evidence of this, collecting in my brush?? Wait…the vacuum cleaner too! So, I am biodegrading daily? How can this be? I feel fabulous, am nowhere near decrepit status, and I am turning into “Dust in the Wind,” just like that annoying song by Kansas foretold.

No, just no. There must be some other answer, but what? DUST. I am just a walking, talking being covered in dust. Or, to clarify, dust of my own making! This disturbs me. So, the Brownian Motion one sees on sunny days through the light beams is really just all of our DUST swirling around, mixing and mingling??

Is it no f’in wonder we get sick? Dust is just carrying us away to lands far and near. I mean, part of me could be across the ocean, still swirling in the air of Germany, France and the various other countries we lived/visited in the 1970’s. Aww, man, and everywhere else I’ve lived!

OH, and the dust from whomever lived in all the dwellings I’ve lived in over the years! How am I just now coming to this realization?

I can recall the fun of “brush cleaning” when I was a kid and Mom giving us each a fresh comb to assist in the cleansing. Why was it mesmerizing to pull “the gunk” (that’s what Mom called it) from the brush? Back then, vacuum cleaners had bags, so one never witnessed the decomposition of one’s self or those around them. Now, it’s just swirling “like a cyclone” for all to witness. Who thought that was a good idea?

I find this revelation all very distasteful. I refuse to decompose and apparently have no control over it. Which leads me to a morbid question (as though the above weren’t shrouded in a swirl of death). Why do we encase dead people in hermetically sealed boxes with mattresses and pillows? What if all of that is contributing to global warming? I mean, here we have large swaths of land, with no decomposition. Well, I should clarify. No further decomposition, as I know now, we are in the process of doing so, daily!

Oh, dear. If I clean the brush, I doubt it will hold the same giggly delight it did when I was a little kid. Mom made everything fun. Brush cleaning day, would also be the day, we could wash our dolls and their doll clothing. We would accompany Mom outside, and hang our little clothing on the lower part of the clothes line, using wooden clothespins with wire springs. Damn, that hurt if you didn’t press right and it snapped on your finger! All worth it, during the unpinning and gathering of the brushes (laid carefully on an old towel on the grass along with all the nude dolls) and the crisp doll clothes, and Mom would say, “Ahh, just smell that sunshine freshness.” She wasn’t wrong. Everything did smell fresh.

Mom…how I miss her. She would wear her “Pedal Pushers” and a crisp cotton, button up sleeveless blouse for those chores. Not a wrinkle to be seen. She ironed everything! Even pillowcases! I don’t even own an iron.

Dust in the wind…that is depressing. I shall adopt Mom’s attitude of “sunshine freshness” and clean my brush and the canister (and filters) of my vacuum cleaner. Oh, wait, it’s supposed to rain today. So, I will live another day looking at my decomposition.

Somehow, writing this all down, has made me feel so much better. That was the magic of Mom. She really did make everything better. I feel her around me, and when I laugh to the point of soundless, I feel even closer to her.

To end, I will complete this piece with two Mom-isms…” Oh well. What are you gonna do?” “Laugh and rise above it.” She wasn’t wrong.

Thank you for reading my piece today. (And for swirling in my dust-hee/hee)

EWWWWWWW!!!!

Okay, so my daughter and I may, okay we do, laugh at houses that have mattresses out front. I mean, who in their right mind is going to take the mattress? We’re talking fleas, bedbugs, lice, stains, dust mites, life…I mean, you know a lot has happened on that mattress.

Well, we, have become, The Mattress House. Not that we set out to be! I made the appointment with bulk trash to pick it up. I had it on the front strip next to the street, upright, ready to be hauled away. I went through all the proper steps…or so I thought.

I see the truck, I see the truck stop, I see the truck leave!! My mattress is still there! I call the company. “Oh, Mam, was it wrapped in plastic?”

“No,” I answer politely, “I wasn’t told it needed to be! There was nothing on the booking site, or reminder email that indicated I needed to do so!”

“Yes, Mam. On the main site, it clearly states, that it needs to be wrapped in plastic.”

Hey, not this young woman’s fault, so I make sure to have extra kindness in my voice to thank her and tell her to “Have a nice day.”

Wrap it in plastic…I mean, it makes sense. Who the hell wants to touch someone else’s mattress? Now, today happens also to be a day when my super nice landlord is coming over to help with something. And…I have this giant mattress in our yard. Great. He is beyond understanding and explained that the same thing happened to them. Whew.

Still, I have to, with my spindly arms, wrap this damn thing in a plastic casing…Oh, and picture this: A lovely summer day, the weekly farmer’s market happens today from 3-7 and many people walk down my bucolic street to get to the market. They are, strolling, reusable bag in hand, face so pleased, anticipating the fresh fruits and vegetables and there it is…the mattress. They will snicker and say, “Oh, neighborhood going downhill…they are, the Mattress People. Next thing, they’ll be on their porch smoking, teeth looking like yellow giblets of corn, just a matter of days before they’ll move an upholstered couch out onto their porch.”

Their happy go lucky smiles turns to those of derision. Damn…that’s what I get for laughing at every other mattress house. Paybacks are a bitch.

To my credit, I laughed at my own house. So, did my daughter. She announced on the way to work, “Mommy, we have become the The Mattress House.”

It doesn’t matter that we have a three-tiered solar fountain (oh, which by the way, was blood red the other day from a blueberry bird poop blitz) and a luscious perennial garden now in the backyard, we dug with sweat two summers in a row (Oh, and we found a squirrel pelt, with detached tail in our backyard…I have NO idea what the story behind that is, but it was sure to involve gore. Oh, damn! Is that why my fountain was red?)

This is beginning to read like The Tale of Plagues. What’s next? Rain of frogs? Locust infestation? Or, just wrap the damn mattress in plastic before the birds blitz, blood red poop on it and put an end to this madness! Yes, that seems to be the logical option.

But, a lot can happen in a week. What if local children use it as a trampoline while I’m out doing errands? What if someone takes it (not a bad thing)? What if critters bite through the plastic and begin living in there? OH-what if a snake has taken up residence under it already and will come slithering out towards me when I go to wrap it in plastic?????!!!!!

Besides sharks, I am deathly afraid of snakes. I’d never hurt one, but I sure as hell don’t want one to appear in front of me! Yes, yes, I love to garden, they’re good for the environment, I know all of this, and I am and have been since the summer of ’67 been deathly afraid of them. That’s fodder for another day.

For today, I’ll head to Home Depot to buy a cheap plastic cover that will zip my mattress (which is by the way, not a home to fleas, lice or bedbugs) shut. Great. Really crushing The Summer of 2026.

Thank you for reading my piece. Anything funny happen to you lately? I’d love to hear about it. Yes, I know that serious, horrible things are happening. Peace to all.

A Waiting Room. I am at the ready. Book, firmly planted in front of my face. This is, the quintessential, universal sign for, “Don’t bother me.” The woman next to me, taps me on the shoulder and says, “That man over there said to get your attention.”

Holy hell, what now. I make the critical error of lowering my book, being the polite person, I was brought up to be…and am suddenly verbally accosted by Emperor Palatine. “When I see a pretty face, I just have to talk to her.”

No, no, you really don’t. Shit…duttering old man, my old conditioning of “being kind to others, but neglecting my own needs” kicks in, and I am stuck in a loop of weirdness. This guy shares that “my wife dropped me off an hour early. I take chair yoga and try all my flirting on everyone there. No luck. I see a form, a face and my heart feels all a flutter.”

I have to get out of this diatribe. I owe politeness to myself!! Yes, that’s right. I am part of that equation. So, I answer, “That’s just creepy and weird. No woman wants to be verbally accosted in yoga class. They are there for themselves.”

I assumed he’d go back to running The Dark Side, but he continues, “But, are you saying, you don’t crave human touch? “

I should have put up my book and left it at that, but no…. I have to ride this train to the end, “I love me. Men are a disappointment. I do not want to be someone’s mother. Men want someone to take care of them, and that’s not me.”

He looks shocked. I put my book up, and am suddenly “breathed on” by a “Karen” whom I’m assuming read the title of my book, “I’m Not a Racist, But…the Moral Conundrum of Race” and tells the secretaries that she’ll be “in the hallway”. Fine, take your ass in the hallway, but don’t “breath” me. I’m not reading the book aloud. I’m not thrusting it on you. I promise, you’re not going to “catch” anything by it being in the same room with you.

What the bloody hell? I’m just in a waiting room, not a bar. I don’t wish to be “picked up” (ever), or overtly judged, I just want to read my damn book and wait for my daughter. That’s it.

Book in front of face, people! Universal sign that I want to be left the hell alone! I guess I need a larger book next time to cover more space. Perhaps I need to do the old fashioned, “Cover your book with brown paper” and label it with, “Shhhhh…. I’m reading.” I mean, that’s polite. What I want it to say is, “No! Do not talk to me. Not interested. This is my time and I shall spend it my way.”

Dare me? I dare me. As for Emperor Palatine, he sees a woman toddle in with cane and she sits next to him. They apparently know one another and he asks her for a ride home after their sessions. What about his wife? I suspect he does this often and probably has their whole married life. Let me tell you, having been in a relationship like this many, many years ago…if you f’in feel it your need to flirt with others, stay the hell away from me. I shall be no one’s “seconds.”

As for the “Karen,” go read another book. I don’t need your judgement and I certainly don’t need your audible breath of indignation.

The Waiting Room…what will it hold next week? Time will tell. Thank you for reading my piece today. Oh, you’re probably asking yourself, “Yeah, but what if the guy had been really good looking?” Fair enough. It still would have been weird! I have men trying to “Follow” me on social media. What is their goal? What is the point? It’s my turn. And I’m not looking back. And I sure as hell am not picking up any more dirty socks, because eventually, it all comes down to that. peace, out good folks.

t’s almost Father’s Day. As I look back on the Father’s Days of yore, I recall Mom asking we three girls, what we wanted to get “your father.”

The sad thing, is that Soap on a Rope was a gift. Yes, that’s right. It’s soap, but on a rope.

Why, you ask? Well, a man could hang it around the shower head and well, soap up. I guess to never having to deal with the scum that bar soap on the flat holders with ridges, inevitably left behind was a plus.

Or, maybe, dads secretly knew, that communal bar soap, actually harbored bacteria! Ewwwww!!! The fact that we considered this a “good gift” is even more odd.

But, we changed it up. Can’t give the same gift each year, so there were the requisite “grilling tools.” You’ve got your: scraper, your meat fork, a meat thermometer, fire starters, and if you’re really lucky, an actual, new grill.

Then, there were the long fireplace matches. I mean, that’s just sad. “Here are some matches. They’re long and they’re for the fire in the fireplace we need you to build, maintain and to help you do that last step, we purchased some hand-held bellows.” That’s right. Sort of like an accordion, but for generating air in a concentrated fashion to stoke the flames.

Socks…white for the summer, no decoration, “crew” length. I believe the brand was Hanes. Hey, it was a multipack. No cheaping out for the McKnight girls for their dad.

One year, I recall asking dad, what he “really wanted” for Father’s Day and his answer, “For you girls to stop carping at one another.” Really, stop arguing with my sisters? I mean, let’s get reasonable here. In what world was that going to happen, and besides, that couldn’t really have been a gift! A gift is a one off. Getting along with my sisters would be the gift that keeps on giving and that would’ve taken way too much work.

Look dude (never, ever said that to my dad!), it’s Soap on a Rope, but a different brand! Life Buoy! Or was it Irish Spring? Nah, it was probably Zest. Zest…probably made with lye, so you’d avoid your eyes so as not to blind yourself. I mean, that was some dangerous soap. Perfect for a dad!

Then, there was the quintessential Dad gift…the necktie. The wider, the better in those days. Dad wore an Army uniform to work, so these neckties had to be for special outings, like going out to dinner. When Dad died two years ago, I could not bring myself to go through his neckties. I tried, but just collapsed into a puddle of grief.

What do people give their dads in 2026? Video games? (ewww) Gift cards to restaurants? A mutual tattoo session? Hey, people, note to think about. Eventually, your skin will sag, and along with it…your tattoos. Just sayin’.

There are no dads anymore who know how to make a fire. They all have gas fireplaces. Okay, I exaggerate. Not everyone has a gas fireplace or fire pit, so some do know how to make fires, so those long fireplace matches are still a gift option!

My dad taught me how to throw and catch a baseball, catch and spin a Frisbee, get up when knocked down by life, stay hydrated in the Summer sun, the names of trees and birds, reverence for tradition, how to drive a stick shift car and perhaps most importantly, honor. I’m afraid I have been lax in that last area at various times in my life.

I always wanted to make Dad proud of me. When I got a “Good job” from him, I knew I had his respect. One of the last things he told me a few days before he died was, “Don’t give up.” I have a situation some years in the making and his encouragement has kept me going. Dad did not waste his words, ever.

He loved my mom fiercely and once when my daughter asked him, “Pop Pop, how long do you want to live?” He answered, “Long enough to take care of your grandmother.” Dad…kept his last promise and died five days after Mom’s funeral.

So, Dad, as this Father’s Day comes closer, and I have no living father, I know that I have you inside me. When I need courage, I think of you. When I need to brace up to face something super difficult, I call you to mind and heart. And just when I think I can’t go one more step, I know I can, because of you. Thank you, Dad. Thank you for loving me, pushing me, laughing with me, loving my daughter so deeply and so dearly, and for cherishing Mom every moment of her life with yours.

PS: My little sister and I are still working on getting along all the time. Ha/ha

Our amazing classic 1898 four-square called out for a fountain in the front yard. Did they have fountains in 1898? How the hell would I know? I’m just telling you, it needed a fountain, so, I got a resin, solar powered, three-tiered, pineapple (sign for “Welcome”) on top fountain.

Oh, oh, oh! The soft tricking of the water from tier to tier, is a meditation unto itself. Now, the morning after I got it, I rushed outside just to see it again and…what the h, e, double hockey sticks???? The water looked like something that should be labeled “Caution, Flesh Eating Bacteria” punctuated by purple bird poop on the largest tier!! (We have blueberry bushes in the front yard).

What?? What??? My dream fountain was a stagnant pool of yuck and I needed to get to work but oh, I put that hose nozzle on “Jet” setting and blasted the hell out of each tier.

I got centrifugal force going, and out sloshed the grey/green swill, off flew the purple poop and when I was done, the damn solar pump did not work. Damnit, damnit, damnit! I only had time to clean my hands, and go to work. I would have to address the pump, which I probably broke in all my rage and water blasting, after work.

Luckily, on the way home, I had my daughter with me, and she is so much more mechanical than I and not outraged at what she proclaimed was “not the fault of the animals as this is their sole water source.” Okay, that may be true, but you don’t POOP in your sole water source!!!

She took the tiny pump apart, did some stuff to it and voila’, it worked again. Oh, I had to clean out the tiers yet again prior to her fitting it back in the smallest entry known to mankind. Who designed this? A Lilliputian?

Day two, and it’s the weekend. I have more time to ponder this dilemma and decided to push the fountain back, where it looked better anyway, place the decorative fencing (period appropriate as it’s made from metal) in a lovely curve, made sure to fence the back in too so the groundhog family cannot eat all the plants that will surround my fountain, and what do you know? Somehow, this new placement has stopped the purple poop incidents and I am seeing small song birds drink sips and stand under the water like a little shower…aww, look at them!

Apparently, the Swill Makers are put off by the new placement and the fencing, but the little song birds are not. I do clean it out each morning. I mean, who doesn’t want fresh water? My daughter and I shopped for plants and placed them (still in pots) for a weekend planting/mulching session to finish this magical space. Oh, my starry stars, I have a fountain in my front yard!! I have a fountain, I have lush plantings, and it is SUMMER!!!! Oh, School’s Out for Summer! (Click for the song link)

Our principal at Frankfurt Junior High (in Germany) played that song over the PA system in 1975. We all sang along. I mean it was such a classic moment. I can tell you, in 1975, having a fountain in front of my house, would not have given me the joy it does now. And that’s alright. What did I wear all that Summer of ‘75 (because, it was Germany…not warm, folks), T-shirts, jeans and bare feet. How am I dressed right now? T-shirt with a Peace sign, jeans, bare feet. And…I’ve got a fountain.

Is there something that gives you joy? I’d love to hear about it. Oh, and enjoy the song! I know I did just listening to it now, just as I did in 1975.

Damnit…time for laundry. Oh, I am thankful for the washer and dryer downstairs, lest you think I am ungrateful whiner. Hey, share this piece if you feel so inclined. Thank you!

So, I pull into our local gas station, wanting to be sure I had a full tank for a day of traveling to various places with my daughter. I leave room in front of me, for the car at the pump to be able to pull out when they are done, but I am clearly in line to spend $50 (Holy ½ a hundred dollars, Batman!)/

When all of a sudden, this super loud pickup truck, pulls in front of me! My daughter was with me, and we both said, “Oh My!” in unison. My daughter was insistent that we should find another gas station as this jalopy had “bad news” written all over it.

I was determined that we stay the course, but pull to another pump on the other side of the gas station. Damnit, I am getting my gas! The pumps on the opposite side require, for some unknown reason that one “go inside.”

So, I pull back around and by this time, Crack Head Carol comes flying out of the driver’s side, hair flying, eyes wild, charging into the gas station store. Whew, Nelly, she looks determined. In the passenger’s seat, turned away from us, is a grey-haired person with a tight bun. I swear, it’s the mother from Psycho…you know, the dead one in the attic!

I am calmly getting my gas, keeping my eyes on the door of the store so when said wild woman returns, I’ll be on guard. Now, what I thought I was going to do, I have no idea. I mean, I’m obsessed with this self-defense master from India on Instagram and I’d like to think that having watched him numerous times, I’d be ready for whatever went down.

Truck driver comes flying out, carton of cigarettes in her hand, scowl on her face, and upon entering the driver’s seat of her Wacko mobile, says in a gravelly voice, “Did you get it done, Sabrina?” Now, “Sabrina” had not moved, did not turn, no nod of the head, no words…I’m telling you, it was a skeleton with wig and clothes.

Screech of tires and they’re off…so weird. I get in our car, receipt in hand, and my daughter says, “What was up with all that???” I explain my thoughts and we break out in paraoxons of laughter which I swear lasted for fifteen minutes.

I realize that I tell stories about people all the time in my head. How can you not? It’s just so entertaining and I have no idea if I am right or wrong. Who cares? Just trying to get gas, Crackhead Carol got her cigs and the mother from Psycho got a ride. Another beautiful day in the neighborhood.

Since I was a teen, I used to love to pour over the magazines, searching for “makeovers.” Watching first in still photos and then as technology changed, in clips on various sites. What was I looking for?

When young, I was searching for a way to transform myself, but what I did not realize, was the transformation needed to come from within in order to see what was right in front of me.

Now, at my age, why do I still search? I love to see the looks on the faces of the people come to life again. It is their beginning, their strength that walked them through the doors and asked for help.

This is hard as I have discovered in various venues, that not all are willing to sit in non-judgement, but are quick to throw up the blanket of “Too Much Information.” This, shuts me down, shuts me up and leaves me alone, forgotten, ignored and filled with a sadness so deep and piercing, I wonder sometimes how to face each day.

Just this morning, in the wee hours brought on by hungry kitties and my sweet, tender heart, I came across a clip on Instagram.

A woman, who had been taking care of her son with severe emotional needs, had neglected herself, not because she didn’t love herself, or value herself, but because she gave every ounce of herself in love.

The stylist, hugged her, heard her story, the team unmatted her hair, pampered her, not just with products and team detangling, but with non-judgement and with compassionate understanding.

This line, “Behind every tangled situation is a human being who just needs compassion, not judgement” had me in tears, for I wished that others would see me in that way.

Some do, but there are those who don’t. They have avoided me, averted their glance from mine, gave me a “Sorry about your cat,” rolled their eyes, dressed me down in front of others…and still, I stand.

What they do not know, is that I have a “tangled story” and their judgement hurts, but it does not define me. I am loved by those who see the best in me, who know my story and love me even more because of it, in spite of it, and welcome me with conversation, a smile, and acknowledgement that I am important.

How can I help someone today, with their “tangled situation” and provide compassion? When we give, we receive, if we are open to the reciprocity.

I hold no ill will towards those who have closed their circle, left when I entered a room…for I know, deep within me, that that is their issue, not mine. Many people are afraid of deep, hard emotions. But not me. Not anymore.

I do not wish to be mired in more emotional brambles if at all possible, but life will do what it does. I’m free. There’s a great song by The Soup Dragons, called, “I’m Free.” Do I listen to it on my earbuds playing it way too loud? Oh, yes, I do. I listen because music is a portal for me, and poured into it are all the emotions…the good, the sublime and the shake you to your knee’s sadness.

Tone Hair Salon, thank you for the work you do. Thank you for knowing that “Behind every tangled situation is a human being who just needs compassion, not judgement.”

Thank you all for reading my piece today. No, it’s not my usual glib style, and it is what I needed to say today. Who are you willingly giving compassion to, and not judgment?

So, I now have my first allergy ever…birds. I won’t go into the particulars, but because of said allergy, I had to get rid of my favorite sleeping pillow in the world.

I mean, we’re talking, fold it, squish it, mold it as I need it, pillow…gone. Now, I don’t have tons of time right now, as it is (on the weekends) heavy, duty gardening time. Lest you think I dread this, let me assure you, it’s just the opposite. It feeds my soul, opens up my creative veins and stokes the fire of physical strength, and the end product never disappoints.

But this does mean, I don’t have time to do a Target run and spend 400 hours squishing every pillow to find just the right one. Enter Amazon. (Hey, you don’t use Amazon anymore-that’s your prerogative. The creator had a brilliant idea and is making scads of money off of that. It helps me and I hold no ill will.)

I put in the search terms, “Squishiest Pillow.” I view of a variety of options, narrow it down to the ones that will deliver by Sunday (Ugh-slept on a stupid cervical pillow last night and had one of the worst nights of sleep ever. I was ready to go “no pillow” rather than suffer another night with the wavy torture device.)

Now the first thing to happen to me when I have a super interrupted night of sleep is a lack of short-term memory. It comes right back after a good night of sleep. But anyhoo…I had just finished a super sweat rolling off our faces gardening task with my daughter in the backyard, and was taking the garbage and recycling bins out to the curb for my other Sunday chore…hauling garbage and recycling . I notice three Amazon boxes on my porch and have no idea what I ordered.

I open box number one. Oh, right, I had ordered more sheets for my daughter’s bed. Box number two. Oh, yes, I had ordered new, sage green towels for the downstairs bathroom. When we first moved here almost two years ago…I had ordered…get ready for it…black towels. Who gets black towels? Someone who was getting out of a 20-year relationship and coming to the realization that she was going to be alone the rest of her life. Little did I know, that I would learn to love it! (the relationship free life, not the black towels).

Box number three, the largest of the three. I open one side. The container inside says, “made to make your day, Every night.” What the hell? What did I order? I pull said container from the box. It’s like a super fancy box, dark blue with stars. Still no memory of what I ordered. I open this box and am met with a card in an envelope. I open the envelope.

It is welcoming me to the world of sleep. Weird. I have I joined a cult or something? The fancy card next to it (not in an envelope) has all these suggestions for a good nights’ sleep and a “scan this barcode for more ideas.” No f’in way! I do not need to be communicating with people about my sleep. I don’t need to join some community of sleep people. Weird.

Then, under the cult cards, is a bag, of “filler.” Under the bag, is a thick piece of dark blue carboard with some creepy message, “Lift for the experience of a lifetime.” What is this? Like some time traveling device? I lift…there’s my damn pillow…with instructions! Look, if you need instructions on how to use a pillow, you should not be having a pillow.

“For you side sleepers, we have already graciously filled your pillow to its optimum level. For those of you desirous of back or stomach sleeping, utilize the accompanying bag of filler to adjust to your needs.”

Look, I don’t want to do any damn work! I just want a squishy pillow! I gave it a test run during my Sunday after gardening and eating 5,000 calories lunch, nap. Perfection.

But the truth is, look people, it’s just a pillow. Calm down with your advertising. It’s weird. The good news is, I will once again sleep great, and I haven’t joined the cult associated with the brand. Task complete.

Thank you for reading my piece today, share with others if they need a laugh. Drop me a line, but do not, I repeat, do not give me shit about buying from Amazon. I do what I want, and I want the same for you. Freedom. It’s a beautiful thing.

The “Do Better” Card Series

First off, I cannot take credit for the slogan, “Do Better.” One of my daughter’s co-worker’s-total credit. The “card series,” was my daughter’s idea. I always give credit where credit is due. If you want to make me hit DEFCOM 1, take my idea and don’t give me credit for it. My estimation of you will drop in an instant. But back to “The Do Better Card Series.”

My daughter and I were in the car after work and as we often do, were laughing about things at each of our respective work places. She then says, “Oh, we should make a ‘Do better’ card series.”

She and I started riffing on it. I started, “Oh, oh, what if, someone is just on your last nerve. The cartoon figure, on the front of the card, looking fried and frayed at the person who walks all over you, and the passive aggresor has a smile and some innocent look on their face. The words inside the card, ‘Do Better’.”

Then she volleyed, “Okay, okay, here’s one. Someone doesn’t give you credit at a meeting and speaks up and states your idea like it’s their’s. Okay, the cartoon is you at a conference table and Susie is there all perfectly smiley and states your idea and the group is like nodding their heads and are like, “Oh, yeah, that is golden.” The words in the card (to the person who stole your idea) “Do Better.”

My turn. “Okay, how about the person who says, ‘What do you think?’ And you share what you think, and they dismiss it with it with a, ‘Yes, but.’” And they say, “Mmmm…what if….” And you know they roll over your idea (which they didn’t care about it in the first place). Hey, you’re getting a card, and the cartoon figures are sitting cross legged on the floor with that conversation in speech bubbles, and inside the card…’Do Better’.”

Then my daughter said, “You know, we get it, because we care about people but those people we just described, don’t. They won’t get it. “

I agree and come back with, “Yes, and we will feel better for dropping the card on their desk.”

I mean, we laughed with our deepest ab. muscles, with our souls, and after we wiped the tears of laughter away, still with the “after-giggle,” I said, “Oh, we so have to make these cards. Instant classic. Of course, we will credit your friend with the phrase.”

So be on the lookout and if someone drops one of these on your desk or doorstep, “Do Better” people, just do better. Step it up. Be kind. It’s just not that hard.

Oh, if you see yourself in these scenarios as the giver of the slap in the face, “Do better.” Because these cards were inspired by you.

To end on a lighter side, I will often tell myself when I find I’m silently complaining about something inconsequential (like doing the laundry), I will say in my mind, “Do Better.” Instant smile. Attitude changed. I pick up the damn laundry and feel thankful I can go in my own basement and do it and don’t have to schlep it to “Laundry World” and spend six hours with strangers, praying a machine is not being used so I can: wash, dry, fluff and fold.

Me, Baby Sylvie and Mom: The Two People Who Always Believe and Believed in Me

Damnit, damnit, damnit…the robotic pharmacy lady. Where the hell is a real person? I need to speak with a human! I’m going to run out of a medication. It was called in by my medical professional a few days ago but the pharmacy never texted me the “It’s ready for pick-up” anxiety relieving text!

That was the beginning of a major, anxiety that smothered my entire day, my whole outlook on life, my decision about today…that is, until, my daughter stepped in.

A Book Fair, and me, a struggling author, invited to attend and hawk my books. But I am clothed in the darkness and absolute dread of the pox that is anxiety. That’s it, I just won’t be able to go. My car is packed with all my materials, but I can’t do this. I can’t.

I am describing this to my daughter, who then says, in her fabulous, smirk and smile, “Mommy, you can always go and leave if you want. I mean, it’s not like they’re going to hold you at gunpoint.”

Oh my god, all of a sudden, I pictured the stereotypical book person in cardigan, pointing a Colt 45 at me and I broke out into belly-depth laughter. “You’re right!”

Okay, I wake this morning…” No, no, you can’t go. No one will buy your book. I am donating all the proceeds

today to an organization I believe in, and if I don’t go, I will be going back on my promise. Awww, shit, I can’t do that! I made a promise and Army Brat rule number who knows what the hell, “Keep your promises. It’s part of what defines your integrity.”

And, I remembered…all the times I have had those in publishing say, “No” to me. The one that stung the most was the literary agent who wrote, “You are a nobody.”

A Nobody? If I say, “No” to myself today, I am proving her right. Aww, hell! I say, “Yes! Yes! Yes”, to me.

Am I still clothed in anxiety? It’s more like a tight scarf around my neck, but my legs still work, and I’ll be wearing the black boots that are “meant for walking, and walk, that’s what they’ll do.”

So, in just a few minutes, I will drive, arrive early (because if you’re not early, you’re late…Army Brat rule #1) and I will set up my kick-ass table display, and I will play my mid-70’s playlist on my Bose speaker and I will say, “Yes” to me.

I have control over nobody and nothing else. Never have, never will. So, if I decide to leave early, I’ll let you know if “Barbara and Cliff the Book People” hold me at gun point. Ha/ha

Love you, my sweet, smart daughter.

The Sounds of Difficulty

Spiral back to 2001, on a Winter day, in labor six weeks early, and the doctor, who arrived after the nurses had done all the work, tells me, “Silence. No more sounds.” What the hell?

I was in the most vulnerable state, and he tells me to be silent?! What about the sound someone trained in martial arts screams as they deliver a punch, a defense move, and this person tells me “no sounds” during the most physical and mental work I had ever done in my life?

I followed directions like a good Army Brat and lost all my power. Dad never meant for me to lose my power, he meant to build me up, to take on the challenge in front of me, to push on when I thought I couldn’t but had to…and so the job at hand took much longer because this doctor wanted silence.

Do not listen when someone orders you to be silent, for it is for their comfort that they utter these commands. Speak up, speak out, speak on and there will be many who find your truth so uncomfortable, they believe you are trying to hurt them. But you are not! You are being your truth, and if they are offended by that, let them go. If you cannot, reach out and let them know that it had nothing to do with them. They will choose to believe you, or not. Their choice, not yours.

If I had to do it over, I would have made the same sounds I made yesterday, when mowing my lawn for the first time this year…with a reel mower. My choice, my choice to exert my power to help save our Earth by using my power, not some fossil fuel or an electricity which ultimately was created with an unrenewable source.

Up the incline, groaning, puffing, panting, sweat pouring from my entire body, dripping into my eyes and propelling me forward into, “I can.” I didn’t care who could hear me, because it was for no one but me.

Oh, I mowed the hell out of my lawn, and as I looked out on it this morning, I marvel at what I accomplished with the help of my new Fiskars reel mower. I felt cleansed by ritual and closer to my late dad than ever before. For it was he, back in the summer of ’64, where I first heard the “ch, ch, ch” of this machine, and forever sealed in me, the sounds of Summer.

Oh Dad…he died on Easter, two years ago, five days after Mom’s funeral. I became an adult orphan and was so lost, afraid and broken.

Two years later, and I drove on with my purpose and mission. Get the lawn mowed. The scent of the blades of grass, henbit, clover, chickweed, violets, all melded into a sweet perfume, a part of every cell in body/mind.

With my renewed strength and belief in myself, I then hauled the 5,000 lb. air conditioner from the basement, going one step at a time, puff, sweat covering me in a sacred baptism of will, grit, determination and I got that sucker up with nothing left in my tank. My daughter, grabs my garden coat off the rack, has it at the top of the basement steps at the ready, and says, “We’ll slide it to the window.”

Damn, she’s so resourceful and I know her Pop Pop was looking down and knew she had done well. I picked that f’n cooling device up to the window, she opened the window and I slide it in. She closed the window, sealing it in and we’d done it. Two women, not easily, and with strength, grit, faith in ourselves and in each other. Strength comes in many forms. And at age 64 and age 25, we accomplished, we worked together and damn, it felt good.

Scream out, make some noise, struggle, struggle, stop, accept teamwork, and carry on.

Thank for reading my piece today. It’s a new day.

Childhood warm spring days and the first blush of green moss appears. I am sure that this is place where fairies reside. And why not? It is as though moss appears from nowhere, travels by air born spores, grows where nothing should grow and survives all that tramples on it.

And so, I placed a fairy house in the dogwood tree that is dying in my front garden. Well, then, a fairy on swing made of a leaf called to me, and I hung her on a nearby branch. I have this feeling, by Summer’s end, I shall have turned this dying tree, into a living fairy kingdom. Why not?

Who does it hurt? No one. Who does it give delight to as they pass by? So many people, young and old. I shall add pieces bit by bit, so that all who stop may notice. It is where joy shall live. A blight took most of the life of this tree last year. The death of trees is a cellular sadness to me. I feel, this little tree needs these fairies and they need it.

Moss…must look around for some moss I can add to the base, but only at the back where it’s shady. Oh, and me? I am back in the gloaming…it’s March and two years since the death of both of my parents. It weighs on my heart and clouds my vision. I search for beauty and realize that my Fairy Tree is that place.

Death…I don’t like it. If one more person tells me, “It’s part of life,” I shall slap them. Well, I won’t actually, I’ll simply imagine doing so. I like what my little neighbor child told me…” You need fairy dust, that’s the problem. Add that, and they will find your house.”

I love how kids “know.” They don’t question the knowing, as it is true to them. She sounded so sure that I do think she may be right. I am lacking fairy dust. Gotta work on that. In the meanwhile, I shall hunt for shiny things to hang from the branches as other children have told me that’s what draws fairies near. Old earrings that have lost their match? That could work. They’re just sitting in a box somewhere. I used to wear two mismatched earrings in my 40’s but then it became a “thing” and I stopped. I felt I had to have two mismatched and the magic was gone.

The ground is beginning to send up its’ Spring scent again and I bury my face in a handful of dirt. It is vitality, freshness and possibility. I curse Winter every time it arrives and revel in Spring. Well, I used to…now, it brings that heaviness of loss. I am not devoid of all happiness, I am simply riding through this sad time, knowing that time is not healing the wound, simply growing a burl around it.

Back to my Fairy Tree…I have not taken a photo of it. I am loathe to take too many photos as I drink in moments. I play them back in my mind/heart and I am back “there.” This is both an amazing ability and also one that can sting as Merthiolate.

Oh, you’ve never heard of that product? Look it up. Hmmm…questionable at best, but I was covered in it each Summer. We can only hope it had “live long” properties in it along with radiation. Ha/ha

And so, I sign off for today, and hope that my readers will share this with others searching for a little fairy dust. Thank you for reading my piece today.

I follow The Elegant Stylist on Instagram. She is based in London and her tagline is “Wear the damn clothes.” Isn’t that so lovely and freeing? She is 60 and is my style maven. Okay, okay, so my wardrobe is, how shall we say, lacking. Hers is curated (vintage) and modern pieces. She is absolutely enchanting. And on top of that, so very inspiring.

The other day at work, I wore a pink, layered, tea length, tulle skirt with black turtleneck, jeans jacket and black boots. I loved it. I mean, I walked out of my house, wearing my damn clothes. Did I get some stares? Uh, yeah. They were of the “who does she think she is?” variety.

It made me want to wear more, more, more!! Where are my fabulous clothes going to be worn, if I don’t wear them? There isn’t going to be a “right time” and I’m not in a relationship, so no one is “taking me” anywhere. So, if I don’t make the decision to love myself and my style, who will? And, truly, who the hell cares what anyone else thinks?

Not me. I could do my job easily in the clothing, so as long as I can do that, anything goes. Now, that being said, I stopped “investing” in myself some time ago. I used to wear so many pretty clothes, and then…the person I was with, never noticed, never said anything, never tossed me a compliment…what the hell?

I complemented him, thinking, “Maybe if I model how to do ‘this’ he will reciprocate.” Nope. Now, I don’t need to be fawned over. Just the opposite really. Do not hound me, try to woo me with “cute” memes and the like. Turns my stomach. I am not a little girl.

I’m telling you, as I have probably said before, my current anthem is “It’s My Turn” with Dinah Ross belting it out. It is my turn. I shall wear the “damn clothes,” and if people stare, let them. I will be happy that they looked up from their cell phones.

Damn phones. I love them for the safety aspect as a woman, but what’s with people constantly checking them? Hmm, now if you’re reading my piece on your mobile device, I do thank you, and also want to remind you to then put it away for a while.

Take no pictures for a day, for a week, for a month and discover what you notice. Ooooh, I am sounding like a bossy boots in this post, aren’t I? Do whatever the hell you want. Take photos, don’t take photos, it was simply a suggestion, and it’s one that I will follow too. I desire to notice more, feel more, see more, do more, wear more and the list goes on.

When I first started teaching, I recall a book my students loved me to read aloud. It was called, More Spaghetti I Say! And why not? Spaghetti squash, spaghetti with noodles made from lentils, spaghetti with garlic sticks, drenched in butter. Oh, damn, I am making myself really hungry!

I will wrap it up, by saying, no, ‘more’ is not always better. Sometimes it is hell. But when I have the chance to choose me and hurt no one, I will do it. Thoughts? Ponderings? Reactions? Know a friend who might enjoy this piece? Feel free to share. Thank you all for being with me today. I value each one of you.

Okay, So, I Think I Have Enough Wrinkles and I’d Like to Stop Here

NO! I’m not talking about death! I’ve decided that I have earned my smile lines and I am ready to stop.

There seem to be two camps of women. Those who Botox/Use Fillers/Get Facelifts etc.…and those who say, “I’ve earned every wrinkle and I love them.”

I am in a new camp. Not surprising as I loathe following the crowd. I mean, the whole, face sagging jowl thing, it’s not for me. The neck forming lines of “what the hell?” Nope, not for me.

Looking like I’m in constant high G-Force Face, also, not for me.

Micro infusions, and facial/collagen stimulators, yes. Hey, we take care of leather shoes, so I consider those two additions along with my lovely creams, taking care of my leather.

No regrets about getting ultra-tans when I was younger and I don’t wear sunscreen now. It makes me way too hot.

That’s right, I’m just breaking rules all over the place. This is what is right for me. How wonderful to decide. It’s my damn body. Always has been.

So, my face, will stay like this. I know this face. It looks vibrant and reflects how I feel inside. What’s not to like about that? Hey, if you choose otherwise, knock your socks off. I am doing this for no one but me.

How divine. To do this for no one but me. No, micro infusion at-home treatments do not hurt. The facial stimulator does not hurt. Do I like the results? Hell, Yeah!

So, thank you wrinkles. You can stay, but no more. Enough is enough. Overdoing anything is usually not a good thing, so why overdo wrinkles? Thank you for reading my piece today. Where are you with facial changes?

Albums I had carefully curated, left with my ex-husband as I fled. Never looking back, but for those albums. The death of my parents almost two years ago, and my acquisition of our 1974 Stereo, complete with turntable, cassette player, 8-track player and two Bose Speakers, sent me on a quest to find those albums again.

The turntable worked up until about ten years ago, but there is a store specializing in fixing “vintage stereo equipment” near me and this summer, I will take my treasured, weighs 10,000 pounds stereo there.

Well, it was the “family stereo,” as Dad always reminded me. I also have the accompanying massive headphones which connect to the stereo via long-ass cord. Do they work? Don’t know, but I’ll bring them along too.

No, I would not under any circumstance, ask my ex for “my things.” It has been decades since I saw him last and this is my damn quest. Album by album, I am putting back the pieces of my past as I know it to be now.

So many of the albums were purchased in the mid-70s through the 80s and then stopped when CD’s became available and albums stopped production. Ahhh, the resurgence of albums has arrived and just in time for me.

But my “buying back of the past” doesn’t end there. A few key toys, given away prior to another duty station and the “weight limit” Dad said we could not go over that weight limit! Now, tell me, how could a 10” long, red, Tonka brand VW Bug have been the item that would have put us over the limit?

Well, I purchased one this past summer and it graces my living room, sitting on a stack of books, the one on top, being the book, I wrote and published. Oh, how I adore my red VW, and sometimes find myself, holding it and bringing Mom’s beautiful face to mind.

Why Mom? Oh, I’m sure she was the “Santa” that brought that VW for me and one each for my two sisters. We would put our Barbies on top and pretend like it was their car. Now, “The Kens” were always off in a corner, “Golfing.”

Now, I don’t know if there was a fatal flaw in the 1968 “Ken,” but he did not fare as well as my Talking Barbie of the same vintage. That man’s legs came off, the head popped off and one of the arms fell off. Dude was basically sitting in a corner for the many years I played Barbies.

Yeah, The Kens were necessary but they basically did nothing. “Well Honey, gotta go to work,” we’d say in a slightly lower vocal register. Or, “Gotta meet my brother (my sister’s Ken) at the golf club.”

Now the Barbies, they were happening. They had wardrobes, they had money which (we pretended) they had inherited and often would be spies. Yes, that’s right, our Barbies hadsome action. We’d play this game called, “Danger Island.” Kens would be off at their cubicle Dad jobs and our Barbies would be looking for clues, hunting for treasure, I mean, we liberated Barbie right along with the Woman’s Liberation movement…only we didn’t know about that movement. We were Army Brats, and constantly being told (when not playing after school or on weekends), “Remember to be ‘ladylike.’”

The good news in terms of hunting for my past, is that I still have my Barbies and the pieces of Ken. So, no need to hunt for them.

But, my metal 1960s two story dollhouse with accompanying plastic furniture, father, mother, sister, brother and baby…now that’s something apparently that would have set our “moving weight limit” over the edge in our “Storage Unit” prior to moving to Frankfurt Germany. . Hmmm…this seems dubious at best.

Here’s something really stupid. Don’t do this. I found the very dollhouse I just described, along with a bag of the very same pieces about ten years ago, but I let my then paramour talk me out it. Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Where will you put it? Our house is crowded enough.” Now, the (truth) weed whacker in our living room…yep, that’s right, our living room, now that was important, despite the fact that we had a big-ass shed with plenty of room to hang it on one of the walls of said shed.

I digress. I’m still looking for the metal dollhouse. I’ve got a great antique row close to where we live now, and I just know that dollhouse is going to be at one of those stores. I’m gonna buy that beauty and set it up, and I don’t give a damn that I’m 64 with a dollhouse.

Then, the piece de resistance, a heavy cardboard Hospital I got for Christmas when I was four. It had a working elevator (as in, connected to string, one would pull up and down-very high tech), plastic doctors (all of whom were males), nurses in their crisp white uniforms and those weird hats. What was with those hats? Protection for the crown of your head? Oh, and one of the best parts, a couple of kids and people with obvious diseases.

The one that springs to mind is a kid with measles. Very common in my early years in terms of childhood diseases. My poor little sister, I always made her play (move) the characters with diseases while I always was in charge of the doctors and nurses. It bugged me that the women were not doctors, and the toy came with vinyl-ish surgery gowns (kind of like the Colorforms material of the same era). I would put the gowns on the nurses and, voila, they were doctors. I was like a four-year-old feminist before I even knew what one was.

I have searched the internet for this hospital toy, and I’m going to continue searching, because I must have that hospital. I can’t even find references to it! I don’t know who made it. Mattel? Hasbro? Playskool? Off-Brand? No idea. Now, as luck would have it, that treasured piece was part of the “Over the Weight Limit” move to Ft. Leavenworth, Kansas in 1967. Really? A cardboard Hospital had to be thrown out (or Mom probably gave it away upon orders from Dad to “Make sure the girls are part of the move by giving up some toys.”)?

Back to the albums for a moment. All my Springsteen, covering the first album up through Tunnel of Love. My ex. didn’t even like Springsteen. How can you not revel in Thunder Road? How can you not dance to “Baby I’m a Rocker?” How can you not marvel at the artistry of “Jungleland?” These all should have been “red flags” for my relationship…but that is all fodder for another day. I’ve got “The Wild, The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle” but I’ve got some real digging to do to locate the rest. And I will!

Then, there are all my Beatle Albums. All of them, from Meet the Beatles to Let it Be. My sisters and I shared a few of the albums, and each of us had a few of our own, but mine are gone.

My Dan Fogelbergs’s…I mean, those were my Depression Hit Parade go-to albums for angsty teen tears. Include in that Joan Baez’s Diamonds and Rust. Dad did not appreciate her voice in the least and called it, “cater walling.” What! Oh, and my Joni Mitchell…I owned just two. Blue and Ladies of the Canyon.

Okay, yes, yes, I have Spotify and I have my “Mary’s Mid-70s playlist” along with a growing set of albums but I need the record and the record jacket. The liner notes. Oh! All my Bob Dylan’s! I played “Tangled Up in Blue till it was probably unplayable. Dad said, “That man can’t sing on key to save his life.” Dad, it’s the poetry, the melody, the feeling…he never understood. That’s okay. Well, now it’s okay, but at age fourteen, it was not. Oh, lots more on that in my book, Out of Place: Coming of Age in Cold War West Germany. (click on the name which is a link)

Can you buy back your past? I’m working on it and I must say, the treasure hunting makes me feel like I imagine I did playing, “Danger Island” with my Barbies…only they had better wardrobes. I’m working on that too.

Thank you for reading my piece! Any toys you had that you’d like to have again? Drop me a line if you want. Please, hit “like” to help this writer, and I truly do wish to entertain you. I do not ask for money for my Substack, as I just love to spread the funny for free.

Let me set the scene. I’m down at little kid level, because teaching young children, that’s where I spend a lot of my time. Cutie pie across from me manages to cough, an uncovered cough…no elbow, no hand, just free style beefy cough, the moment I open my mouth.

The juice droplets fly through the air. This moment, very reminiscent of the TV advert. from the 1970s of “halitosis” where the putrid air is represented by cloud of green. Said juice containing god knows what bacteria/virus/unknown contents of the carrier saliva enters into, onto the soft tissue all around the interior of my mouth.

Woah, Nelly. For a moment, I considered pardoning myself to gargle with the only available anti-everything…hand sanitizer, but thought it seemed too, “Let’s eliminate the virus but inoculating with Clorox” and did not.

So, there it was…cough juice. My interior thoughts were as follows, “This cannot be good. I must get to my anti-cough juice manuka honey, individually wrapped “drop” in my lunchbox.”

But, alas, it was not to be, for I had left my lunchbox, for the first time ever, in another room. “Damnit, now the unknown swill is going to have a field day in my body.”

And, it did. The next day, I had a slightly scratchy throat, despite my futile efforts once home, including chewing dried bee balm leaves, grown and dried by me.

The day after that, razor blade throat condition with no voice. Great. I will never, ever, ever, leave my lunchbox in another room, again.

Either that, or I have to commit to eight hours, five days a week of constant sucking on Manuka Honey drops as a preventative, because we all know, that more cough juice will happen. It is a given.

How was I so unprepared? I mean, I could actually see the droplets because of the angle of the light, and felt, yes, felt them enter my mouth.

The Razor Blade throat day was spent at home, drinking various concoctions of herbal tea and much to my delight, by the following day, felt fine.

My daughter informed me, scientist that she is, that “cough juice and sneeze debris are constantly in the air.” How is this comforting? Perhaps, it was not meant to be. Just the facts, just the cold, hard truth.

Well, I suppose I should be comforted by the fact that these particles are not chartreuse green. I’d be dodging green clouds all day if they were.

See, my silver lining moment. Mom was classic for those, even though as a teen and early twenty something that attitude drove me insane. Like, we’d miss a turn with Mom driving, and she’d say (and she’d always go for the most dreadful scenario), “Well, if we’d made the turn, we might have gotten into a head on collision, so we’ll just turn around at the nearest place and continue on. Isn’t that wonderful?”

We (my sisters and I) would hear these “silver linings” and just roll our eyes. No words to contradict her logic. I mean, maybe she was right. So, what would she say about the cough juice?

“Well, at least you didn’t get Pertussis or Whooping Cough. Isn’t that fortunate?” Yes, Mom, it is. Mom…giver of wisdom. She’s not with us anymore, but her many Mom-isms live on. And anyone, family member or friend, who knew her, knows that this piece would not be complete without the very often said, “Oh well…what are you gonna do?” Mic drop.

Thank you for reading my piece today. Please share so this writer might grow her readership, and you can give someone a laugh today. Let’s spread the joy.

Why Does the Name of “The Smell” Have to be So Repulsive Too?

The Old People Scent: I’m on the cusp of 65, that’s when they say it begins to happen.

Is it like on your 65^th birthday, and poof, you’ve turned into the person that people are like, “Yep, at least 65. Got that old people’s smell.”

Persimmon soap…do I buy it preventively as I read it eliminates this most unpleasant smell?

Does it come in like a spray too so I can make sure I’m “safe” during the day?

I was worried about so many things already and now, I gotta worry that in about six months, the good smell of me, is going to be over, gone.

And if I don’t get that persimmon soap, my treasured fig and sandalwood perfume just going to smell like Febreze scent trying to cover some digestive disaster.

This is serious. I mean, this persimmon soap only comes in a bar. Like, there’s no foamy body wash. This is like old school, Dad’s Lava soap in the basement utility sink used to remove whatever the hell solvents dads used in the 60s and 70s to remove who knows what!

A bar? I mean, didn’t we move away from the bar situation because it was a bastion of bacteria? Now, I gotta use said bar so people don’t start moving farther and farther away from me as I speak to them.

Isn’t this bar just going to collect whatever hormone or secretion that I am trying to eliminate? So then, it will be like an “old people smell spreading system?”

But if I don’t get the bar, I mean, I cannot deal with the possible outcome. Cause the smell will apparently infuse in all parts of my house! How is this possible? I mean, the rest of my house right now, doesn’t smell like anything. Hey, I have it on good word, that it doesn’t from my 24-year old. And trust me, she would share, if when we walked in the door, it was odiferous.

I hate bad smells. I lived in this one house, and when I walked in the door some days, the stink from the garbage would just send me flying backwards. And my partner at the time would say, “Yeah, I smelled it, but after a while, it goes away.”

No, no I beg to differ. It did not go away unless I threw it away in the outside trashcan. You cannot fool me. I can smell “bad” and I do not want to be the source. “Oh, it’s okay. She smells like an old person, but after a while, it goes away.” No. Hard, no!

When I was growing up, people used to cover their furniture with these plastic covers. No lie. And this was before houses all came with air conditioning, so like, my little legs, all summer tan in shorts on that plastic…oh my god, I’d stand up and I could hear the skin peeling from my body, left behind on the plastic covering.

My mom said, they were just protecting their furniture because they grew up poor, but I have come to think that maybe, just maybe, that it was to keep the whole house from smelling like old people.

Okay, you know I’m going to be buying that soap and start using it in these last months before I turn 65, because I cannot take the chance that “the smell” will start before the exact day of my birthday.

65. Damn. Now I gotta think about Medicare and I’m going to start getting texts about like Ensure, and I’ve already started getting the, “Remember, you’re getting older which means you are at risk for Shingles. Your vaccine is waiting for you.”

What????? CVS is saving a vaccine just for me? No, just no. I’ve read that a strong lemon balm paste from Europe will clear that shingles right up. I’m not putting more shit into my system just because I had chicken pox like every other Gen. Jones kid.

Oh, yeah. Now, I’m in Generation Jones. Tell me that when you hear that, you don’t think of the song, “Meeeee and Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones, Mrs. Jones…we got a thing….going on…” Okay, I diverge, slightly.

Thank you for reading my piece today. Share it with your friends if you would. It’s our “Warning System” so we don’t deteriorate as a generation. Peace, out. For now. Cause now, I’ve got some Green Eggs and Ham level, “Not in a box, not with a fox” against taking my chances with Old People Smell.