over40club

It's only natural

I took a trip out to Sprouts Food Market yesterday to get some natural, ground chicken for the two youngest of our kitties. They are on a raw meat diet and I actually make their food every week. Ground chicken, liver powder, fish oil and some other powdered stuff. It smells nasty but, they like it and this is supposed to be so much healthier for them. Anyway, so here I am in Sprouts where I am surrounded by organic, natural foods and stuff. I have been trying to eat better, lots of fresh veggies, chicken and fish these days, so I decided that I wanted to poke around and see what kind of juices I could find. So many in the regular grocery store have high fructose corn syrup in them and that stuff is just horrid. I found one that looked yummy and thought 'hmmm, this would be tasty with some ginger ale added to it'. So off to look for some soda. I found this 'natural'  diet soda called Hansens and wondering how good or bad it might be, decided to pick up a 6 pack and try it. I also grabbed a buttermilk bath soak (I am going to treat myself to that tonight) and some perfume oils.

I got home, put all my finds away, made a batch of stinky cat food then decided to treat myself to a spritzer with my new juice and all natural ginger ale. I grabbed a big wine glass, filled it with ice, mixed my concoction and took a sip. After downing half the 6 pack in a 2 hour time frame I have come to the conclusion that Hansens Diet Ginger Ale is liquid crack. I even woke up this morning thinking about a tall glass of that gold liquid and rushed through my A.M. work out at the gym so I could get home and pop a can open. Larry made a trip to Sam's Club later on and called from the store to see if I needed anything. "Yes", I replied. "More Hansen's. In fact, can you see if Sam's carries it and if they do, grab a case. No wait. Grab two".

As I sit here savoring my last can and wondering if we could fit a tractor trailer next to the house I think it is safe to say, I am hooked. I wonder if there is a Hansens 12 Step program.

Public Enemy

Public toilets have it in for me. They discovered me at age 4 during a trip to drop my siblings off at church camp and have not left me alone since. I could write a horror movie. Jason, Freddy and a great white shark ain't got nothing on that graffiti strewn stall with the silver handled, white porcelain devil that we so trustingly give our bare backsides to. You see it as something soothing, an oasis during a long car ride but, trust me. Behind that innocent looking seat, that beckoning pool of water lays an evil menace.

As I mentioned, during my 4th year of existence on this planet, my parents, siblings and I made the yearly pilgrimage to Camp Wakonda, our church camp. I was too young to attend but, I was excited at the 'picnic' mom had planned for us on our way there. You see, this was back before the days of the Golden Arches, drive thru's and cholesterol. Back then it was homemade sandwiches, potato salad and grape soda at a rest stop. We loaded up the car and made our journey, stopping for our fabulous picnic, and then continued up the road. At a stop for gas, my 4 year old bladder decided that the grape soda consumed earlier needed an outlet. This was my first venture into the land of the public restroom stall and I wanted to be a big girl. Mom walked me into the restroom, waited while I found an empty stall, made sure I had managed to make it up on the toilet without a stepstool and with my urging that I was old enough to do my business alone, left. The door to the outside had no more than closed and I was finished. Hey, four year olds have rather small bladders. I reached for the TP and just as my hand touched it, I felt my ass shift then slip. Suddenly that paper was much further from my reach. I tried to move but, the more I wiggled the further the paper moved from my grasp. No worries, I thought. I will just jump down, grab the paper and wipe standing up. I turned my attention to getting off this great, white, hope only to feel the dampness of the toilet bowl water touching my butt. Ok, let's try again. As my legs came closer to my head and I started to resemble the letter "V" I began to realize that my 4 year old, skinny ass was not made to fit over a public toilet. My ass was sinking and there was no getting out. So with the words of "I'm a big girl and I can do this myself" running through my brain, I swallowed pride and begin to loudly say " Mama!" Nothing. Louder. "MAMA!" Nothing. My whole 4 years of life flashed before my eyes and within that 2 minute time frame, I hear a familiar voice. It is my 10 year old sister. "Do you want me to get mom?" I was torn between being a big girl and forever turning into a letter of the alphabet or admitting that I was not quite ready to take on a public potty room. As I was pondering life, pee and the pursuit of making a tinkle on your own, I hear mom's voice.

"Are you ok?"

"I can't get off the toilet". I answered.

"Can you unlock the door?"


Ok, what part of I can't get off the toilet are you not getting.

"No, I can't get to the door."

"Ok, I am going to try to get under the door to you."

Oh lord. All I can thank you for is the fact that mom is not carrying the camera with her and I will never have to suffer the humiliation of a future Prom date being entertained with these images. I see mom's head pop under the door. Then I see her arm. Then I hear, "I can't get to you. I need someone smaller." Enter my older sister. Amidst the fear that I will be sucked forever into the sewey hole, I let her pick me up off the toilet from hell, open the stall door and carry me out.

Fast forward seven years.

Dad accepted a job in a new town which meant we had to find a new home. One weekend found dad, mom and me making the journey to our soon to be new city to meet up with a Realtor. His office was in an older building and kind of hodge podge put together. After what seemed hours of pouring over pages and pages of listings (where was the internet when we needed it?) I felt nature call. I asked where the restroom was and was directed all the way to the back of this building in a section that looked like it was once a porch and had been enclosed. I walked into the restroom, shut the squeaky door, locked it and did my business. When finished I washed my hands, unlocked the door and turned the handle. The handle however, refused to turn. Ok, no biggie, let's try it again. Nope. So here I went for the next 15 minutes. Turn the handle left. Nothing. Turn the handle right. Nothing. I eventually gave up and thought ok, someone will come looking for me. 20 minutes in a bathroom is a bit much even for a pre-teen that loves mirrors. 25 minutes pass. Nothing. So, I decide this calls for a little noise. I start banging on the door. Not working. Then I add a little shouting. Still nothing. I start wondering if they completely forgot they had a daughter or if this was their evil plan all along. "Let's take her to a new city, find a place with a faulty bathroom door, wait until she has to make tinkle then leave her. Bwa ha ha ha".  I was resigned to the fact that I would most likely be found by some homeless person as I was stuck trying to squeeze through the 1 foot by 2 foot only window in the bathroom when I hear moms voice.

“Sweety is everything alright?”

“I can’t get out of here!”

“Is the door stuck?”

“No, I just really like this bathroom and I can’t pull myself away from it. Can we just move the rest of the family here as well?”

“Are you being serious?”

“NO! The handle won’t turn!”

“Let me get your dad.”

Minutes later I hear two male voices on the other side of the door followed by jiggling of the door handle. The door still won’t open and I am thinking that my earlier sarcasm may actually come true and the entire family will be moving into the realtor’s office. I can see it now. We will be the family in town with the dirty little secret.

“Have you met the new family that just moved into the old realtor’s office?”

“Yeah, I hear they keep their youngest daughter locked in a bathroom”.

About that time the doorknob falls on the floor in front of me and the door swings open. I was free. That was the last time I ever remember having a bodily function while house hunting.

Moving ahead a number of years *cough* 30 *cough*.

I had been back home to Springfield, MO to see my family. Mom and dad took me to the airport to catch my flight back to Phoenix. We got there early so we found a spot in the restaurant and had breakfast which included several cups of coffee and a few glasses of water. After saying our “see ya laters” I boarded my flight, found my seat, buckled up and realized all that coffee and water probably wasn’t such a good idea. Thank goodness I was seated fairly close to the toilet in an aisle seat and had a good chance of beating everyone else to be first to break the seal. After what seemed an eternity, the Fasten Seatbelt light finally went off and I made a mad dash for the toilet cutting off a few slower people in the process. I indeed got in ahead of everyone else and trying to be considerate, I made it a quick stop. All done. Flush the toilet. Jump at the noise it makes because I always fear getting a body part sucked in and spit out to fly amongst the clouds. Wash hands. Look for paper towels. Accidently grab Kleenex. Wash hands again to remove tissue paper. Find paper towels. Grab latch to unlock door. Latch doesn’t move. Pull latch harder. Latch doesn’t budge. Hit latch with fist. Latch appears to flip me off. Stare at latch and mutter “Dear Lord. Not again”. So the game begins. Pull latch. Nothing. Pull latch. Nothing. Finally I bang on the door hoping that someone is not obeying the flight attendant and is standing in the aisle waiting with baited breath and full bladder for me to emerge from the can. No luck. Ok, so how bad can it be to spend an entire flight in a toilet? I have water, a place to sit and I am more than set if I hear nature call. I was about to just settle in on the commode (being careful not to accidentally hit the lever and flush my ass into outer space) when I hear pounding on the door.

“Hey! I am locked in here. Can you get me some help?”

No reply.

Silence.

Back to my “seat” I go and again, more pounding on the door.

“HELLO! I AM LOCKED IN HERE. THE LATCH WON’T MOVE. PLEASE GET HELP”

Again, silence.

I am about to start thinking that maybe I am hallucinating when again, bam, bam, bam on the door.

“Are you freakin’ DEAF? I AM LOCKED IN HERE!! GET HELP YOU MORON!” I screamed as I beat on the latch.

“Ma’am. Please let go of the latch”

It was my handsome Jamaican flight attendant.

I let go of the latch and I could hear some kind of thumping and banging going on outside. The latch wiggled a bit, then wiggled some more and walla, it budged and the door swung open. Standing in front of me was the flight attendant, a non-English speaking family and about 20 people with looks on their faces ranging from anger, to pain to ‘I wonder if the windows in these things open and if anyone would notice me taking a leak out of one of them’.

I thanked the flight attendant and apologized for calling him a moron, quickly found my seat, put my seatbelt back on, hid my face in a magazine and vowed no more coffee before a flight. In fact, public restrooms in general are not a good idea. Ever.

I wonder if they make travel catheters.

Overheard

Larry and I have personalized tags on our cute Honda Element. It is a play on his business name and also plays on our silly personalities. We live in an area that is about 80% Hispanic. This area was a part of Mexico until about 1853 and there are still a lot of old, old family owned farms around here.

We had to make a quick run to Home Depot one day and as we are heading through the parking lot back to our vehicle, we see about 4 to 5 Mexicans staring at our license plate. They seemed to be perplexed by it, scratched their heads then walked on past us. As they passed us, they were saying something and Larry started giggling. "What did they say?", I asked. "They were asking each other who Amuseus (pronounced A-ma-sue-us) was."

Our plate is Amuseus, pronounced Amuse Us.

I guess that just shows that sometimes things can have different meanings. Life can be amusing or it can be some Amuseus dude. Just depends on where you are from and how you want to look at it.

All choked up

Larry and I were sitting in the living room chatting as Buster, our loveable canine child, was having his lunch just 10 feet or so from us. I look up at one point and Buster is standing with his mouth wide open like he is going to hurl. He has a bad habit of inhaling his food rather than chewing it and my first thought was 'great. He is 6 inches from tiled floor yet he is locked, loaded and zeroed in on the carpeting'. When nothing came flying from his mouth  even though it appeared he was trying harder, I suddenly realized that he was most likely choking. I stopped Larry in mid sentence and yelled to Buster "Are you ok?" as if he was going to look at me and shake his head no or stick a paw up and flash me the OK sign. About that time whatever was lodged came loose and he indeed hit the carpet. I breathed a sigh of relief and ran for the paper towels. "I was afraid I was going to have to perform the heimlich on Buster" I hollered to Larry as I was digging for the can of carpet cleaner. "And I don't think I even know how to do the heimlich on a dog, do you?" "Sure I do", he answered. "Just lift his tail and lick". As Buster decided he didn't need my help cleaning up his mess and did it himself, I stood in the kitchen trying to figure out if Larry was being cute, needed a hearing aid or if he had just had a mental snap. "Um, babe, I don't understand. What did you just say?" "I said, just lift his tail and lick. You know. The Hinny Lick maneuver".

I honestly hope that if I am ever choking on a foreign object, there is someone standing closer to me than Larry.

I can see clearly now

!We found out last month that we have to move. The house we are in is being sold so we have to move while it sits vacant for a year or more while the owners try to get more out of it than it is worth. As we were packing I ran across crap that I only see when we move. I decided that some of it has seen the last of the inside of a UHaul with us at the wheel and we made plans to have a garage sale. 

Bound and determined to unload everything I wrote up ads of all kinds and placed them in newspapers and in online publications. Larry went and rented us some tables and while I sorted and priced all of our goodies, he went to get garage sale signs. An hour later he came home just as I was finishing up tagging the last of it. As I am limping around the house rubbing aches and pains in muscles and joints I never had 20 years ago, he comes flying in the house, 14 wooden stakes in one hand and shaking two bags in the other. "99 cents! I got this can for only 99 cents!" I was wondering where the garage sale signs were and if he had been watching too many episodes of 'Buffy the Vampire Slayer' but, I went along with his enthusiasm as best I could. "That is wonderful babe! I am so proud of you! What kind of can do we now own?" He produces a can of spray enamel and goes on to explain that he can spray paint some of the old boxes with this white enamel then, once they dry, cut them into pieces, staple them to the stakes and write on them. I glance at the clock. It is 8:30pm and our sale starts at 6am. I know that 5am alarm is going to come pretty early. "You do know the paint will have to dry before you can write on it", I remind him. "I know. That is why I also got a can of beer to help pass the time". And with that he heads out the door, his cans in one hand and his boxes in the other.

Minutes later the backdoor opens. "Um, what color is enamel?" he asks. I rack my brain to try and decipher his question and give an intelligent answer. All I can muster at this point in the evening is "The color it says on the can. Why?"  "Because I sprayed it and it is clear but, the cap is white. Shouldn't the paint be white?" I grab the can and look at it. It just states that it is enamel. I guess that is all you get for 99 cents. Color is extra. I look at the clock again. 8:38pm. Home Depot closes at 9pm and we have to have signs up before 6am. Larry grabs his keys and flys out the door to Home Depot waving a bag in his hand. He is going to return our 99 cent can of colorless white enamel and get signs instead. What a great idea.

Just after 9pm he comes flying through the door, 14 garage sale signs in one hand and a bag with a can in it in the other. He sees my puzzled look and offers an explanation. "So I run into Home Depot, race up to the customer service desk, toss this bag on the counter and tell the guy I need to return what is in it because when I use it, it comes out clear." to which he hands me the bag. I open it only to find his beer.

If anyone needs some clear enamel, please let me know. I have a can in my fridge.

Overheard

I am in the kitchen today making myself my mid afternoon energy drink when I overhear Larry on the phone.

"Hi, this is Larry Cole. I am calling to make an appointment to get a haircut. Please call me back with an available time and a price. Also, please let me know if it is an additional charge to get all of them cut. "

Vanilla protein shakes are not meant to come out ones nose.

Where's the Beef?

Larry is an excellent grill chef. Weekends you can find him pouring over his grilling 'bibles', sticky notes in one hand to mark the pages, pen and paper in the other to make his grocery list. Some of the ingredients are a bit odd and send us into unfamiliar stores where confused employees play the game of 'what is the crazy gringo asking for'. I guess we have been lucky so far as we have never been slapped in the face or suddenly found ourselves purchasing small farm animals. Life is good on that front.

One weekend Larry had grilled us up some especially tasty porterhouse steaks with a homemade bbq sauce that I would pit against any KC steakhouse. About 1/8 of the way into the side of beef sized steak he had made for me, I gave up. When Larry got as far as he could through his portion, he told me to sit tight and he would clear the plates.

We had an enjoyable rest of the evening watching some movie through eyelids flying half mast and the occassional groan of 'I'm stuffed'. Finally around midnight we gave up and hit the sack.

The next morning Larry decided that steak and eggs was on the menu and hurried around making fresh brewed coffee, and hauling the ingredients and pots and pans out. I noticed him moving things around inside the fridge then moving them around again. I asked him what he was looking for. "Nothing", he mumbled back. 10 minutes later I go back to the kitchen expecting to see the normal 'Larry is in the kitchen' nuclear disaster but, all I saw was Larry standing in front of the cabinet that houses our tupperware style containers. He was staring at a container he held in his hands and I swear I saw his lower lip quivering. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Well, when we finished dinner last night, I put the leftovers in a container, rinsed the dishes off and loaded the dishwasher. I couldn't find the steak this morning though." He said. "Then what is that in your hand?" "The steak." "Ok, then you found it" "Yes but, it wasn't in the fridge". "Where was it?" "In the cabinet." I couldn't help but chuckle even though he was obviously upset over the misplacement, spoilage and loss of his precious steak. When Clara Peller asked "Where's the beef" back in the mid 1980's, someone should have told her "look in the tupperware cabinet".

The next morning Larry is out of bed before me. There isn't quite the spring in his step as there is no steak and eggs to be had. I hear him open the pantry for the box of Special K with Red Berries (which are strawberries but, that is another story), the cabinet for a bowl, the fridge for the milk and reheating a cup of coffee. I make it downstairs awhile later and open the fridge for some milk. There, staring me in the face is the box of Special K with Red Berries.

I am 7 years older than Larry. That means while I am in the infancy stage of this decade of my life, he is in the toddler stage of his. Neither of us is near any stage of any decade that should make us absent minded so I can only assume that living with me the last 3 years has finally taken its toll. No Larry hasn't lost his mind but, he has misplaced it. Perhaps I should check the dryer.

What if...

Like most couples these days, Larry and I find that communication is the key to our relationship. This is how we can sit a mere two rooms away from each other and talk via instant messenger. Most of the time it is a quick "hey look at what I found online" or a "who was on the phone" or "while you are downstairs, can you grab me a glass of water?". And at times the words that come across my screen just crack me up and make me think 'what if'.

Larry (05:59 PM) :
wow, both the voices to Tigger and Piglett passed away, along with their owners
Yo (05:59 PM) :
Are you doing drugs?
Larry (06:00 PM) :
Oh my God, I'm so serious!
Larry (06:00 PM) :
they just had it on the news
Larry (06:00 PM) :
and they said they weren't lieing

I sat here for a good 5 minutes trying to catch my breath. It isn't funny by any means that both men who provided the voices to two of the most beloved cartoon characters of all time, passed away but, you have to admit the way he worded it is a riot. 'Both the voices passed away along with their owners'. I never realized that there is a chance my voice could go before I do. How horrible would that be? "Woman loses voice in fatal accident. Renders body speechless".

The family that waxes together....

So Larry had been talking about trying this product called 'Nads' to remove the hair on his back. I have seen it on late night infomercials and I knew it was similar to waxing but, he didn't seem to grasp that concept. To him it was going to be the save all for his ever more dense by the year, back hair problems. To me it was just a funny name for something most likely to inflict pain.

We were out running errands in the 109 degree heat yesterday like any sane person would be and we happen to stop in a Walgreens. Actually Larry spotted a Walgreens as we passed it. The fact that we were going the wrong way was merely a small challenge to any man in a 4 wheel drive SUV. One dusty field and a curb hop later and we were on the hunt for the ever elusive 'Nads'.

I was the first to spot it on the very bottom shelf of the Skin Care aisle. I ran through the store waiving it like Charlie with the Golden ticket. I found it! I found it! Woohoo! $40 and one cash register trainee later and we were on our way home with our newly acquired bundle of 'Nads'.

We giddily opened the box curious to see what 'Nads' was all about. Inside we found an instruction booklet, a CD, two bottles of soothing lotion (here's your sign), a plastic spatula, a bar of Kiwi soap, cloth strips and nestled at the bottom of the box, gently surrounded by styrofoam, we found our 'Nads'. We opened the jar and found this innocent looking goo of sorts almost the consistency of cold honey and shimmery green in color. I grabbed the CD and the instruction booklet and headed for the computer to learn all I could about the proper way to use our 'Nads'. The instructions seemed simple enough and the people in the videos on the CD seemed to be almost enjoying having the hair ripped from their flesh. One even said it felt like getting a massage. That was good enough for me. I was pumped up. I was ready. Gentlemen, lend me your backs! There is no follicle so tough that it cannot be tamed with a little 'Nads'. I grabbed Larry and told him to meet me upstairs. For the first time a look of fear stole across his face. "You are just a little too excited about this," he said to me. "Are you sure this is going to be ok?". "Piece if cake" was my reply.

Upstairs in our bathroom, I scrubbed his back with the kiwi soap then patted it dry paying close attention to all the directions the hair grew. I opened the 'Nads' and eagerly stabbed it with the spatula, stirred it up a bit and got a healthy glob of it ready to go. I opened the package of cloth strips and it was then that Larry had a moment of clarity. "Cloth strips? Isn't that what they use for waxing?", his eyes getting wider with each syllable. "Um, yes but, don't worry. This is supposed to be like getting a massage". I was a woman on a mission. There was hair to be removed and me and my trusty 'Nads' were on the job. Nothing was going to stop us now.

I spread the gob of goo across the first patch of hair and noticed Larry's nails were becoming one with the counter. "It's ok." I said cooingly. "Just a few patches and it will all be over with." And then I said the words I would live to regret. "If it will make you feel better, I plan on doing my upper lip, chin and sideburns when I am done with you." The words just came spewing from my mouth like some ancient volcano gone wild. I grabbed a cloth strip, placed it on the 'Nads', rubbed over it three times like the instructions had said to do, then grabbed an end, gritted my teeth and yanked. As the strip came off I didn't hear any noise coming from Larry so I assumed all was well. I was busy inspecting the cloth to see how much of the hair 'Nads' and I had grabbed when I looked up at the mirror. There I see the reflection of what was once Larry's face but, is now a contorted, red blob with bulging eyes and a mouth frozen open in a silent scream. "Did that hurt?" I innocently asked as if I had suddenly lost my eyesight. "YESSSSSS!" the thing in the mirror hissed back at me. At this point I was rethinking my earlier comment and wondering how I was going to get out of purposely torturing my poor face. Surely he won't want me to keep going. Surely he will tell me to stop. If he can't take it there is no way he is going to expect me to inflict this kind of pain on myself. I moved down the counter toward the box with the intention of packing it all up and taking it back to Walgreens when Larry stopped me and told me to keep going. "You can't be serious" I asked. Yes, yes he was. He was a man. He was as much a man on a mission now as I had been a woman on a mission earlier. He had wanted his 'Nads' and he found it. He was not backing out now no matter how much skin he lost. So here we went, me applying and ripping. Him making those silent scream faces.

Almost an eternity and half our 'Nads' later and his back was as smooth as a baby's butt. It was as red as one too and he had lost all feeling but, I had completed my mission. I was happy. I felt fulfilled. I had risen to the challenge of the back hair and won. It was then that he turned to me and said "Your turn". I mustered up all the courage I could find then waited until he was in the shower in case I couldn't go through with it and had to make my escape. I figured I would start small so I started with my chin. Small glob of goo. Cloth strip. Rub rub rub. Close my eyes. Grab the end and yank! As my bottom teeth came crashing into my upper teeth I realized I forgot to close my mouth which was probably a good thing since the reverberations the jolt sent through my spine were enough to numb me for a few seconds. Ok. Not too bad. I can still breathe, no cracked teeth so, let's go for a sideburn. I put my hair in a ponytail and spread 'Nads' from my hairline to my jawline on my right side. I put the cloth on top and as I grabbed a hold of it I gave it a gentle tug just to see how securely it was on there. The entire right side of my face moved up to my ear. This would have been fine if I were looking for a solution for getting a face-lift however, it was not reassuring for removing hair. I closed my eyes, said a prayer and remembering to close my mouth this time, pulled that cloth strip with all my might. I came to a minute later hovering over the counter with the cloth strip in a death grip in my hand. The only thing that kept me from hitting the floor was the fact I had pulled that strip so hard that my hand kept flying forward and my 'Nads' had stuck to the mirror.

Somehow I managed to get the second sideburn and upper lip done. I can't tell you how because I honestly do not remember. After the pain subsided I was amazed at how smooth my skin was and delighted that my menopausal facial hair was no more. That was until all the itchy, red, pimply looking bumps started. My only comfort is the fact that Larry has them too. As I sit here writing this with a face that resembles a pubescent teenager I can tell you that both Larry and I have proved our relationship can withstand anything. But the next time we take a detour through a field to get to a Walgreens, I am opening the door and jumping.