When a dermatologist decides to use liquid nitroglycerin on a portion of your face, it stings. Who knew it stung so much that you stifled a loud scream. Obviously,I, your local coward, was unprepared for pain. Remember me? I was the one who never got her ears pierced until age fifty.
Beyond the pain, the area has turned blushing red. Soon, it will blister and my eye will bulge. Not a pretty sight. Next, dead skin will flake away. Not to worry soothes said dermatologist. I will look normal in seven to ten days. See you on church. Maybe.
I checkedwith my live-in grandson, Andy and he predicted that things were going to get real ugly soon. His slogan is "keep it real." I should tell him that reality sucks . Grandmas shouldn't talk like that, but sassy ones do..
So here is my plea. Where does one get those hideous oversized visors that celebrities and other nefarious characters hide behind to avoid recognition? It is either that,or I will hide in plain sight at my humble abode until the mirror says it's okay to go out and about. By the way, the pierced ears have closed up again. Where can you buy those clip on earrings? Must be an oldies store around.
One positive note: I'll never get a facelift, tumy tuck or any thing painful. Reminds me of an old saying of husband Des when we discussed diets. "Costs just as much to bury a fat guy as a skinny one." That goes for ugly as well.
So Says Sassy
Tuesday, May 20, 2014
Wednesday, May 7, 2014
Mothers Revisited
My mother, Grace widowed for 15 years,died at the age of 79. She must have been lonely, living 60 miles away from me, her only child. She, of the flapper era, did Charleston steps in her small kitchen, neatness personified and never was able to tame my father's gambling addiction. We wondered if he would leave her penniless but her house was paid off and she said she said she was at peace.
When I became a widow over a year ago, only then did I realize how truly lonely she must have been. Good, now I have something else to feel guilty about. I do miss her Saturday morning phone calls especially after my father was gone. She did love to relate his defects. She recorded events in her life on a cassette and left them along with tapes of Elvis. She loved Elvis.
My grandmother, Josephine, became a widow in 1918 at the age of 28, left with four children and the job of burying her husband and infant son on the same week. Tough and strong, she came through Ellis Island at 15 with an uncle. I never knew why she left her family for this daring adventure.
I last saw her in a nursing home where she sang, My Bonny Lies Over The Ocean At 92, she was grateful that her, "Eyes lasted as long as" she did. She loved soap operas and let me know who was the bad lady.
When I think about these feisty women when Mother's Day approaches. How I would love to have one more visit with them, now that am 82 and relate to their traumas, their grit and especially their sassyness. Seems familiar. Would that I have their spunk and survivor skills.
By the way I enjoy night time soaps and play my Frank Sinatra CD's when I am lonely.
So saya Sassy
When I became a widow over a year ago, only then did I realize how truly lonely she must have been. Good, now I have something else to feel guilty about. I do miss her Saturday morning phone calls especially after my father was gone. She did love to relate his defects. She recorded events in her life on a cassette and left them along with tapes of Elvis. She loved Elvis.
My grandmother, Josephine, became a widow in 1918 at the age of 28, left with four children and the job of burying her husband and infant son on the same week. Tough and strong, she came through Ellis Island at 15 with an uncle. I never knew why she left her family for this daring adventure.
I last saw her in a nursing home where she sang, My Bonny Lies Over The Ocean At 92, she was grateful that her, "Eyes lasted as long as" she did. She loved soap operas and let me know who was the bad lady.
When I think about these feisty women when Mother's Day approaches. How I would love to have one more visit with them, now that am 82 and relate to their traumas, their grit and especially their sassyness. Seems familiar. Would that I have their spunk and survivor skills.
By the way I enjoy night time soaps and play my Frank Sinatra CD's when I am lonely.
So saya Sassy
Saturday, March 29, 2014
Time To Grow New Wings
I signed up for a new writers group that had a waiting list. I called to be put on the list. Turns out I am in, if I bring my own chair. Especially if I am short legged. Don't ask but shost did. I qualify so I am pushing myself out of my comfort zone to go. Keep tuned.
I need to find a 12 step program for the undisciplined. I'd start one myself, but then I would have to be there.
Been going back to LA Fitness to be tortured by a trainer twice a week. Erratically, at that. I am learning to dislike that old cliche, no pain-no gain. Why are cliches always true? Just wondering.
Wonder how come I spent 15 minutes looking foe my glasses the other day and happened to notice I was wearing them when I passed a mirror. But then I am always looking for things, especially keys, cell phone,or purse. You know that drill if you were born when dinasaurs roamed the earth. I wish I could attach my cell phone to these things All I would have to do is I call my cell phone from my land line and follow the sound.
Unfortunately, I have my cell phone listed on my iphone in the name of Des. So every time I run around looking for it, it tells me that Des called. That bums me out, but Des is probabiylaughing up there with his angel pals. Not fair.
Another cliche. Life is not fair, followed by what is, is. I have a great granddaughter in New York who happens to be named Isis. She really is what she is.
I am in avoidance mode with this blog. So many people I love are suffering health challenges, I had to get up off my prayer knees and distract mysef silly.
So Says Sassy
er
I need to find a 12 step program for the undisciplined. I'd start one myself, but then I would have to be there.
Been going back to LA Fitness to be tortured by a trainer twice a week. Erratically, at that. I am learning to dislike that old cliche, no pain-no gain. Why are cliches always true? Just wondering.
Wonder how come I spent 15 minutes looking foe my glasses the other day and happened to notice I was wearing them when I passed a mirror. But then I am always looking for things, especially keys, cell phone,or purse. You know that drill if you were born when dinasaurs roamed the earth. I wish I could attach my cell phone to these things All I would have to do is I call my cell phone from my land line and follow the sound.
Unfortunately, I have my cell phone listed on my iphone in the name of Des. So every time I run around looking for it, it tells me that Des called. That bums me out, but Des is probabiylaughing up there with his angel pals. Not fair.
Another cliche. Life is not fair, followed by what is, is. I have a great granddaughter in New York who happens to be named Isis. She really is what she is.
I am in avoidance mode with this blog. So many people I love are suffering health challenges, I had to get up off my prayer knees and distract mysef silly.
So Says Sassy
er
Saturday, March 15, 2014
Giving Up For Lent
In my childhood home, lent was a somber time. You had to give stuff up and then there was Good Friday where my mom wouldn't let me listen to the radio. Of course eating meat was not to cross our lips. Boy, was she ticked when the rules got changed somewhere along the line and it was allowed after all. Those were my Catholic years when we all knew which priest gave us th least penalties for our sins in the confessional.
I abandoned the Catholic crowd when I was 16 years old, but since then a priest recently scoffed and told me "once a Catholic, always a Catholic." I didn't debate it, but I still often make the sign of the cross when I am in need of instant help.
My latest adaption of the lenten practice of givng up something for lent is not something superficial like candy or R rated movies or burning the best seller, "Shades of Gray." After I read it, of course. I am giving up Guilt.
It came to mind at a recent Ash Wednesdat at church when we were asked three challenging questions and had to write our answers in our journals. The first question stoopped me in my tracks. "What is the worst thing that ever happened to you?"
Immediately I flashed back to the day I signed Des into Treacy Villa, a residential facility after trying to care for him during difficult months of his failing health physically and emotionally. It was heart wrenching and guilt was a monstor over whelming me. I lost my job. He was my job. I loved my job and him.
Two weeks later, he had a meltdown and they called the crisis team and took him to the local hospital, and I was left to find another place to take him. The new place was Mound down the road from the other place and it turned out be acceptable--but not home. I won't dramatize the following many months that guilt rode my shoulders on my drives to see him, eat with him, read to him, and sometimes laugh with him.
The staff was loving, he charmed them all but it wasn't home. As his health deteriorated, the dreaded phone call to me from the facility..."better get here and hurry." I called my friend Jan who insisted on driving me there. I call my family and Chuck our pastor, and we all got there in time. I was able to stroke his face, whisper in his ear, tell him private memories and assured him that he was going on a glorious journey to see his brother and other family members already waiting for him. He heard me. I could tell by the was his breath paused and then resumed when I stopped and then went on with promises I believed thanks to my faith, past and present.
Later that morning while I sat in the funeral home alone waiting for decisions to be made. My eyes closed, I saw Des and heard words I never expected - not audible but in my soul. He said, "You did the right thing." His last loving gift to me. I wish I could say that released my guilt immediately. I took many agonizing months, despite assurances of family, friends and counsellors.
But this is is, my lenten promise. I am giving up guilt for lent.
So says Sassy
I abandoned the Catholic crowd when I was 16 years old, but since then a priest recently scoffed and told me "once a Catholic, always a Catholic." I didn't debate it, but I still often make the sign of the cross when I am in need of instant help.
My latest adaption of the lenten practice of givng up something for lent is not something superficial like candy or R rated movies or burning the best seller, "Shades of Gray." After I read it, of course. I am giving up Guilt.
It came to mind at a recent Ash Wednesdat at church when we were asked three challenging questions and had to write our answers in our journals. The first question stoopped me in my tracks. "What is the worst thing that ever happened to you?"
Immediately I flashed back to the day I signed Des into Treacy Villa, a residential facility after trying to care for him during difficult months of his failing health physically and emotionally. It was heart wrenching and guilt was a monstor over whelming me. I lost my job. He was my job. I loved my job and him.
Two weeks later, he had a meltdown and they called the crisis team and took him to the local hospital, and I was left to find another place to take him. The new place was Mound down the road from the other place and it turned out be acceptable--but not home. I won't dramatize the following many months that guilt rode my shoulders on my drives to see him, eat with him, read to him, and sometimes laugh with him.
The staff was loving, he charmed them all but it wasn't home. As his health deteriorated, the dreaded phone call to me from the facility..."better get here and hurry." I called my friend Jan who insisted on driving me there. I call my family and Chuck our pastor, and we all got there in time. I was able to stroke his face, whisper in his ear, tell him private memories and assured him that he was going on a glorious journey to see his brother and other family members already waiting for him. He heard me. I could tell by the was his breath paused and then resumed when I stopped and then went on with promises I believed thanks to my faith, past and present.
Later that morning while I sat in the funeral home alone waiting for decisions to be made. My eyes closed, I saw Des and heard words I never expected - not audible but in my soul. He said, "You did the right thing." His last loving gift to me. I wish I could say that released my guilt immediately. I took many agonizing months, despite assurances of family, friends and counsellors.
But this is is, my lenten promise. I am giving up guilt for lent.
So says Sassy
Tuesday, February 25, 2014
Now What?
I wonder who I am. Seriously. My driver's license tells my name, address, height and weight. yes brown. Hair - no longer brown. Height 2 inches shorter. Weight..top secret.
I used to be a wife. Thankfully I am still a mother, grandmother, great grandmother, mother-in-law and friend. I have all the creature comforts I need. My driver's license is still valid. My Toyota still hums along. So do my cats. But I am learning the difference between a solitary life and a lonely life.
I grew up as an only child. Talk about lonely. But I had friends and cousins and a close neighborhood made up of Irish and Italian immigrants and their kids and we all got along. My father, the gambler, held dice games in our basement and the local Irish cop next door managed to swing by to accept favors. The corner tavern was the place to get a bucket of beer and my maternal grandmother lived across the street from the house we lived in, owned by my paternal grandparents.
My parents argued over his gambling and the house became silent. I longed for a pet to cuddle but my mother was too fastidious to allow furry critters in the house. My parents loved me, were affectionate and kind but not so much with each other. It wa an uneasy childhood. I cherished my friends, my surrogate siblings.
Lonely is worse than just being alone, so Now What? Back to writing, journaling, blogging - all solitary pursuits. I socialize, belong to church groups, But there are periods when I miss Des so much, my eyes dampen, especially evenings when the house is quiet and my cats stare at me and we all wonder where that guy is, the one who gave great hugs, and loved us unconditionally.
I need to try new pursuits, distract me from the past, but still savor my memories---the good ones mostly. Never an outdoor gal, I contemplate the back yard with the swing Des built for me. Consider the octangular raised bed waiting to get attention. On my new to-do list, but hardly a bucket list.
About that bucket list, my dream to visit Italy someday is becoming more possible. I have perfect travel companions more than willing to go and July is the target month. If finances and decent health will make it so, I had better drag out my Italian Language books. My grandparents will be dancing in their graves. My Irish husband will raise a heavenly eyebrow. But he got to Ireland and kissed the barney stone. I may get to walk in Rome and get pinched by a roving Italian. Who Knows?
Certainly not Sassy
I used to be a wife. Thankfully I am still a mother, grandmother, great grandmother, mother-in-law and friend. I have all the creature comforts I need. My driver's license is still valid. My Toyota still hums along. So do my cats. But I am learning the difference between a solitary life and a lonely life.
I grew up as an only child. Talk about lonely. But I had friends and cousins and a close neighborhood made up of Irish and Italian immigrants and their kids and we all got along. My father, the gambler, held dice games in our basement and the local Irish cop next door managed to swing by to accept favors. The corner tavern was the place to get a bucket of beer and my maternal grandmother lived across the street from the house we lived in, owned by my paternal grandparents.
My parents argued over his gambling and the house became silent. I longed for a pet to cuddle but my mother was too fastidious to allow furry critters in the house. My parents loved me, were affectionate and kind but not so much with each other. It wa an uneasy childhood. I cherished my friends, my surrogate siblings.
Lonely is worse than just being alone, so Now What? Back to writing, journaling, blogging - all solitary pursuits. I socialize, belong to church groups, But there are periods when I miss Des so much, my eyes dampen, especially evenings when the house is quiet and my cats stare at me and we all wonder where that guy is, the one who gave great hugs, and loved us unconditionally.
I need to try new pursuits, distract me from the past, but still savor my memories---the good ones mostly. Never an outdoor gal, I contemplate the back yard with the swing Des built for me. Consider the octangular raised bed waiting to get attention. On my new to-do list, but hardly a bucket list.
About that bucket list, my dream to visit Italy someday is becoming more possible. I have perfect travel companions more than willing to go and July is the target month. If finances and decent health will make it so, I had better drag out my Italian Language books. My grandparents will be dancing in their graves. My Irish husband will raise a heavenly eyebrow. But he got to Ireland and kissed the barney stone. I may get to walk in Rome and get pinched by a roving Italian. Who Knows?
Certainly not Sassy
Monday, August 12, 2013
All About The Numbers
As I was on a gurney riding in an ambulance the other day, I told the attendant that I expected to ride in a limo some day, in fact it is on my bucket list. The ambulance hardly qualified.
The other thing on my bucket list is to visit Italy next year, but the more rides in an ambulance seems to reduce my odds. Especially since the day before I had ended up in a wheelchair pushed to the ER across from my doctor's office. It really is all about numbers.
The trip to the ER via wheelchair seem to be related to the fact that my blood pressure reading was 80/40. Small wonder my get up and go truly has departed lately.
The numbers dilemma came up the next day when, back at home, my pulse registered 176 on my fancy new wrist BP machine, and an earthquake was rumbling in my chest. This time I was told to call 911. Thus the ambulance ride, sirens blaring.
Once in the ER again qualifying for a cubicle pdq, , all kinds of things got shoved into me, blood taken out of me and the prominent number now was my DOB. Ten-eleven-thirty-one, I said. Over and over again. It would more efficient if they wrote it on a piece of duct tape and taped it to my forehead.
About the numbers, I don't mind answering my date of birth but when an attendant calls across the hall what was my height I yelled the answer, 4 feet eleven, but I'll be darned if I yell my weight back. I accepy the indignity of a gown tied at the top with my back side flapping in the breeze, but announcing my weight to the world of the ER is beyond embarrassing.
In case you are wondering what caused these blips on the radar screen of my life, the answer is uncertain. The plan is to cut in half the strength of my blood pressure medication, record the readings twice daily. Also an aerotic aneurism in my abdomen shouldn't get past certain numbers either.
I see my doctor in another 3 days. Checking on the numbers.
By the way, riding in the ambulance, I had the distinct feeling of Des with me. I told him to relax and go visit his brothers until I get up there. I am going to Italy first.
So says Sassy
The other thing on my bucket list is to visit Italy next year, but the more rides in an ambulance seems to reduce my odds. Especially since the day before I had ended up in a wheelchair pushed to the ER across from my doctor's office. It really is all about numbers.
The trip to the ER via wheelchair seem to be related to the fact that my blood pressure reading was 80/40. Small wonder my get up and go truly has departed lately.
The numbers dilemma came up the next day when, back at home, my pulse registered 176 on my fancy new wrist BP machine, and an earthquake was rumbling in my chest. This time I was told to call 911. Thus the ambulance ride, sirens blaring.
Once in the ER again qualifying for a cubicle pdq, , all kinds of things got shoved into me, blood taken out of me and the prominent number now was my DOB. Ten-eleven-thirty-one, I said. Over and over again. It would more efficient if they wrote it on a piece of duct tape and taped it to my forehead.
About the numbers, I don't mind answering my date of birth but when an attendant calls across the hall what was my height I yelled the answer, 4 feet eleven, but I'll be darned if I yell my weight back. I accepy the indignity of a gown tied at the top with my back side flapping in the breeze, but announcing my weight to the world of the ER is beyond embarrassing.
In case you are wondering what caused these blips on the radar screen of my life, the answer is uncertain. The plan is to cut in half the strength of my blood pressure medication, record the readings twice daily. Also an aerotic aneurism in my abdomen shouldn't get past certain numbers either.
I see my doctor in another 3 days. Checking on the numbers.
By the way, riding in the ambulance, I had the distinct feeling of Des with me. I told him to relax and go visit his brothers until I get up there. I am going to Italy first.
So says Sassy
Monday, August 5, 2013
Mind Trips...a Mine Field
One of my favorite books is The Christian Agnostic, by Leslie Weatherhead. Lately, in my wondering and wandering through memories, I get bogged down in more questions than answers, and I puzzle over scriptual truths.
Along comes Leslie to tell me not to fuss over doubts and worries, he said to put them up on a shelf, and label it "Awaiting Further Light." Easy for him to say, I think, struggling with my over loaded shelf.
I want to know if Des sees me through the clouds. Does he hear my sniffles, listen to me talk to our cats? Does he know I can't find his ashes, saved in a heart shaped silver container by our bed. I keep searching. It has to be here. My mother always prayed to the patron saint of missing objects, St. Anthony. I have Tony on speed dial. No luck so far.
Another thing, has Des hooked up with his family who must have been excited to see him. Or is excitement not a heavenly term? I told him on the day he died, when he was still responding to my voice, to save a place for me up there. I meant it.
He told me a few months ago that he would miss me when he was gone. Is that possible? All I know for sure is that he inhabits my thoughts a lot in supermarkets because I bypass his favorite treats, and I am undone in church sometimes when I look up at the stained glass picture and see him peering over the shoulder of Jesus.
Gabriel, our grandson in New York set my heart at peace the other day on the phone, when I told him it hard been a tough week, at least in my thought patterns.
Gabe said, "I know one thing for sure, Gramps wants you to be happy." Thank for the reminder, Gabe.
So says Sassy
Along comes Leslie to tell me not to fuss over doubts and worries, he said to put them up on a shelf, and label it "Awaiting Further Light." Easy for him to say, I think, struggling with my over loaded shelf.
I want to know if Des sees me through the clouds. Does he hear my sniffles, listen to me talk to our cats? Does he know I can't find his ashes, saved in a heart shaped silver container by our bed. I keep searching. It has to be here. My mother always prayed to the patron saint of missing objects, St. Anthony. I have Tony on speed dial. No luck so far.
Another thing, has Des hooked up with his family who must have been excited to see him. Or is excitement not a heavenly term? I told him on the day he died, when he was still responding to my voice, to save a place for me up there. I meant it.
He told me a few months ago that he would miss me when he was gone. Is that possible? All I know for sure is that he inhabits my thoughts a lot in supermarkets because I bypass his favorite treats, and I am undone in church sometimes when I look up at the stained glass picture and see him peering over the shoulder of Jesus.
Gabriel, our grandson in New York set my heart at peace the other day on the phone, when I told him it hard been a tough week, at least in my thought patterns.
Gabe said, "I know one thing for sure, Gramps wants you to be happy." Thank for the reminder, Gabe.
So says Sassy
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)