Most of my peeps are at that age. Which means their parents are at that age.
So, like some of you, I've had the opportunity to hang out at various old folks homes visiting parents or grandparents. Considering how old I am (although I hate to) I guess I should think of something else to call them since I'll be moving in before you know it. And me living in an old folks home just isn't right.
I'm already rambling...
Anyhoo, I've observed that getting old mostly sucks. But, there are some things that are kinda cool about it, and the closer I get to the golden years the more I want to look on the bright side. Like...
You can be in a wheelchair, have a tracheotomy, be hooked up to an oxygen tank and roll yourself right out to the patio (usually called something like Serenity Garden or some other creepy crap name), and smoke. No one judges you. Okay, there's probably some judging. But, you could give a shit.
You could give a shit.
Don't want to brush your hair? Fuggedaboutit.
Cut your toenails? Nah. You like 'em that way.
Take a shower? Not this month.
Cheat at bingo? Be my guest.
Turn the TV volume up to 500? Have at it.
It's carte blanche, baby.
Teeth and underwear are optional.
The first works well for my mom. She only wears half of hers. The uppers. I think they help keep the cigarette in her mouth while she's rolling around Serenity Garden in her wheelchair looking for her oxygen.
The second worked well for my dad. He was married 8 times. Any no underwear situation was good news for him. Perked him right up. The last time I saw him, a few weeks before he died, he was trying to pick up on his nurse. I think she had on underwear, but who knows what goes on after 4 pm.
You can try to pick up on your nurse.
Or, anyone that tickles your wrinkly, demented fancy.
My husband was a hot commodity visiting the home. The ladies loved him. He's handsome, well under 90, and is still ambulatory. You can imagine the crowd I had to fight off, so to speak.
In the Alzheimer's unit one little old lady told me, "If I was thirty years younger, I'd give you a run for your money for that guy."
Another asked, "What's his name again? I think we used to...you know..."
Everyone expects you to nod off mid-everything. How awesome is this?
Wife yapping? Nod off.
Kids bossing you around? Nod off.
TV turned up to 500 with Jeopardy on? Nod off.
You can see the convenience.
You forget a lot of stuff. Or, so you say. This is a particular favorite of my mom's.
"I only lost $35 at the casino," she'd brag.
"You mean, $3500?"
"No...I don't remember that..." she'd say, nodding off.
Violent outbursts combined with threats of physical violence are considered cute and it's possible they hand out shivs. I passed a tiny, way old lady hobbling along the hallway with her walker. She told her slightly younger companion, "If he comes near me again, I'll cut him." I laughed for a week about this. Thought it was adorable.
White Out is a budgeting tool.
I'll go to my grave insisting on the genius of this nugget.
My dad balanced his checkbook with White Out. He'd sit at the kitchen table, bent over his dog eared bank statements (who knows how old) with the White Out brush poised over his check register.
He'd mumble, "That's not right," and white out the ending balance. Then he'd write in the one he wanted.
Wish I had thought of that.
IF YOU LIKE THE BLOGS YOU'LL LOVE THE NOVELS IN HER TWISTED CRIME SERIES