Monday, Monday



A week ago, I started Monday with a carryover of Sunday’s blues. It wasn’t the best.


But today is a new Monday, a new week. And I feel new as well. I didn’t do anything extraordinary over the weekend. It was what some might call boring. I stayed home all weekend, spent time with Mister (who had a summer cold), watched the wrap-up of the Rio Olympics games and chilled. And it couldn’t have been lovelier.


One gift of age, for me, is recognizing who I truly am and honoring her. I don’t always succeed on those fronts, but when I do, I experience true happiness, right down to my core. Those moments are beautiful and I love them. Not to imply that I’m completely content in life, because that isn’t true. I still want to scale mountains and achieve personal goals. It’s just that I’m not unhappy in the meantime. And I attribute my relative joy in life to knowing myself. It has made a tremendous difference for me, and I kind of feel like I’ve only just begun. Considering I could be dreading my age and all it entails, I feel pretty darned grateful for being so positive and smiley about the whole scene.


So here’s to Monday and this blank canvas of a week. I can see a few hills before me. Mountains, maybe. No time like the present to start climbing…





Some days, for no apparent reason, I feel young and sprightly. Of course, there probably are reasons, such as exercising and drinking enough water. But on other days…


Leave it to the young to make a gal feel old. Just last week, I heard from a friend whose partner gave birth to their first child. I don’t want to name names or give specifics, but said friend is a sexagenarian! He mentioned how he’s feeling old, but I’m guessing a lot of that has to do with sleepless nights with a newborn. Photos of his gorgeous daughter brought joy to my eyes. And then I had to squint a bit to fully appreciate the pics. I didn’t know where my glasses were, because I haven’t yet resorted to wearing the bejeweled chain around my neck to keep my specs close at hand. So squint, I did. That, friends, felt old.


And now my calendar tells me that the son of another friend is about to turn 17. When did that happen? I lovingly refer to the kid as my name-sake, even though the spellings of our names are different and I’m quite sure our names have nothing to do with one another, but still. I call him that and he doesn’t know about it so I figure no harm is done. And now he’s a year away from voting. Wow. Just yesterday he was knee-high to a grasshopper. (If that phrase isn’t the territory of old folks, I don’t know what is.)


I’m okay with aging. Mostly. As long as I’m healthy and am getting around the way I want, I’m good. And because I see myself every day, I’m accustomed to my face. It’s those danged kids, though. I don’t see them every day. I only see them every once in a while. And when I do, they have grown. And they’ve matured and they’ve become more of themselves. I’m glad they get to do that and all, I just wish they’d slow the hell down.


Ah, well. No turning back. Forward only. If we’re lucky. If we’re very, very lucky.


You Have Got to Be Kidding



This week promises more 90+ degree temperatures in Los Angeles, right through the end of the week. That would be the start of October, for those keeping track.


Yesterday I read a report about “Indian Summer” wrapping itself around parts of the UK, and how folks there are soaking it up. I saw photos of people in shorts, grabbing some sun, as well as pics of kids running along rocky beaches. When the article got around to telling the expected high temperatures, I about fell off my chair: 68 degrees F.


A lot of us around these here hills would give part of a pinky toe for 68-degree weather. We don’t have to do that, however, as it wouldn’t matter anyway. The heat is here for a while longer and that’s all there is to it.


Even though the azaleas by the back door have gotten so discombobulated that they’ve bloomed as if it’s spring, other parts of nature are right on track. Our tomato plants finally looked at us, threw up a few spindly branches and said, “No mas.” So yesterday Mister ripped them all out and cleaned the area. (I would have helped, but as I have a few days left of The Crud, it seemed prudent to avoid inhaling all that dust.) As I watched through the window and saw Mister remove all signs of our abundant garden, I felt a little sad. I know I go through this every year, but for some reason this year tugged at my heart a bit more. Maybe it’s age. I don’t know. But each passing season seems to chip away at this sweet life. And though I hope to live for a long, long time, I am all too aware that everything comes to an end.


But I digress. Yes – summer is officially over. And yes – it is still Satan’s-Butthole-Hot here. But there are also subtle indicators of the autumn that is yet to come. And it surely will. For now, I can’t believe I’m still getting in the pool. You have got to be kidding me.

Feeling Like a Dummy



I think the heat has had some sort of cumulative effect on me, as each afternoon finds me longing for a nap. I haven’t actually given in to the yearning, but I do yearn, just the same.


My schedule is off this week, because of Rosh Hashanah. It’s not that big of a deal, but I admit I am a sucker for routine. Stirring it up, while perfectly acceptable, throws me for a bit of a loop. That uncertainty isn’t mixing well with my desire for extra sleep.


And then there’s the very real possibility that I’m simply experiencing certain signs of age. That’s no big deal, either, but it is an odd sensation. My brain isn’t quite the way I expect it to be. My physicality isn’t, either. And don’t get me started on feeling loopy. Not in a druggy way or anything, but in a wasn’t-I-supposed-to-be-doing-something kind of way. It’s unsettling, I tell ya.


I don’t know why I’m sharing all this. Maybe I just need to acknowledge where I’m at. How I am. Maybe I’m hoping someone out there will have advice or at least be able to tell me I’m not completely bonkers.


Then again, maybe I am bonkers. Maybe I won’t even remember having written this. Maybe I’ll just give in and take a damned nap.

Chairman of the Boards



Mr. Moses Malone passed away this weekend, and that news reminded me of a one-time interaction with the man (posted previously here).


If you’re 8 and you’re told someone is 60, you wonder how they’ve managed to stave off death for so long. To an 8-year-old, 60 is ancient! But when you’re my age (ahem), 60 is so very young. And you see just how much life is left to live at that point. So Mr. Malone’s sudden passing at that still-young age is sad.


For me, I smile when I think of him, because the one time I met him was funny. Here’s hoping he’s laughing somewhere, and by whatever method he gets to where he’s going, I hope there’s a lovely, steady black flight attendant tending his needs.

Can We Talk?



Okay. Yesterday I shared some of my Rock Camp prep with you, and it was honest. I didn’t shy away from the details (stink factor, ahem), and that was good.


Cut to one day later, and I’m already dragging. A shopping stock-up was tackled and a little spreadsheet work was done. Some other prep work took place, along with my life, and y’all – I’m wiped! Now, I do know the danged heat played a part in that, as I got so hot on the un-air-conditioned ride home that my vision started to go wonky. It was unsettling, I tell ya.


I suppose I’m starting to wonder if I’m too old for this. The dark part of my brain desperately wants me to buy into that, and my body doesn’t do much to make me believe otherwise. (Getting over The Crud doesn’t help, either.) The little girls who attend Rock Camp are the same age each year. And they’re exactly as they should be. There are always fresh new volunteer faces each year, too. And though their ages vary, they’re awesome and young. Sure – there are loads of returning volunteers, like me, and we’re not immune to the clock’s ticking. But most of those gals are still younger than yours truly.


I don’t know. It’s a slippery slope, and I really don’t want to slide down face-first. I know that if I start wallowing in feeling old, I’ll sink. And I don’t want to sink. I love feeling positive. I love being sunshine-y.  I love believing the universe is conspiring in my favor. And I love Rock Camp. It’s just wearing me out, y’all. And I know those stairs at Rock Camp are coming. Dear Lord – hep me, um-kay?

Never Too Late



Yesterday I came across an excerpt from a new book, Getting There: A Book of Mentors. The piece was written by Matthew Weiner, creator of the fab show “Mad Men.” (Here’s the link to the piece.)


I loved this bit of advice from Mr. Weiner. I’m no spring chicken, friends. And while I don’t feel limited in what I can accomplish in life, no matter what my age may be, I do occasionally come across a peer who feels as if her options are limited – based solely on her age. With very few exceptions, that sort of thinking is bullshit. I mean, sure, a gal of a certain age certainly cannot become Miss Teen USA. I’ll grant you that one. But come on! Do we really need to shut down our own dreams and aspirations, just because of trips around the sun?


Anyhoo, I plan to get the aforementioned book. The Matthew Weiner piece is good enough to get me to read the whole danged thang. Right now – I’m just enjoying the glow from the excerpt.

Mitzi Friggin’ Gaynor




Yesterday I was about to leave the house when I caught sight of my hair. It has a habit of doing this flip-out thing on the sides. It doesn’t make sense, really, and I can’t claim it’s a style per se.  I usually just go with it and that’s that.


As I looked at my do – in all its flippy glory – I said aloud, “I look like Mitzi friggin’ Gaynor.”


Y’all, I immediately started thinking do I even know what Mitzi Gaynor looks like? And then I moved on to how do I even know her name?


I mean really. Just how old am I?

I Used To Be Young



Have you ever found yourself at a show, watching the crowd around you dance and exert more energy than you can possibly muster? And even though you’re into the band, all you can do it sit in the corner, wondering when the show will end?


I used to be young…

How Cute



Mister and I were out on the town, dinner and some live music. All my expectations were reasonable. Average even. I thought we’d enjoy some food, then walk across the street for some good music. Nothing more, nothing less. Like I said – reasonable expectations.


But sometimes life has a little something extra in store. And we can’t know this until the moment occurs. I was blessed with one such moment that evening. It went like this…


After being seated at the Hollywood eatery, Mister ordered an iced tea and I ordered a cocktail. Our server turned to me and asked to see my ID. I almost didn’t hear him, because, y’all, that question just didn’t make the mental list of possible server replies. Mister noticed it first, and said, “Her ID? How cute.” I then looked at our server and asked if he was serious. He was. As I fished out my ID, our server said that he was certain he was older than I and that yes, he needed to verify my legal drinking age. When I told him I was certainly the older of the two of us, he didn’t believe me. I handed him my ID, he looked at the birth date and his eyes about bugged out of his head. He said, “I’m shocked!”


Cut to a few moments later, and I was enjoying my delicious cocktail. Mister said the P90-X work was clearly paying off and affecting me positively. I said it was good makeup. I looked at Mister and told him that would probably be the last time I’d be carded. And then I realized that we don’t always get to know a “last” when it occurs. Last kisses. Last good-byes. Last travels. Last arguments. Last laughs. These things happen with no fanfare, no announcements. They just happen, and we don’t realize they were the “last” until much later, if we realize it at all. That’s just life.


So while my last time being (sincerely) carded may not rank with other life lasts, it is a last, just the same. And I think I’ll make a note of this one in my calendar, as it was a nice, little, unexpected moment. It could have slipped past, without my noticing. I’m glad I caught it. I’m glad I lived it. Sincerely.