If you were to ask me what fifty seven years of age feels like, I would say a lot like twenty seven, but I go to bed earlier! There are days I feel like thirty again, with a spring in my step and a mischievous gleam in my eyes. The very next evening my feet will hurt and the laugh lines around my eyes will bring me down-down-down.
Some folks have guessed my age at ten years younger than my birth certificate, and I give all the credit to a good gene pool and mineral make-up. These same kind folks don’t have access to my medicine cabinet full of hydrating lotion that softens and smoothes; facial peels in a jar; sunblock with vitamins A,C, E; and my favorite apricot scrub to renew and firm. Do you get the picture? Do you get my drift? It’s all magic.
Looking good in your middle ages is no easy chore, and I shout this loud and clear, “Maintenance is the key.” Big sun hat, expensive tanning lotion, a wonderful firming cream, and those important peptides for the dark circles under the eyes. You can spend hours on skin care (and dollars too) but your attitude needs to be clean and upbeat. How many women have you met that are drop-dead gorgeous, sport a diamond larger than your current one, drive a new car – then open their mouths and you think OMG what happened? If their mood and language is bitter-angry-resentful; full of “I want” and “I need” this is NOT the middle aged role model for me. I will admit there are times when my hormones are out-of-whack or seemingly non-existent, the scale added 3-5 pounds, I had night sweats, lost my house keys for the third time that day, forgot to take the damp laundry out of the washer. At those particular times I am bottom ugly; look like a shrew; sound like a seagull. It’s not pretty and my husband will agree I am one mean cougar. (Yes, we married when he was thirty and I was one month shy of forty.)
Most of the time I am pleasant; personable; humorous and hopeful. I try hard to be more forgiving than forgetful. Ah, to be forty again and fresh as a newborn kitten. To see forty-five again, full of energy and good vibrations. I’d like to go back and experience my Big Five Zero one more time before I’m too old to remember.
Age is one number, or two, or three. Age is written on paper or posted in the local newspaper obituaries. It’s not who we are. Age can be clearly seen on some people’s faces, and camouflaged on others. It is attitude, it is hope and acceptance; it’s your daily reality check. I just want to get on with it. I will continue to pluck and defoliate – will move forward with vitamins on my face and in my tummy. I will continue to pray, exercise, and eat in moderation. I will welcome change in my life simply because it makes a brain work harder and smarter. I want to smile like I mean it – walk with a purpose –welcome each new day and praise the Lord He didn’t decide to take me in the middle of the night.
Bottom line is I’M NOT READY TO GO! I believe reaching fifty eight years of age will be a great time for me, a high and fine old time for me. I’ve got two months to get prepared; lose the belly-fat and any negativity. I’m ready to rock-n-roll. I’m ready to get this party started.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Housekeeping - You Complete Me
My cleaning is done and now I can enjoy the summer months.
What motivated me to go into a housework mode was the fear that company would soon arrive and I’d be caught with my pants down. I’ve waited since the first of the year to polish/dust/vacuum/organize and shop for accessories. My excuse being I work two part-time jobs and I’m too pooped to clean when I get home.
I began by cleaning the mini blinds over the kitchen sink. Once they were bright and grime-free, I realized the other blinds needed to be done as well. I then thought, “Why not do the ones in the living room and guest bedroom?” My frenzy was in full swing and there was no stopping me now.When all were complete I mopped my brow, took a ten-minute break (to get my heart rate down) and started a plan to attack the master bathroom.
I climbed into the tub and scrubbed from top to bottom. I dusted all the light fixtures and oiled the oak cabinet. I even took down the grate over the fan, vacuumed the mystery dust and webs, and then replaced the grate (which now sparkled like my right hand ring). I stopped, drove to the department store and purchased a shower curtain liner, toilet seat and selected “thirsty towels” for the company. I did not purchase towels for my deserving husband.I bought a mattress cover and then drove back home like a bat out of hell and started the real work. I dusted each item with tender loving care while thinking, Lord, when will it end?
I wanted friends and family to be comfortable and displayed items I thought important. In example: TV remote; telephone; alarm clock; toothbrush holder; new bar of soap; expensive toilet paper; a can of air freshener and blue tabs for the toilet bowl. Now I’m tired, now I’m angry, and I know full well that I’m obsessed. I haven’t done the grocery shopping, and I have a migraine while trying to type up a daily agenda for our guests. I make sure to go to the bank and empty out the savings account, because I need to show them a good time. But you know what happened? No one showed. But the house looks like a model home; the husband is proud as the proverbial peacock, and even the pets enjoy the fresh new environment. My shark-like frenzy might have been unnecessary, but it was a good cardio workout and any form of exercise is important for a woman of fifty-seven.
And, by the way, if my company shows up at your door, put down that mop; tuck the broom away; fluff those hand towels; sit down and enjoy the day. They won’t be strangers for very long.
What motivated me to go into a housework mode was the fear that company would soon arrive and I’d be caught with my pants down. I’ve waited since the first of the year to polish/dust/vacuum/organize and shop for accessories. My excuse being I work two part-time jobs and I’m too pooped to clean when I get home.
I began by cleaning the mini blinds over the kitchen sink. Once they were bright and grime-free, I realized the other blinds needed to be done as well. I then thought, “Why not do the ones in the living room and guest bedroom?” My frenzy was in full swing and there was no stopping me now.When all were complete I mopped my brow, took a ten-minute break (to get my heart rate down) and started a plan to attack the master bathroom.
I climbed into the tub and scrubbed from top to bottom. I dusted all the light fixtures and oiled the oak cabinet. I even took down the grate over the fan, vacuumed the mystery dust and webs, and then replaced the grate (which now sparkled like my right hand ring). I stopped, drove to the department store and purchased a shower curtain liner, toilet seat and selected “thirsty towels” for the company. I did not purchase towels for my deserving husband.I bought a mattress cover and then drove back home like a bat out of hell and started the real work. I dusted each item with tender loving care while thinking, Lord, when will it end?
I wanted friends and family to be comfortable and displayed items I thought important. In example: TV remote; telephone; alarm clock; toothbrush holder; new bar of soap; expensive toilet paper; a can of air freshener and blue tabs for the toilet bowl. Now I’m tired, now I’m angry, and I know full well that I’m obsessed. I haven’t done the grocery shopping, and I have a migraine while trying to type up a daily agenda for our guests. I make sure to go to the bank and empty out the savings account, because I need to show them a good time. But you know what happened? No one showed. But the house looks like a model home; the husband is proud as the proverbial peacock, and even the pets enjoy the fresh new environment. My shark-like frenzy might have been unnecessary, but it was a good cardio workout and any form of exercise is important for a woman of fifty-seven.
And, by the way, if my company shows up at your door, put down that mop; tuck the broom away; fluff those hand towels; sit down and enjoy the day. They won’t be strangers for very long.
Sunday, June 07, 2009
A Sensitive Side of Ja'Nee
Throughout my life I have received two gifts from my father. The first was an address book with a metal cover and alphabet slide; the second was a green plastic toolbox. The address book is long gone (what a crying shame) but the other treasure is out in our garage. It has my name clearly listed on the lid; in black felt marker; in my dad’s left handed printing.
The toolbox will always be special to me, and the reason is this: My father worked nights for many years as I was growing up, and scheduled a vacation every 3-5. Work was his lifeline, his hobby. It was a place to be Boss with no back talk from the wife or kids. Even though my bedroom was right across the hall from my parent’s room, my dad was (and remains today) a stranger to me. Conversation is sporadic; his expectations remain high; his memory not as clear as it use to be according to mom.
Reba McEntire sings a ballad called “The Greatest Man I Never Knew” and each time I hear it the tears begin to flow. It could be while driving; cooking; writing; reading; cleaning the house or folding the clothes. That song is a silent tribute to my father – it’s everything I cannot say out loud or jot down in a greeting card.
I would love to tell him the trips we took to the hardware store (when I was small) meant the world to me. It was just me and my dad at Pep Boys. Those times he drove me to drill team practice without speaking a word, time still important to me. The first time I married when he took my arm and I felt him shaking from head to toe, that was a Hallmark moment. And 20 years later when he flatly refused to walk me down the aisle again, I took no offense. Heck, he was my dad and his word was law.
While growing up and apart, I was busy with high school; boyfriends; assorted jobs and blemishes (both external and internal). My dad was busy with work; the lawn; the pets; the pool and oil changes on 2 cars, a boat and a mini bike. We lived under the same roof, but had no common ground other than our DNA.Don’t get me wrong! There were mini-vacations complete with camper shell and water skis. There were amusement parks, holiday meals and drives to the country. But there was never a time when he said I love you – You’re a good daughter – You look pretty in pink. That never happened in our family.
To this day my father is a man of few words and his closest friend is my mother. If we’re in a room alone together (dad and daughter) there is simply white noise and the inevitable elephant sitting in there with us. I’m not certain if he will ever see me as a woman/daughter/friend or confidant. I then stop and realize what he did give to me: Order – Discipline – Quiet strength and Jack-In-the-Box humor. His life taught me resilience, and hard work pays off with or without a high school diploma.
So I continue to search on E-Bay for the metal address book with the alphabet slide (the one he bought with Blue Chip Stamps in the 60’s) and I stroke the plastic toolbox thinking of how much I love my father and hoping he loves me back.
The toolbox will always be special to me, and the reason is this: My father worked nights for many years as I was growing up, and scheduled a vacation every 3-5. Work was his lifeline, his hobby. It was a place to be Boss with no back talk from the wife or kids. Even though my bedroom was right across the hall from my parent’s room, my dad was (and remains today) a stranger to me. Conversation is sporadic; his expectations remain high; his memory not as clear as it use to be according to mom.
Reba McEntire sings a ballad called “The Greatest Man I Never Knew” and each time I hear it the tears begin to flow. It could be while driving; cooking; writing; reading; cleaning the house or folding the clothes. That song is a silent tribute to my father – it’s everything I cannot say out loud or jot down in a greeting card.
I would love to tell him the trips we took to the hardware store (when I was small) meant the world to me. It was just me and my dad at Pep Boys. Those times he drove me to drill team practice without speaking a word, time still important to me. The first time I married when he took my arm and I felt him shaking from head to toe, that was a Hallmark moment. And 20 years later when he flatly refused to walk me down the aisle again, I took no offense. Heck, he was my dad and his word was law.
While growing up and apart, I was busy with high school; boyfriends; assorted jobs and blemishes (both external and internal). My dad was busy with work; the lawn; the pets; the pool and oil changes on 2 cars, a boat and a mini bike. We lived under the same roof, but had no common ground other than our DNA.Don’t get me wrong! There were mini-vacations complete with camper shell and water skis. There were amusement parks, holiday meals and drives to the country. But there was never a time when he said I love you – You’re a good daughter – You look pretty in pink. That never happened in our family.
To this day my father is a man of few words and his closest friend is my mother. If we’re in a room alone together (dad and daughter) there is simply white noise and the inevitable elephant sitting in there with us. I’m not certain if he will ever see me as a woman/daughter/friend or confidant. I then stop and realize what he did give to me: Order – Discipline – Quiet strength and Jack-In-the-Box humor. His life taught me resilience, and hard work pays off with or without a high school diploma.
So I continue to search on E-Bay for the metal address book with the alphabet slide (the one he bought with Blue Chip Stamps in the 60’s) and I stroke the plastic toolbox thinking of how much I love my father and hoping he loves me back.
Friday, May 08, 2009
OCD Is Not So Bad
The other evening when my hubby and I were leaving the house, he said to me, “Are you sure we can go because your kitchen towel is not hanging straight.” We both laughed out loud, but I realized he had finally noticed my tendency to embrace O.C.D. [obsessive compulsive disorder.]
I’m not one to turn pantry labels all in the same direction; check the stove an even number of times before bed; wash my hands eleven times throughout the day; or wear a particular color on a certain day. I like to say I suffer from a mild affliction. I like Order - it comforts me. I enjoy having everything in its place, from knick-knacks to the wooden ruler on my desk. It calms me; it centers my core.
Here are some examples of my affliction:
1. Trash cans never full; must empty immediately
2. No fingerprints on bathroom mirrors
3. Towels to hang with tags to the wall
4. Toilet paper dispensers always full; half is unacceptable
5. Kitchen sink spout never to left or right; always centered
6. Chase down dust on living room table daily…the list goes on
OCD does not rule my life, but it’s part of my daily living. When the pets or job start to drive me nuts I can fall back on order, comfort, and control. I’m no rocket scientist, but I can clearly tell you it’s a matter of control. Just like my Friday morning weigh-ins at home, with any gain or loss charted in my handy journal. Ok, maybe I am obsessed - perhaps I lean toward compulsion, but I don’t let it handicap me. It doesn’t keep Ja’Nee inside the house or late for an appointment. It’s just something I do that makes me happy. I’ll not label it a disorder, because it pleases me and hurts no one.
When did it begin? I think back to my childhood room and I remember it as neat and tidy, with a hint of dust and smudges on the dresser mirror. No OCD there. I fast forward to my hippie days in Haight Ashbury, and picture a 1-bedroom apartment with a Samsonite card table for dining, and a single bed serving as the couch. Candles in wine bottles lined up in perfect fashion; bright kitchen towels hanging perfectly from the stove handle; sentimental items perfectly displayed dust-free on my bedroom vanity. Yes, it must have begun in Spring 1971 when my life was upside down. I had no real job; lived hours away from family; analyzed my thoughts during daylight hours, and battled cockroaches at night.
I’m no physician, clearly not a therapist, but believe OCD is a gift I gave myself when I had no lifeline. I grabbed onto it to prove to my parents and others that I had my new life under control and it was a bed of roses. OCD is now a way of living and coping for me. I am settled, satisfied, steady when the little things line up in “my” perfect order. I’m not saying it’s for everyone, and I’m not saying it’s a healthy way of living. It simply makes sense to me. Thank goodness my husband and close friends accept my quirkiness.
The moral to the story is this:
If you see a friend straighten a towel, empty the trash, take Windex to a mirror, replace the TP, center the faucet spout, spritz Pledge on the dining room table all before leaving the house, just smile and say under your breath, “It’s only a mild affliction and it makes her/him happy.” Then go on your way making certain to count all the brown stones in the driveway gravel (just joking).
I’m not one to turn pantry labels all in the same direction; check the stove an even number of times before bed; wash my hands eleven times throughout the day; or wear a particular color on a certain day. I like to say I suffer from a mild affliction. I like Order - it comforts me. I enjoy having everything in its place, from knick-knacks to the wooden ruler on my desk. It calms me; it centers my core.
Here are some examples of my affliction:
1. Trash cans never full; must empty immediately
2. No fingerprints on bathroom mirrors
3. Towels to hang with tags to the wall
4. Toilet paper dispensers always full; half is unacceptable
5. Kitchen sink spout never to left or right; always centered
6. Chase down dust on living room table daily…the list goes on
OCD does not rule my life, but it’s part of my daily living. When the pets or job start to drive me nuts I can fall back on order, comfort, and control. I’m no rocket scientist, but I can clearly tell you it’s a matter of control. Just like my Friday morning weigh-ins at home, with any gain or loss charted in my handy journal. Ok, maybe I am obsessed - perhaps I lean toward compulsion, but I don’t let it handicap me. It doesn’t keep Ja’Nee inside the house or late for an appointment. It’s just something I do that makes me happy. I’ll not label it a disorder, because it pleases me and hurts no one.
When did it begin? I think back to my childhood room and I remember it as neat and tidy, with a hint of dust and smudges on the dresser mirror. No OCD there. I fast forward to my hippie days in Haight Ashbury, and picture a 1-bedroom apartment with a Samsonite card table for dining, and a single bed serving as the couch. Candles in wine bottles lined up in perfect fashion; bright kitchen towels hanging perfectly from the stove handle; sentimental items perfectly displayed dust-free on my bedroom vanity. Yes, it must have begun in Spring 1971 when my life was upside down. I had no real job; lived hours away from family; analyzed my thoughts during daylight hours, and battled cockroaches at night.
I’m no physician, clearly not a therapist, but believe OCD is a gift I gave myself when I had no lifeline. I grabbed onto it to prove to my parents and others that I had my new life under control and it was a bed of roses. OCD is now a way of living and coping for me. I am settled, satisfied, steady when the little things line up in “my” perfect order. I’m not saying it’s for everyone, and I’m not saying it’s a healthy way of living. It simply makes sense to me. Thank goodness my husband and close friends accept my quirkiness.
The moral to the story is this:
If you see a friend straighten a towel, empty the trash, take Windex to a mirror, replace the TP, center the faucet spout, spritz Pledge on the dining room table all before leaving the house, just smile and say under your breath, “It’s only a mild affliction and it makes her/him happy.” Then go on your way making certain to count all the brown stones in the driveway gravel (just joking).
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
May 10 Celebration to Moms Everywhere
Other poems are written with pencil on a chart,
But this poem is different...it's written from my heart.
It's written with love for no one but you,
Just read it with meaning, whatever you do.
Mother if you love me, I will always love you,
Please open your heart, for all, and let God through.
Mother you're special; you're someone we all would miss
That's why I hug you each day (in spirit) and give you a special kiss.
All the mean things I've said I really didn't mean,
It's just a way children of all ages let off meaningless steam.
I've loved you and claimed you from the day I was born,
I'll keep this love until death do I mourn.
Alive in God's love we'll walk so proud,
Far away in Heaven where bells ring so loud.
These meaningful words for you Mother Dear,
Are from God's heart, which has no fear.
Our love will grow through life's sweet time,
And oh, Mother Dearest, I'm so glad you're mine.
With Love - Sandra Lee
But this poem is different...it's written from my heart.
It's written with love for no one but you,
Just read it with meaning, whatever you do.
Mother if you love me, I will always love you,
Please open your heart, for all, and let God through.
Mother you're special; you're someone we all would miss
That's why I hug you each day (in spirit) and give you a special kiss.
All the mean things I've said I really didn't mean,
It's just a way children of all ages let off meaningless steam.
I've loved you and claimed you from the day I was born,
I'll keep this love until death do I mourn.
Alive in God's love we'll walk so proud,
Far away in Heaven where bells ring so loud.
These meaningful words for you Mother Dear,
Are from God's heart, which has no fear.
Our love will grow through life's sweet time,
And oh, Mother Dearest, I'm so glad you're mine.
With Love - Sandra Lee
Saturday, April 25, 2009
They Are Never Really Gone
The transition from the physical world to the spiritual world is painless. When a person leaves the physical world, he or she leaves behind a heavy, dense body in a heavy, dense world, which can be compared to removing a winter overcoat. The spirit then enters the more refined energy of the astral world. Nothing is lost except the physical body. The soul and its personality remain intact.
Meditations with James Van Praagh
Meditations with James Van Praagh
Saturday, April 18, 2009
I Want What Suzie Has
With senior moments an everyday occurrence, I was shocked that I remembered my elementary school at all. I can’t seem to recall my teacher’s name, but I can say I remember big, flat, fresh, warm, five cent cookies that were available each day at the cafeteria. It’s no wonder I had a soft tummy and double chin as a child; but sweets were something I couldn’t refuse.
In the month of May they would hold school assembly outside on the playground. A large pole was erected in the middle of the cement with ribbons of all colors hanging down the side. There would be boy/girl placed around the pole, and then some strange sort of Scandinavian music would begin to play. The children would dance and move about in a circle. It was fun; it was freedom; it was frantic. I felt like a freak.
The girls wore white blouses and skirts, and each of us had a ring of flowers setting atop our head. I had an atrocious Pixie hair cut, and the flowers in no way improved my appearance or mood. We laughed; we skipped; we purposely ran into the kid in front of us. I guess this was the principals’ way of welcoming the start of spring. But in Southern California, where there is no dotted line between seasons, May was hot-hot-hot, and the palm trees green-green-green.
What I do remember is one student by the name of Suzie Bloomberg. With a last name like that you think her nickname would be bloomers or something in that category. That was not the case…but she had something exotic that all the kids were obsessed with. She was the only girl in class that wore a bra at age ten.
On the day of the May Pole Extravaganza, she wore something called an angel blouse (remember, this was the sixties.) It was a simple shirt with wonderful open sleeves and lace trim. The boys could care less about the May pole, they just wanted the Santa Ana winds to start up, and in this way, LIFT UP Suzie’s blouse and get a peek at her beginner’s bra. They were wishing and hoping and praying to the wind Gods and then, it happened.
The boys screamed in glee. I and the other “little” girls cried with jealousy. Many of my girlfriends went home that first day of May to insist to our Moms that we (yes, indeed) needed a bra. Ah, those were the days! Simple times filled with cookies; flowers; dancing on the playground; our first look at lingerie; and the sweet smell of innocence.
In the month of May they would hold school assembly outside on the playground. A large pole was erected in the middle of the cement with ribbons of all colors hanging down the side. There would be boy/girl placed around the pole, and then some strange sort of Scandinavian music would begin to play. The children would dance and move about in a circle. It was fun; it was freedom; it was frantic. I felt like a freak.
The girls wore white blouses and skirts, and each of us had a ring of flowers setting atop our head. I had an atrocious Pixie hair cut, and the flowers in no way improved my appearance or mood. We laughed; we skipped; we purposely ran into the kid in front of us. I guess this was the principals’ way of welcoming the start of spring. But in Southern California, where there is no dotted line between seasons, May was hot-hot-hot, and the palm trees green-green-green.
What I do remember is one student by the name of Suzie Bloomberg. With a last name like that you think her nickname would be bloomers or something in that category. That was not the case…but she had something exotic that all the kids were obsessed with. She was the only girl in class that wore a bra at age ten.
On the day of the May Pole Extravaganza, she wore something called an angel blouse (remember, this was the sixties.) It was a simple shirt with wonderful open sleeves and lace trim. The boys could care less about the May pole, they just wanted the Santa Ana winds to start up, and in this way, LIFT UP Suzie’s blouse and get a peek at her beginner’s bra. They were wishing and hoping and praying to the wind Gods and then, it happened.
The boys screamed in glee. I and the other “little” girls cried with jealousy. Many of my girlfriends went home that first day of May to insist to our Moms that we (yes, indeed) needed a bra. Ah, those were the days! Simple times filled with cookies; flowers; dancing on the playground; our first look at lingerie; and the sweet smell of innocence.
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