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It’s the little things that make me feel old. I know I’m not hip. I don’t know if I ever was. But I’ve come to the conclusion that you can spot my un-hipness a mile away. It’s in the way I talk. Its in the way I don’t wear my messenger bag across my body, but off my shoulder. It’s my shoes. My lack of hoodies. My lack of hits on a Google search. My wondering just what the hell she was thinking putting that on the web, not spreading my innermost thoughts across MySpace. Wondering if that tattoo not only hurts, but what the hell is it and why would you get it pierced to boot.
My generation didn’t grow up with computers. Hell, I helped my friend test out his brand new ISP BEFORE it was called ISP. Back in the dark days of mainframes and dial-up. Today’s generation doesn’t even know what noise a modem makes…
Oh well this old fart, needs her beauty sleep. It’s tiring being un-cool and un-hip. 🙂
Ciao
Shredding my mom’s papers. There are still bad feelings from the relatives some 8 years later after my mom died. They hate me for “slapping her in a nursing home and just watching her die”. They forced their way into her funeral arrangements. They demanded that I go against my mom’s wishes for disposal of her remains. I wasn’t torn up enough. I just didn’t meet their expectations of what a grieving daughter should act and be like. What a bunch of hypocrites.
She had cancer. She couldn’t take care of herself. My sister was several states away. I had to make a choice. I often wonder if she thought she was in purgatory or some hell that she couldn’t escape those last few months. The cancer had gone to her brain and through some strange quirk, she outlived her hospice care. She was delusional, in great pain, heavily medicated, incontinent, and dying by inches.
My sister told me a few years later Mom would call and ask what she had done to me to deserve this. I wonder at my sister’s motives for telling me this so many years later. It wasn’t like she was ever around for the hard decisions. Maybe guilt? Anger?
The relatives all wanted me to do something. To be there for my mother. They still to this day, think badly of me, because I didn’t have that lovely relationship they all wished we had. I didn’t seem to have the right reactions. Before Mom went into the nursing home, each aunt would schedule time, connive to get us isolated together somewhere, so we could ‘just work it out’ because they knew that we were just too stubborn for our own good. My mother abused me. They never knew. Little did they realize that I had already made my own way and peace with it.
There is no law that says you must like your parents. I believe self-preservation is a must. Why do we follow our instincts with anyone else but family? Why do you all let the ones that raised you treat you like dirt? Sometimes the only way to stop the bleeding and heal, is to cut them off. If that means you move on and detach from the situation, then do it. If it means not allowing yourself to play into the emotional blackmail, then do it. Do what you have to do to be right with yourself.
So now that the papers are shredded and the last physical vestiges of my mother are shredded, I still wonder if anyone will understand?
Thoughts are things you say to yourself in your head. Ever try to explain that concept to a little kid after they’ve blurted out something really embarrassing?
The other day we were sitting in a restaurant, just minding our own business. A little one, using his outdoor voice, wondered why Dad was putting weed killer on the dog.
There is the friend who spams me with jokes. She counts that as keeping in touch. Then my SO wonders why I don’t call her to go out and do things…
The librarian who couldn’t be more pleasant and helpful. I like that she likes here job enough to care.
The sister of a friend, who when you have a conversation with her, gives you her undivided attention. She really listens, enough that she remembers it the next time you talk.
The guy who’s beard has taken over his face, but some how makes you feel that you are the most interesting creature he’s come across in a long time. But yet seems puzzled when young girls behind the counter give him extra food and a giggle.
Ciao
How come my projects are 1 person projects and anything my SO does seems to be 2 people projects? I love when he’s not around for a few hours. I get so much done. None of the “hey do you know where this is?” or “I put it here, what did you do with it?”. Argh!
Yesterday was clean-out-the-garage day. I guess I made such a stink about how he looks at a weekend and thinks about all the things he can do away from the house, that when Sunday rolled around, he was determined to ‘help’ me clean out the garage.
I had one simple goal: move everything in the garage and sweep it out. Shouldn’t take that long, it’s not that big of a garage and unlike most of our friends, we actually park in our’s.
With his ‘help’, it took 6 hours. I had to kick him out to go talk to the neighbor for a bit, just to get a breather. He wanted to think about where things should go (the other side of the garage). He wanted to put up shelves (which we don’t have). He wanted to sort things (which we already have). But mostly he wanted to search for holes. It was like having a 5 year old boy wandering around looking for things to get in to.
After several hours of moving things, scrubbing things, and throwing things in the back of the truck, I was almost done. I brought the shredder up from the basement and started creating piles of little pieces of paper. He went in search of things to shred. Sigh… The shredder gave up twice due to overheating…
Finally, I had enough, bagged the shreds, the garbage, and gave one final sweep, sweeping him out of the garage and closed the doors.
I’m exhausted from his ‘help’.
Ciao
I’ve been a little remiss in my thoughts lately. It’s not that I’m not having any, its more attempting to get them out on paper. Someone I know has had major surgery and possibly has the C word. They found a tumor so large that it was just easier to remove a kidney than do anything else.
I’ve been a bit bemused from people’s reactions to the dreaded C-word. Cancer isn’t something you catch. Its something that happens and if gotten to early is something you can recover from. It’s the lump in the breast, the ache in the back, the headaches that wont go away. But when it sneaks up on you, its the most dreaded. Go into the hospital because you’re short of breath and shazaam lung cancer.
When people hear about it, they immediately personalize it. What if it was me? What did the person notice? Did they feel ill? What are their symptoms? How did they discover it? Is it treatable? What if it was me?
Some people can’t even say the word Cancer without freaking. One of my friend’s husband actually asked me not to discuss it with his wife. He said every time she hears about someone with Cancer, he has a very bad night. She seems to have a morbid fascination with Cancer and those who get it. She pulls each story out of the victim and ghoulishly glories in the details.
The older I get the more I realize that every single person is profoundly different in their heads. Mine included.
In a week, we will know.
Ciao
Thoughts of an Old Fart 