A Woman in Her Fifties...

...has fantasies.

Me to Mr. Fifty-Something, early this morning, "I woke up early today so I indulged in a little fantasizing instead of getting out of bed."
Mr. Fifty-Something leans over and begins to caress my shoulder as he whispers a leading, "OH, yeah.....??"
"Uh, you're about to be terribly disappointed and possibly embarrassed."
Shoulder caressing ends, sexy whisper returns to normal. "Oh. Yeah?"
"Well, I was fantasizing about how much better things would be if people would just realize I should be boss."
"At work?"
"Well, it started that way then morphed into something ugly. I had to shut it down when I realized I was on my way to being boss of the world. I had to stop before I went crazy with power and fantasized myself into being Boss of the Known Universe."
"You already are, honey, you already are."

If a woman in her fifties has the wisdom to enjoy a good fantasy, a man in his fifty-somethings has the wisdom to indulge her.

A Woman in Her Fifties...

I'm taking time tonight. Time to write. Time to edit months worth of photo files. Time to listen to American Idol and occasionally flip the channel over to Dancing with the Stars.
I am not taking time tonight to get ahead for tomorrow's work day. No drawing, no color separating, no marketing shots, romance copy or price breaks.
I am not taking time to shoo away 3 weeks worth of dust bunnies, clear off the dining room table or balance the checkbook.
The bathroom mirror will still be smudged in the morning, there will still be mulch tracked on the kitchen floor and my sweater from last weekend will still be draped across the back of a chair.
Tonight I'm editing photos, weeding the flowers, working on a digital memoir of Grandson Number Two's first year.
Doing the things that matter to me and letting the things that matter to everyone else wait for another day.
A woman in her fifties makes time. For what she loves to do.

Dear So and So....

Dear Winter--Thank you for returning in your snow white persona. I was, quite frankly, sick of your dull gray garb and bone chillling dampness. And it was particularly gracious of you to time your return with my not having to go into the office.---Appreciatively, Hoping for a Snow Bound Weekend

Dear Primary Care Physician--Yes, I understand that it's much less costly to you to farm out my lab work to the local hospital. However, my insurance carrier sees it in an entirely different light and what used to cost me a $25 co-pay now takes a $275 bite out of my pocket.--Disgusted Patient Who Expects You to Make Freakin' Good Use of Those Two Vials at $137.50 Each

Dear Local Hopsital--Really, I don't know how you get away with it. First the inflated lab visit then the CT for Mr. L. that cost a full 60% more than his last PET/CT. Granted the PET/CT was done in a truck parked behind the building but, still, it's not like your radiology department is in the Taj Mahal or something. I'm not sure how you talked our insurance carrier into this contract but expect that gravy train to leave town when it's time to renegotiate.--Regards, Bug Eyed Patient Staring at the Bill

Dear Mail Carrier--I know you don't write 'em, you just deliver. But, seriously, take a day off. I hear it's going to snow, take a weather day. I'm not up for more mail from the money hoarders local hospital.--Anxious Postal Patron

See Kat for more Dear So and So.

A Woman In Her Fifties Gives Thanks....

Tonight I'm thankful to have had those years of active, hands on, raising the kids parenting. Even the years of active, hands on, raising the kids parenting of dozens of other people's kids. And more thankful to be beyond them.
More thankful yet for October's hysterectomy. Just in case God was thinking of exhibiting that sometimes odd humor and sending some late life baby our way. (I think our priest is still traumatized from our marriage prep when he happily announced there "is still time for the two of you to have babies" and I yelped out a very unladylike, un-Catholic response.)
After a day with the second grade, and grandson, on a field trip, I am all for the certainty that comes with a hysterectomy. Tired doesn't even begin to cover what we felt by the time we had tromped around the state museum, eaten with 100 kids at The Old Sphaghetti Factory (what daredevil thought THAT was a good idea??) and driven 2 1/2 hours home.
The relief at telling the class goodbye, kissing Josh on the forehead and getting into our quiet car was immense. Quiet. No little boys showing me how loud they can make phony fart noises, no little girls flirting with taunting little boys, no teachers holding up three fingers and wondering why 100 voices didn't cease. Or at least diminish.
I had seen those three fingers so much by the end of the day--and nothing happening as a result--that I wanted to bend two of them down and yell, "You're holding up the wrong friggin' finger, lady!"
With a couple of night's rest the reflection of the day sums up to a pretty good time. The museum is interesting, not too big, not too small. The kids tried every single thing in the place and surely learned something worthy along the way. Maybe even learned some not so worthy things but I'm confident I've bought silence with a few well placed Hershey bars.
The kids considered the day a success because they got out of school, rode a flat faced bus, visited Santa and forever traumatized unsuspecting restaurant patrons who were simply looking for a quiet meal.
Kevin considered the day a success because he got to spend it with Josh and shape some young minds a la that Norman Rockwell fuzzy mental picture he sometimes places over reality.
The real success was mine. I only made two kids cry in the course of the day and I made it back with no more, no less, than the 4 kids assigned directly to our care before we left the school this morning.

A Woman In Her Fifties Takes The Bus

Mr. L. and I scored 2 of 4 coveted spots as bus riding animal keepers chaperones for Joshua's field trip next week. Today his teacher (she of the former Colts Cheerleader fame) phoned his mom to offer us a get out of jail free pass chance to NOT ride the bus. "Some of the grandparents, if they're older, prefer not to ride the bus," says Ms. FCC. "Older?" Really? If she hadn't thrown in THAT word, I would have jumped at the chance to escape a captive bus ride with a hundred sticky, germy, excited-on-the-way-there,tired-and-grouchy-on-the-way-back second graders. The word was thrown down, however, so this woman in her fifties takes the bus. Just to prove she's as perky as any former NFL cheerleader.

Is there much use in hoping for a snow day as early as the 10th of December??

Gran-Natomy

Kevin set up 7 year old Joshua's computer today so we could talk via Skype. I objected strenuously to the idea of introducing another bit of technology into our days but was clearly outmanned by Josh, his mom and gramps.

So tonight we tried it out. Kevin sat on the sofa and I stood behind him while he adjusted lighting, camera and volume for our first ever live online visit with Joshua.

We could hear him perfectly. He could only hear choppy bits of our side of the conversation. Since we aren't nearly as entertaining or funny as we like to think, the seven year old clearly had the better side of things so far.

We couldn't see him at all. He, however, could see us quite clearly.

So clearly, in fact, that his mother felt compelled to offer this information:

"Just so you know, mom, what he can see is just the top of grandpa's head and a full on shot of grandma's boobs right through her pajama top."

I had been thinking we could work on his Spelling together online. Maybe do his Reading assignment. A little Math. Never, not once, did I plan to cover Anatomy.

I had a few suggestions for where grandpa might want to store the video camera now that it's been removed from the computer.

Hello, God? Can We Talk...

Yes, it's me again. Frequent caller, sparodic listener.

First I want to thank you for nearly a week and no call from the cancer center about Mr. L's recent blood work. No news is good news in our cancer experience. If you do manipulate (and you can tell I'm still conflicted on that whole possibility) those details, thank you.

Now, to get to the topic of the day, can we talk about spiders? I'm a bit arachnophobic. I'm not the scream high pitched squeals don't like spiders kind of girl. I'm the totally lose my voice, become immobilized and break out in a cold sweat don't like spiders kind of girl. Especially certain spiders in certain spaces.

You and I know the reason; no point in inviting anyone else into that nightmare, but I do wonder why you thought spiders were necessary? I mean, you gave snakes a feature role in Creation that explains their whole lack of popularity. But what were you thinking with the spiders? And why so many kinds, each more creepy than the last? And the hair. And all those legs. What, what, WHAT were you thinking?

Whatever your thoughts lo those many years ago when Creation came into being, could you cut me a little spiderless space right now? Like the other night, fresh out of the hospital, when I hobbled down the hallway, intent upon coaxing my objecting body into some basic bedtime hygiene, and--poof--there on the floor, right next to my foot was a spider. A spider who surely had a starring role in one of the Harry Potter movies. A big spider. A big hairy spider.

And I lost my voice, my painfully limited ability to move and my already dwindling calm attitude. Not cool. Not at all, at all. Pretty much all I had getting me through the moments last week was a strong vein of chutzpah and it flew out the door in the face of one hairy spider.

Then today when Mr. L. retrieved me from my bored housebound reality. Was the spider who suddenly materialized out of nowhere, clickety-clacked his spidery legs across the dashboard and disappeared into the vents just another freak of nature?

Or are you working overtime to answer Mr. L's prayers? He seems to think he could use a little heavenly help in dealing with what he considers to be an argumentive patient. Admittedly the first spider did distract me from my illicit intent to sneak a quick soak in a forbidden bubble bath while Mr. L. was napping. And after today's revelation, I won't be slipping out of the house with my camera for any forbidden driving until I see the lifeless remains of a certain truck dwelling arachnid. And we both know Mr. L. won't be producing that kill for at least another 2 weeks, per doctor's instructions.

Please, Lord, not to question your decisions, but please don't put any spiders in the M & Ms jar or on my comfortable chair in the backyard. Those small selfish comforts are really, well, comforting right now. Please don't take away my chutzpah and my chocolate all in the same week.

In case Mr. L's prayers have zeroed in on the weight of my sewing machine and box of favorite fabric, you can disband any potential army of spiders there. I'll wait until Mr. L. is here to lift it for me. I promise.

Take a spin with Liz at A Mom on Spin for your own conversation with God.