Jack Of All Trades

Master of none.  That would be me.

I am one of those people that loves to try new things, but rarely sticks around long enough to master my skill.  Unless you include being a dumb ass.  Pretty sure I have my 10,000 hours in on that one.

So far, I have tried my hand at scrapbooking, knitting, crocheting, cross stitch, beading, running, biking, photography, writing, clarinet, banjo strumming, volleyball, video gaming, veterinary medicine (in the sense that I worked for a vet, not that I became one), cross-country skiing, downhill skiing, snowshoeing, snowmobiling, history, genealogy, beanie baby leashes (don’t ask), horses, pokemon (again…don’t ask), comic book collecting, softball….

I don’t think I purposely tried so many things because I have some internal bucket list or because I’m so full of life I just have to try EVERYTHING.  It’s more like a repressive ADD gene that whispers “Aren’t you bored?  I’m bored.  I see something shiny on the other side of the fence.  Come on!  Let’s go see!  I’m dying here!  SO BORED.  Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored.  MUST.  CHECK OUT.  THE SHINY THING!!”

Of course, that has its limits.  There are certain things my inner ADD will never get me to do.  Like, you will never see “bungee jumping” or “becoming an astronaut” or “sky diving” on that list.  I would prefer to live long enough to collect social security or become the crazy cat lady or just be a crabby old bag all the neighborhood kids tell stories about and ding-dong ditch me to see if I’ll run out with my shotgun.

That actually sounds kind of fun.  Dang.  Fifty isn’t nearly old enough to get away with that without getting arrested.  Although it seems I now found my reason to live to be 90.

So, where was I going with this…oh yeah.  One of my current hobbies is photography.  It’s hard to call it a hobby when I know almost next to nothing about it other than pointing at something interesting and pushing the shutter button, so every once in a while I get a wild hair and actually read something instructive.

This last time, my “something instructive” was reading Cee’s Tips and Tricks about macro photography.  I love macro shots, but I have a hard time figuring out how to get shots with that trademark striking clarity.  Cee’s macro photography is beautiful, and if I can ever learn to take photos of that caliber, I will be a happy camper indeed.  Of course, I might then get bored and move on to rocket science or something, but based on my current pace and the fact that I have about 50 other irons in the fire, that will be a long time coming.

Today I fooled around with my lenses – I only have two – an 18-55mm and a 55-200mm, which I know is supposed to mean something to me but I’m not really up on my lens lingo.  I only know the 55-200 is the bigger one and lets me take zoom photos which works well for zooming in on things like trees and rocks but terrible for birds.  I need one that’s like a foot long for bird photos because no matter how sneaky I am, those buggers hear or see me (“stealthy” will never be a word used to describe me.  More like “bull in a china shop”) and take off well before I am in any kind of decent range.  I tried hiding behind the bench but then the mosquitoes found me and I almost needed a blood transfusion.

I like to watch birds – or to use the politically correct term – “birding”.  I even have a list of birds I have spotted and I get all wiggy when I see a new one.  Does that make me an old bag?  I think it does.  In fact, I think I saw “bird watching” on the back of my AARP card.  Next thing ya know we’ll be going out to eat at 4:30 to beat the crowds.  Oh wait, we already do that.  Dagnabit.

Moving on….

So here are my most recent photos trying for a good macro shot.  I hope you like them and aren’t horrifically bored.  But if you are, I’m sure I can sell you some scrapbooking supplies or beading supplies or embroidery floss or a banjo or roller blades or a binder full of Pokemon cards.  They could be your next “shiny” object!

Enjoy!
Sue

This one is my favorite of all the flower ones.

Lucky dog!

Daisy girl!

Look closely into her eye…what do you see?

 

Evil Gloating And Other Fun Things To Do With A Colonoscopy

If someone had told me 20 years ago that my future self would pay a man thousands of dollars to look up my butt with a camera, I would have done the whole “laugh in their face” thing (you know – HA! HAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!  I laugh in your face!).  I mean, come on.  That had to be a joke, right?

When I turned 40, other 40-somethings told me how 40 was the decade all your shit started to fall apart.  Things like memory issues, bifocals, orthopedics, memory issues, hot flashes, support hose, bursitis, memory issues, heartburn, incontinence, tendonitis, memory issues and root canals.  And let’s not forget the start of yearly mammograms.  Oh, and memory issues.

Turning 50 is great, because you think all the bad stuff has happened already.  You walk into your yearly physical (because no matter what else happens, you still have to pay someone to look up your va-jay-jay-jay with a flashlight) and you are full of cocky attitude.  “Bring it on,” you say. “Hit me with your best shot,” you say. “Come at me, Bro,” you say – all while dancing around like Muhammad Ali on steroids.

Your doctor just calmly looks at you, and smiles, “So, when would you like to schedule your colonoscopy?”

Bam.  One punch knockout.

Colonoscopy stories, like birthing stories, are filled with horrific detail and evil gloating.  By the week of your appointment, you are scared shitless (Ha!  You wish!) and are well entrenched in what I call the 7 Stages of Preparing For Your Colonoscopy, which of course I am going to share with you because, you know, evil gloating.

DENIAL:

“Nope.  Nope.  Nope.  Nope.  Nope.  Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.  Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.  Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.  Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.  Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.  Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope.”

“Nope.”

ANGER:

“What the heck!  This shit has to stop.”  (Get it?  HAHAHAHAHA)

“Where is that doctor?  I’m going to pop a cap in his ass.  See how he likes it.”

“You mean to tell me, that in this day and age of medical advancement that they haven’t come up with anything better than drinking 10 gallons of freaking laxative? (moments later….)  I’M NEVER, EVER DOING THIS AGAIN!  YOU HEAR ME?  NEVER!”  (insert muttering and additional colorful metaphors I can’t type in because my mother reads my blog).

“I better be losing a crap load of weight!”  (Do you see what I did there?  Hahahahaaa!  I kill me.)

BARGAINING:

“I’m going to flip a coin.  “Heads” means I get to cancel my appointment, okay?  Here we go..(flip)….dang.  Okay, let me try that again, only this time I call “tails”…(flip)…DANG IT.   Okay…2 out of 3…”

“The Bible!  Yes!  Flip it open and point my finger – God will surely tell me “Stay Home!  Eat Cake!” (squints eyes closed…flip, flip, flip, flip…point)  OKAY – WHO WROTE “GET A COLONOSCOPY YOU BIG BABY” ON EVERY PAGE OF MY BIBLE?”

“Isn’t 50 the new 40? That means I have 10 more years before I have to do this, right?”

“MAKE IT STOP!!!  I’LL NEVER EAT CORN AGAIN!  I SWEAR!”

 

DEPRESSION:

“I’m dying.  I know it.  And that big jerk Dave will probably have “Death By Pooping” put on my headstone.”

“So.  Hungry.  Need.  Cake.”

“What if I have to drink more stuff at the doctor?  What if I go thru all this and they can’t do it?  What if the doctor gets distracted and pokes a hole thru my colon?  What if the doctor is really an alien and this is just an alien butt probe experiment? What if the alien doctor is really planting an alien baby and my stomach explodes in 9 months?  What if the alien doctor with the alien butt probe and the alien baby decides I’m really annoying and not worth the effort and just drops me off in some space dump with all the other reject experiments and I have to live the rest of my life intergalactic dumpster diving to survive?  Wait…they would probably just kill me.  Oh great, I’m dead for sure.”

ACCEPTANCE:

“What’s that?  Why are you putting in that IV?  Are you an alien?  Why are you looking at me funny?  What’s in that needle?  I don’t want a butt probe!  I’ll be good, I swea…..aaaaah….dude…that’s like some really sweet stuff, man….hahahaha…I feel awesome….What?  Assume what position? Lie on my side and tuck my legs up?  Sure…you’re the bo…..zzzzzzzzzz…”

RELIEF:

“Am I done?  I’m done right?  Oh sweet Jesus I’m done.”

“What?  You took pictures?  That’s my colon?  Huh.  Didn’t see that one coming.  But whatever – Yay!  I’m done!!”

EVIL GLOATING:

In my case, I have another 10 years before I have to go back, so I will have many opportunities to relate my story to my younger friends as they come up to age 50 and hear those dreaded words from their own doctor.  You can bet I will exaggerate the hell out of it, too.

To sum up, here is an actual screen shot of a text conversation I had with my sister while I was downing laxatives and spending my night in the john.  I have pointed out a few of the classic stages.

 

Have you gotten a colonoscopy?  Was it really an alien abduction?  How many alien babies have you had?  Share your butt pro….colonoscopy story in the comments below!  May the “force” be with you!

Squeaky Clean As A Whistle,
Sue

This post is dedicated to my beautiful friend Carol, who was diagnosed with colon cancer 15 years ago, and was cancer free until January, 2015, when she was diagnosed with a new, aggressive cancer.  She died in April.  Carol was strong and courageous, and met death the same way she met life – with arms wide open.  

Don’t be a wuss.  Get your colonoscopy.

 

 

 

35 Reasons Why Perimenopausal Women Are Late

A few weeks ago, a fellow blogger and author, Jenny Hansen over at Cowbell, You Need More of It posted links of blogs that left her laughing.  One of them was titled “35 Reasons Moms Are Late” from The Suburban Jungle.

As an empty nester, her post brought back many horrific fond memories of trying to dash out the door with small children in tow.  (Long tangent:  One of those memories involves trying to get my stubborn, crabby son out the door to run some errand that we no longer remember.  This particular power struggle had me reduced to writing his name on one of my wooden spoons with a black Sharpie, and then threatening him to within an inch of his life with it.  I am amazed to this day that I a) didn’t actually use the spoon, b) took time from fighting with him to write his name on the spoon and c) most amazing of all, actually finding a black Sharpie on hand.  Usually those are gone within 20 seconds of package removal.  Thankfully, both kids now laugh about the spoon thing.)

I commented that my kids are now grown but I’m still late for everything, and that maybe I should write “35 Reasons Perimenopausal Women Are Late”, which Jenny then challenged me to write.  You all know I have a tiny bit of competitiveness in me, so of course I picked that gauntlet right up…several weeks later….because, well, I forgot.

Better late than never, here are my 35 Reasons Perimenopausal Women Are Late.

1 – 4.  We can’t find our keys, purse, glasses, or phone.  Or a combination of some or all of them.  Technically, this should count for a lot more than 4 reasons, but figuring it out involves algebra or some sort of torturous math, which I have vowed never to voluntarily do again since my children graduated from high school.

5 – 7.  We found our keys, but forgot our glasses, purse and/or phone, and had to go back for them.  What woman can properly function without her purse?  No woman, that’s who.  Even Wonder Woman has a fanny pack.   And even though we all grew up when cell phones weren’t even a twinkle in Motorola’s eye, we no longer can be separated from our social media addictions longer than 5 minutes.  And we need our glasses to read our phone.  Duh.

 

 

8 – 9.  We either forgot to put the event on our calendar or we did, but we forgot to set a notification alarm, or we did that but our phone was on silent and buried in our purse, or we saw/heard the alarm and even turned off the notification, went to get dressed, and then completely forgot what we were doing by the time we got to our bedroom and figured we might as well take a nap as long as we were in there.

10.  We didn’t really want to go in the first place.  At our age, by the time we get home from work, our brains are pretty much done for the night, and a cozy couch trumps over squeezing into heels and trying to remember someone’s name at a social event (“Nice to see you again…um…is it Diane?  Debbie?  Gosh, I’m so bad with names!  Haha!”  “It’s Jim.”  Well, HE left in a huff.  Obviously has no sense of humor, that one.  What was his name again?  Bill?  Ken?  Whatever.  These shoes are KILLING me.)

11.  Hot flashes.  And not from seeing Hugh Jackman shirtless, either.  No, I’m talking about back on fire, make up running off your face, shirt sticking to your tummy roll, sweat-inducing heat, for no real reason at all, other than your hormones are now certifiably insane.

12.  Random Crying Part 1.  Okay, so you’re getting ready to go, and run across a picture of your kids when they were 2 and 5, wearing those adorable matching outfits and the 5-year-old is missing her front tooth and the 2-year-old is clutching a monster truck and Oh My God they are just so sweet – where did the time go?

My babies, back in the day

13.  Random Crying Part 2.  Where did this these flappy teacher arms come from?  And why are my boobs down around my navel?  Is that seriously a hair growing out of a MOLE?  ON MY FACE?

14.  Random Crying Part 3.  Why can’t I have a donut?  Dave gets to eat donuts all the time.  And cookies.  And ice cream.  WTF – he’s not even affected.  I eat a donut and I gain 50 pounds.  So not fair.  I’m totally not speaking to him for the rest of the day.  Jerk-Donut-Eating-Face.  *sniff*  And they were chocolate with white cream filling too.  *sob*

15 – 20.  Dealing With Pets.  Small dogs in particular.  You see, when your kids grow up and leave the nest, you tend to replace them with small, needy animals.    I see you snickering, but you just wait.  That darling yorkie-bichon-poodle-chihuahua-pomeranian-minpin-dachsund is going to melt your heart with his giant chocolate drop eyes and tiny paws, his little pink tongue licking your nose.  You will do anything for him.  ANYTHING.

LOOK AT THE CUTENESS! LOOK AT IT!

Little dogs are like perpetual toddlers. They demand constant attention, are only marginally potty trained, and can’t be left alone without the danger of household destruction.  And you will never be on time for another event in your life, because all of that unused guilt that has been building up since your children left home is now unleashed on the dog.  You can’t walk out the door until you make sure they go potty, are comfy in their kennels, have all their toys, get a treat, and Oh look at them shivering in there – how am I supposed to leave them – poor things!

21.  Random Crying Part 4.  (see above)

22.  You ate the stupid donut and now your pants don’t fit.

23.  Random Crying Part 5

24.  You popped a button on your blouse in the chest-al region.

25.  You can’t find your sewing kit to fix said blouse

26.  It’s the only shirt that matches the pants you were going to wear, so now you have to pick out new pants AND a new shirt

27.  You finally decide on a new outfit but you have to iron the pants.  Yes, some of us do still iron.

28.  You can’t find the shoes that go with this outfit because Dave cleaned the house and put all your stuff away.

29.  You pick out new shoes but they require painted toenails.  Your toenails are not painted.

30.  You find another pair of shoes that don’t require painted nails, but they gave you blisters last time you wore them (they fit fine in the store – what’s up with that?) so now you have to find band aids to bring along.

31.  You found the band aids but with all this running around, now you have to pee.

32.  Before you get to the bathroom, you trip over one of the Toddler Dogs (because did I mention they follow you everywhere?  Including the bathroom?) and you almost fall over, causing your bladder to twitch just enough…

33.  You have to change your underwear.

34.  You will be smart this time and put in a panty liner because no way are you changing again.  Where are those?  Oh yeah, in the other bathroom.

35.  You decide to just grab a quick coffee from the drive thru on your way because Lord knows you deserve a latte by now.  As you drive down the road, finally on your way, not realizing your lip must have a hole in it and by the time you get to your destination, you have a latte trail down the front of your blouse.

At this point, nobody would blame you if you went home.  But you won’t.  You’ll march in, apologize for being late, borrow someone’s Tide pen, and sit quietly while trying not to pee your pants as the latte kicks in.

And that my friends, are the 35 Reasons Perimenopausal Women Are Late – give or take a few.

Until next time-

You’re perpetually late friend,

Sue