Old People’s Houses

Remember going to old people’s houses when you were a kid?  They were dark and dreary, smelled musty.  There was no reading material for kids.  Worst of all, there were no toys to play with.

Lace curtains covered the windows–which were never opened.  Something to do with bad air.  Hand crocheted lace doilies covered stuffed chair arms and headrests.  They always fell down when kids got restless.  What good were doilies–anyway?  Playing with them always got you in trouble.

Old people liked to sit around and talk.  Talked about boring stuff and the good old days.  When a dollar bought something, and people knew the value of hard work.

Fidgeting didn’t work.  Neither did the sad-eyed, “can we go now, mom?”  Too much fidgeting brought the rapier-sharp “death stare” and the excuse, “you didn’t get enough sleep last night.”

Their pets were old–too.  Old dogs or cats, half-blind or deaf.  They sat on their owner’s laps and didn’t do much.  Old people seemed to know if they needed something.

The truth–old people were tired.  Tired of being sick.  Tired of being taken for granted.  Tired of disrespect.  Tired of being thought of as just being old.



Flossing, not flossing?  What’s the big deal?

A lot of things seemed like good ideas at the time–like bloodletting; burning witches at the stake.

Then again, food particles between the teeth, is high on my yuckiness list.

I used to be well-respected–worked with the other compatible failures, in a cubicle, down at the office.

Now, it’s just me and the misses.  Living in a cottage by the shores of Lake Whoosy-What’s it–where everyday is a party if you want it to be.  I’m getting more cantankerous by the day.

Sometimes I think that woman’s trying to kill me.  Not that I’d blame her.  I haven’t always been easy to get along with.

It hasn’t been all fairy tales and rainbows.  I’m not going to blow sunshine up your butt.  Living in such a state of homeostasis has its drawbacks.

Scuffling with itsy-bitsy spiders.

Waiting for the mail to come every day at three.

Listening to people who don’t want to listen to me.