Transition.

tran-si-tion: – noun 1. movement, passage, or change from one position, state, stage, subject, concept, etc., to another; change: the transition from adolescence to adulthood.



I turn 50 in nine months. For some reason, that surprises me. '50' has managed to sneak up on me... or is that 'creep' up on me? I'm not sure which, but I am sure of one thing. I'm in transition. Not from youth to middle age or middle age to old age, but from denial and/or ignoring the signs of aging to "I'm not quite ready to sell the farm, Billy!" The only problem is the bank of youth is wanting to close my account - I get a memo to that effect each time I look in the mirror - and it's not taking "no" for an answer, dammit.

It's the drying up that bothers me the most. Dry hair. Dry skin. Dry eyes. And dare I say it? ("Yes," you're thinking, "we're all in this together - just say it.") Okay. Dry vajayjay. Now, doesn't that just sound sooo sexy? I feel like Coleen Gray in the movie "The Leech Woman" when she was between men, so to speak. Where's a girl's 'young stud pineal gland tapper' when she needs one? (Google it and you'll get it.)

True story. I'm sitting in the driver's seat in my car waiting for my daughter. She gets into the car... and the windows in the entire car instantly steam up EXCEPT for the driver's side window and my side of the windshield. I am so dry, her youthful moisture could not penetrate the parched barrier surrounding me, leaving my small section of the car as dry and arid as the Sahara Desert. Grrr.

Today in the mail, I got a special edition of People Magazine titled "Sexy at Any Age." I perused the photos of celebrities who look younger at age 40-something than they did when 20-something. The beauty secrets of the Stars! Anti-oxidents! Organic diets! 5-mile daily runs! 4-hour daily workouts! Um... no.

By the way, Valerie Bertinelli is totally hot. And she is my age. I'm thinking she might be inspiring me to ... exercise. Gasp! But inspiring and actually "doing" are two different things and I haven't been very reliable in the past in the "doing" department when it comes to exercise. So that leads me back to my transition.

I'm making a promise to myself to do more. I promise to exercise more. I promise to dance more. I promise to protect my skin more with SPFs and pretty, floppy hats. I promise to eat a more healthier diet and to drink less caffiene. I promise to get more sleep. I promise to laugh more (laugh lines, I don't mind at all, thankyouverymuch). I promise to forgive myself when I fail. And the hardest promise I make to myself is to accept the fact that I am aging. I promise to do it with dignity, with grace, with my friends, and most definitely with a sense of humor.

Transition. It can be a bitch, but sometimes it can lead you to the most satisfying time of your life... if you just let it.

Arm & Hammer

I hear my cell phone beep.

I'm tired, and it's hard to get my ass off of the couch. Why did I leave the phone in the other room? Blah.

It's Erica. I know because I have caller ID.

"Hi, Erica."

"Hey."

"What's up?"

"Something terrible's happened."

"Should I sit down?"

"Hammer got hit by a car, and he didn't make it." I hear a sniffle.

Hammer is her labrador retriever mix. A happy 120 lb. chocolate puppy - reckless, fearless, and totally untrainable.

"Oh no!" I cry. "The poor sweetie. Did he suffer?" I silently hope to myself he didn't suffer.

"No. It was instant. Juan is burying him right now... in the backyard, you know, with the others."

Erica hasn't been too lucky with dogs.

First, there was Kenneth Wayne. Kenneth Wayne was a cute mutt of the Heinz 57 variety who developed heartworm because Erica could never remember to give him his heartworm prevention cookie. He died in her arms, gasping for each breath and with a hacking cough reminiscent of an old man with a 30-year smoking habit.

Next was Number 5. She wasn't a particularly nice dog, but she was very loyal to Erica and Juan. She was a gift to Erica from her mother-in-law after Kenneth Wayne died and was the only pure bred dog of the bunch. A black and white springer spaniel, Number 5 oddly loved to eat the green peppers in Erica's garden. Unfortunately for Number 5, she choked to death on one.

Then there was Waldo. Waldo, a mutt with a little german shepherd in him and a little collie in him and a lot of hair on him, was a three-legged dog. That's how he was when he showed up one day just out of the blue. He climbed up onto her front porch, stretched out under the porch swing, and that was where he could be found for the next four years at any time of the day or night - unless he was chasing a rabbit. Waldo hated rabbits. One day Waldo chased a rabbit with his surprisingly fast 3-legged sprint into the woods behind Erica and Juan's house, and he was never seen again. We looked for Waldo for a couple of hours. Erica was beside herself with worry, but we never found him. We hope he now sleeps on another porch and dreams of chasing rabbits.

Patty-cake appeared soon after Waldo disappeared. Patty-cake was huge pregnant and delivered her puppies two days after her arrival. The first four puppies were stillborn, but the last one born, a little female, lived. Erica named her Patty-cake Too. Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too met an untimely end about a year later when Erica and Juan's crazy neighbor to the North decided he didn't like Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too getting into his yard, even though they were harmless. He fed each of them raw hamburger he had laced with rat poison. Juan confronted the neighbor and threatened to sue him, but he never did. He buried Patty-cake and Patty-cake Too next to Kenneth Wayne and Number 5.

Then just about a year ago, someone dumped two lab puppies in the corn field across from Erica and Juan's small farm. Erica immediately claimed ownership and named the two male puppies Arm & Hammer - after the baking soda.

"Oh, Erica. I'm so sorry. How is Arm taking it?"

"He's alright. He's a dog. I gave him a flip-chip and he's fine."

"That's good."

"You know, it just dawned on me now that Hammer is gone - 'Arm' is kind of a dumb name for a dog."

I smile at this. Poor Arm. A big dumb dog with a stupid name and a careless owner. I can't help but think his days are numbered.

Dick needs a hobby.

George seems to be handling retirement okay, but Dick appears to have issues with it. I've met people who just can't seem to 'let go' when they lose their job, even though the rest of us have already moved on. Dick is one of those who just won't let go.

Someone else now sits at Dick's old desk, and Dick doesn't like the guy. The new guy is congenial and likeable, and people laugh around him and seem, well, happy. Dick is sour and cynical and never lets people laugh around him. Dick doesn't like 'happy'. He likes war, power, and money. I hate that in a person. I really do.

Dick, do us all a favor and find yourself a hobby.

I'm Trying...

I watched you from behind. I'm trying not to judge.

I watched you from behind as you defiantly rose your chin and brushed your bangs aside while the minister shared with us his memories of her father's love, dedication, and heartbreak. I'm trying not to judge.

I watched you from behind as the stories were told by others of how she had touched their lives forever, how she had loved them, and how they had loved her back. Your name is never mentioned. Your mother sat with you, but your sisters and brother sat across the room. They didn't acknowledge you. You did not look towards them. I'm trying not to judge.

I watched you from behind as you asked to speak. The minister appeared surprised, but nodded 'yes'. You rose and opened your prepared statement with shaking hands. You turned to face us and said "I was her mom." As if we didn't already know. Or was it because you weren't sure any of us remembered? Or were you reminding yourself? You quickly read your statement and sat back down. I doubt anyone remembered what you said. I didn't. I'm trying not to judge.

Later, I watched you as you quickly lit your cigarette inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly under a flawless, September sky - outside with friends and relatives. Inside her father, grandparents, aunts, uncles, and dearest friends cried as they looked upon her face one last time before her casket was closed. I'm really trying not to judge.

I watched you at the gravesite as they lowered her into the ground. Your sunglasses were big and dark, covering your eyes. Were you watching me watching you? Did you hear the whispers and gossip? Do you feel the pain a mother feels when she loses a child? Do you feel guilt? Do you feel? I'm trying not to judge.

I watched you as you climbed into your friend's pick-up truck. I was in the car behind you as you left the cemetery. Your friend turned left, fast enough to squeal his tires and leave a trail of faint, blue smoke - fast enough to get the hell out of Dodge. We turned right. In fact, all of us who loved her and were not ready to let go of her turned right...

I'm trying not to judge. But... how could you have loved your addictions more than you loved your daughter? Why were you not there to help her get ready for her first and only prom? Where were you? I don't understand why you did not visit her once all those weeks she was in the hospital? Or when you found out she was dying and near the end? When she was struggling to breathe and her father cradled and held her up thoughout the days and nights, where were you? Why was every fiber of your being not wanting to be with her, to hold her, to kiss her, to smell her, to comfort her? When the minister shared with us how she told him right before she died that every happy memory she had, her father was in them - did you feel... anything?

I realize you must have your reasons, your excuses,... your demons. Whatever they are, they will never be good enough. I'm trying not to judge, but I do.

dear cancer, fuck you.

dear cancer, fuck you.
Posted at 3:48 PM Aug 7 by Britany on MySpace.

I couldn't have said it better myself, Britany.

The world is a little less brighter without you in it. Rest in Peace, Sweetie.

Moon.

I'm sitting on my deck. It's twilight. The air is humid, and I can hear a mosquito buzzing near my ear.

I spy the moon in the western sky. I sing softly to myself.

I wanna rock with you. Dance you into day...

I walk with the Dog.

So Vicki comes over, and she's got a book.

"What's that?" I ask.

She proceeds to open the book; several cards resembling tarot cards fall out.

"We are going to see who your spirit guide is using this book and these cards," as she began to spread the cards face down upon the table.

"Pick one," she demands.

Funny. There are fifteen cards in front of me... but one catches my eye. It is no different than the others...

I turn it over.

On the card is a drawing of a beautiful dog, a golden retriever.

"I knew it," Vicki sighs and consults the book. "You walk with the dog. You are loyal, you love people, you are eager to please and serve. The 'dog' fits you perfectly." She looks up with raised eyebrows and a small smile on her lips, apparently satisfied with herself.

I laugh. Vicki always has a way of making me feel special and unique with her crystals, her beads, and her Native American beliefs. I love her.