I refuse to allow the saying "getting old" or "that's what getting older does for you" or "it's a bitch getting older" in my hearing.
You know who says those things? People under the age of 45. No joke. I've heard those same words come out of at least 4 people that I know who are under the age of 45, in the past week. They need to be shot with a taser, tied up, poured with honey and forced to sit while Rue licks them to death. Or maybe Oliver since he doesn't quite understand the difference between his tongue and his teeth. Or maybe Argo, just because horses tongues are particularly gross.
Seriously, if you go around saying that shit and you,re under 45, STOP, please, for the sake of those that are 47 days from turning 50. You want to know what old is?
Old is having to wear a heart monitor for 72 hours without a bra - the bra seems to throw the electrodes off, which is actually just a nice way of saying "you have big knockers, they hang, and the bra that actually fits on the head of your oldest daughter is getting in the way of our reading your heart monitor."
I cannot leave my house for 72 hours now. Oh, I suppose I could, if I really wanted to and felt free to burn my bra along the lines of my mother and grandmother.
Wait, I must be honest here. My mother's family is from the deep south. They wouldn't burn a bra, ever, even if it was falling apart. They would just use the cups for baby caps. Southerners are nothing if not resourceful.
But that doesn't negate the fact that I cannot risk being seen in public without a bra. My daughters would disown me. I'd probably be arrested for indecent exposure. Once again, being arrested, not a bad thing. I'd have my own room with no one using my shampoo or digging through my drawers and taking all my white socks but then I don't look good in orange, seriously. You know those little "Cuties" that have come out recently -
A total rip off if you ask me. In my day, we called those tangerines, tangelos or mandarin oranges, but, hey, don't question wall street or pioneers from OK who are getting paid to advertise them. Far be it from me to take food from their mouths.
Back to reality - I would in, no way, resemble those little cuties, more like the small, orange, watermelons. And I don't think watermelons would be that appealing if they were orange.
Beerhound likes them, no not the Cuties - keep up here people - as does every cat we own, oh and Rue. They make great pillows but then I don't want some strange man coming up to me and asking me if me he can take a nap on my boobs. Sorry, I may be demented but I do have my pride, what's left of it.
So here I sit, typing, Oliver sleeping on my watermelons, with electrodes hooked up all over my chest sending information to a cell phone, that I might add has a picture of rippled man on it with electrodes, Really???? Next to rippled, buff man with electrodes strapped to his chest is a little beating heart showing my valve activity. It's kind of interesting watching your heart f*** up. Certainly puts life in perspective. I keep waiting for it to buzz and them tell me I'm dead. Although I know that won't happen today because I have too much ironing to do. Ironing takes precedence over dying. Ask my family.
I will say that the girls have really pitched in and taken control. Emma had to explain the whole stupid system to me because you have to put it the dumb thing on yourself. I don't suppose they realize that's why I have insurance. Now I'm putting on my own testing equipment. What has the world come to, I ask? I've barely figured out my damn phone and I have to wear reading glasses. You just try lifting a 10 pound breast and placing an electrode in the correct spot, right underneath where the breastbone is located. I haven't felt that breast bone since I gave birth and my children sent me to Dollywood.
- That was my punishment for choosing not to breastfeed or so said my "mother earth" OB. I say, "bite me. My daughters may be weird but they are really healthy, so there. Plus my insurance now pays for breast reduction and I'm all over that shit. -
Bonnie and the Boy are going to the eye doctor to pick up my prescriptions and then to the pharmacy to pick up those prescriptions. They are going to take Emma to open her own bank account. The Boy will go to work and then girls will go grocery shopping.
This heart thing isn't so bad. It does give me insight into how much my daughters love me and I suppose I won't ever have to worry about drooling and talking nonsense about the skittles falling from the sky and the purple cat eating them. They won't leave me alone. After all Emma is the one who had to find where to put the stupid little electrode under my 10 pound watermelon.