I'm Just Saying

A friend of mine, the lucky so-and-so, just left town for a six-week tropical vacation. As I break the ice in the horses’ water trough in the morning, I imagine her, lying on a Costa Rican beach with sun, sand, and a frou-frou drink, a paper umbrella stuck in it.

It’s happening.

Creeping up, like Kudzu covering a road sign, like a stink bug onto a light fixture, like all sorts of things that give you the willies regarding their advancement...

I speak, oh, gentle reader, your Aunty Pam speaks of the morphing that occurs when we begin to turn into our parents.

And so the New Year is upon us!

I find the idea of making resolutions to be deadly dull and not terribly effective. In fact, when I look back at the several I have made in past years, no pencil was needed to tick off which ones I’d managed to uphold:

A solemn vow to avoid refined sugar. Fail.

I read a comment recently that had never occurred to me and I thought it worthwhile to pass along:

My mother may have not had have had the chiseled body of Madonna, but man o’ man, in her prime, she had a forearm like Popeye. She had to- in order to tackle her yearly holiday cakes.

It is well known in the medical field that a doctor will cringe when, outside his or her office and particularly at cocktail parties, they are approached by someone who seems to think nothing of asking, “My Momma is about to have surgery but the doctor wants to take her off blood thinners. Is that a good idea?”

Or

Well, if you don’t eat meat, what do you eat?”

Not satisfied with his two completed marathons, my fella Paul dropped a bombshell casually during breakfast.