When Will I Be Old?

I was recently reading my new Missouri Life magazine, and noticed an ad for a bus tour "A Unique Way to See America's National Parks!"  It caught my interest because I love our national parks, love travel, and one particular trip ended in San Francisco where the grandbaby lives.  In 11 days one would see seven national parks and as an added bonus, the Twenty Mule Borax Museum, which is located in sunny Death Valley.  So aside from being totally fascinated that people felt there was a need for a museum dedicated to Borax,  I was also rather fascinated by my reaction to the idea of the trip.  First, that a road trip of 11 days on a bus with 16 strangers was piquing my interest. Secondly,  that my next reaction was "Ick, they'd all be a bunch of old retired people."

People, I'm 57, and retired from one job.   My dear love is 61 and really, really, wants to be retired.  Many of my best friends are retired--and as old (or older) than I.  Yet, I don't think any of us are old enough to go on a bus trip with Old. Retired. People.

Which lead me to thinking, when will I be old?  Or, when will I admit to being old?  How does one define old in this world where people are living well into their 80's and 90's?  My mother is 80 and lives by herself on the family farm--she has someone to mow her yard and vacuum for her so that she can go eat out with her lady friends.  When I was 35 and my Mom was my age, I thought she was old, as in Bus Trip Old.  As in her best years were behind her old.  And now I'm there....57.

The problem is my body and mind aren't communicating.  This first happened to me several years ago, when I was really young, like, 47.  We were at the piano bar with a group of friends, enjoying the adult beverages and the music.  Problem is, no dance floor.  Problem solved: we procede to the stage and dance with great abandon in front of a club full of college students.  We are super cool.  As I leave the stage, after about the third round of wild abandoness--a young college age woman grabs my arm and tells me "You are so cool!  I want to be just like you when I get old!"  In her mind, she saw me on the tour bus, so did I...the Rolling Stones tour bus.  Who are, by the way, are really, really, old.

Outing Myself..

I've decided to out myself.  It's time to confirm what all of you have suspected for many years.  I. Am. A. Heterosexual.   A female who likes males.  A female who identifies with being female.

Now,  doesn't that sound ridiculous for me to write that?  And isn't it just as ridiculous that if someone is born gay, lesbian, bisexual, transgender,  or whatever other permutation mother nature lays on us, that person must, at some point in his/her life make a declarative statement about one of the most intimate parts of one's life?

This past week a African-American NBA Basketball player came out.  This led to an article in our local paper listing other athletes who have had to declare their sexual orientation.  Now I can understand telling your family--"Um Mom, how do you feel about gaining another daughter instead of a son?" It's  the thing you do with families--it is the inner circle where we learn to define and accept ourselves.  Even us heteros have go through that.

Then moving on out the circle, there are friends--and of course we tell our close friends all those important things, like, who we have a crush on, or if we are conflicted, or confused or need support.

Beyond that--I say it's nobody's damn business. Not because there is something wrong with who you love, but exactly the opposite.  There is nothing wrong with who you love.  You love who you love.  You lust, who you lust.

It starts with us.  Those of us who love someone who loves someone of the same gender need to start treating it as No Big Deal.  My grand daughter  has two Mommies.   I refuse to explain that anymore to anyone.  It is simply the way it is.  I will admit that saying "We are going out to visit our daughter and her wife" is always an exercise in practiced casualness.  No, it is not what people expect to hear when you start the sentence, but I truly believe if I say our family's truth and your say your family's truth, what was once a Big Deal is now a So What?  And then one glorious day, maybe, everyone will be "out" because where else would we be?

Flying with Pierre

They say if you really want to know someone, you should travel with them.  If you really want to observe human nature at it's best/worse/weirdest--take a plane trip with a group of strangers.  In booking a flight, you are in essence signing up for Jet Plane Camp.  The pilot is the Camp Director, your attendants are the counselors and your fellow passengers are  your camp mates.  Just like camp,  your "bunk mate" is most likely someone you would actively avoid if you met them in Walmart, but because of proximity, you very well could be privileged to learn their entire life story in 4 hours.

Ken and I were returning from California, blissed out on Grandbaby love, as we boarded  the plane. The attendants were announcing that the flight was full, that every seat would be taken before we left the run way.  So what does that mean?  Every freakin' person on the plane is sitting in the window seat and the aisle seat.  The dreaded middle seat might was well be the electric chair when it comes to seating on a plane.

Ken and I part ways---every man for himself.  At this point you stop looking at the middle "death"  seat and you begin to study the people sitting around it and weighing your options:  Do I sit between a mother with her new born and an overweight man?  Or two men--one in a suit and tie and one in overalls?  Then there is Grunge Kid with headphones and another suited up business guy still talking on his cell?  I'm about to go with the headphones when  I spy two women, nice polyester pants and floral tops, small in size --when the flight attendent begins to threaten to get out the cattle prod, so I take a leap of faith and go for the polyester.  What should have stopped me cold was when I said the fatal words  "Is that seat taken?"  (Like duh, of course not) and Younger Polyester by the window says to Older Polyester--"Momma, let this lady in."  Now I'm thinking, well if she IS your Momma and not "Yo Momma"  why the hell aren't you two sitting by each other?  And assumed Momma Polyester would scoot over--oh no--she grabs my arm (Warning #2! Invading my personal space!) and lifts herself out of her seat, so as to make room for me to scootch through.

As I sit and greet Polyester the Younger by the window, I look down and staring at me from under the seat in front of her are two big brown eyes--and I was introduced to Pierre--a Papillon puppy who, I was told, was Poly's  service dog.  Now of course, I immediately start checking her out for her disability--discreetly, of course--she had glasses on, so eyesight is good, she was chatting away to me (and Pierre) so communication is not the issue.  I didn't have to wonder for long--Pierre was her service dog because she was Bi-Polar.  So now I'm wondering if Pierre will start to bark frantically if she begins to enter an manic phase and starts singing show tunes, or perhaps he's like the St. Bernard, but instead of a keg of water around his neck, he has a tiny bottle of Prozac.  I was  hoping for the latter, as it appeared I might need some before the flight was over.

To the left of me, Momma is not to be outdone.  I soon learn that she is not Momma, she is Pierre's Nana.  I learn this because she keeps talking across me to Pierre--who, once we were in flight was brought out of his carry-on and held in Poly Daughter's arms like an infant.  Apparently Pierre was given a good dose of Doggie Valium before the flight, so he was pretty pliable.

         (No, this is not the real Pierre--he was much too drugged to offer to help with the laundry)

As soon as we receive our complementary beverage--Pierre's Nana spills hers' all over herself.  So while the real daughter is talking baby-talk to the damn dog, I'm wiping up Nana with those teeny-tiny airplane napkins.   Then Nana declares to Poly that she is going to change clothes.  My fear now is that I'm going to have to help her--in an airplane bathroom--me and Granny Pants. I'm saved because this declaration leads to an all-out Mother-Daughter argument about the reality of Nana even having any other pants with her.

Finally, we all settle down, Pierre is placed back in his carry-on, Poly reads, while I listen to Nana quote a few Bible verses to me about how people need to stay in their own "tribe" and not get that gene pool all mixed up.  This from a woman who has a dog for a grandson!

We are almost there when Poly screeches out, "Pierre! Pierre!  He's gone!  Where is he?"  The damn doggy carry-on is empty.  I'm really not too concern and I don't know why she is, because it's not like the dog could parachute out or stray into someone else's airspace.    Being the rocket scientist that I am, I unbuckle and look over the seat and there are three very confused looking people holding a stoned dog.  Pierre is passed over the seat to me, and I put him back in the loving arms of his bi-polar Momma.  Soon Jet Camp came to an end, I bid farewell to Pierre and the Polyesters--and you know what?  If I saw them at Walmart--I just might go over and say hello.

The Marriage Club

So, today's argument, heard from Charles Cooper, arguing for Proposition 8, the California law which bans same sex marriage:  

"We are saying the interest in marriage and the state's interest and society's interest in what we have framed as responsible procreation is vital."

Huh--I missed that one when I was in my Government Classes.  Which leads me into all kinds of wonderings.  I know married couples who choose not to procreate, those who tried, and can't procreate and those who are too old to procreate.  If Proposition 8 is upheld, then I would think we would then have to consider this procreation thing at greater length.

Which lead me to this idea--you know how airlines have different "club" levels for their frequent flyers?  Fly over a certain number of miles each year and you get to a silver, even more--gold and, I think ultimately, you get to fly the plane

I suggest that we will need to set up a National Procreators Club--membership is automatic when you marry.  You'll get a book that will be stamped with each procreated issue.  The more stamps, the higher you go in the club:

Platinum Club: Natural Procreators:  These are the stars of the marriage wars.  These folks just do the right and natural thing that marriage was created for.  As you collect your stamps you will move into higher levels:

• Opie Level:  1 Stamp--parents receive a life-time fishing license and an occasional pie from someone named Aunt Bee.
• Beaver Cleaver Club: 2-3 Stamps--comes with a lovely string of pearls for Mom and a super neat tie for Dad.  
• The Walton Club:  4-7 Children--Members get a cow and an old grouchy man comes to live with them, they must call him Grandpa. 
• The Duggar Club: 8 or more, you get your own TV show and a life time prescription to Xanax.

Gold Club: The Extra Effort Procreators   Now these folks are going above and beyond for  the sake of their marriage.  They are the artificial insemminators and the IVF'ers.  But now we get into muddy water--what about the ones who are parents, but who didn't use their own equipment?  the Adopters and the Surogaters?  I mean, they are married, and if marriage is defined as "two people who get together to make babies" then can we allow this kind of marriage?  Again I propose different club levels:

• 1+1+1 Club:  Used both reproductive parts from both partners with the help of a third party.  
• 1+0+1 Club:  Used one member's parts inserted into a non-member part with the help of a third party
• 0+1 Club: No member parts were used in the making of this baby

Lead Club:   Or what will become known as The Losers.  These are the non-procreators, the threat to the very institution of marriage:  Members of these clubs may be subject to penalties.

• The Sterilizers:  These selfish, greedy citizens decided they were perfectly happy without the pitter-patter of little feet or the smell of teenage armpits.  They will be gathered up to live in gated communities that features a day care instead of a clubhouse.
• The Sterile:  People who say they can't get their book stamped (But we all know if they'd just relax it would happen) and are unwilling to go to Level 2.  They will be forced to watch "A Baby Story" on TLC  on a daily basis.
• The Old Ovaries:  This is the group who had the nerve to wait and marry in their 40's and 50's and now it's too late.  They will have their Hormone Replacement Therapy taken from them and live with eternal Hot Flashes.  Their husbands will suffer accordingly.   

But wait!  There's more!  Because if marriage is based on procreation and we have all these amazing and wonderful ways to procreate these days, then my daughter and her wife would qualify for the Gold Club!  And if adopters and surrogaters of the opposite sex can stamp their book, why can't those two guys on Modern Family?  

Really, Mr. Cooper, you've got to find a better argument. 

Bumper Sticker Manifesto

When some people turn 40 they do wild and crazy things to memorize the event--get tattoos, buy a convertible, ask for a divorce, have an affair, adopt a child, jump out of planes--but I did something even more daring--I decorated my bumper--rather, my car's bumper with stickers proclaiming my liberal, feminist beliefs--in a town full of Republicans and conservative Christians.  Now, before you go all ranty on me and call the Civil Liberties Union,  let me explain:  some of my best friends are Republicans.  I have been known to hang with the best of evangelicals.  The amazing thing is that they are also willing to hang with me--so I kind of figure those folks don't count when I talk about living in a town full of them.  I'm talking about the judgy ones, the "Oh, you are SO going to hell" ones.  Yes, and I do know who you are.

Back to the bumper stickers.  As a liberal Democrat in town that is probably trying to figure out how it can borrow that bust of Rush Limbaugh that we now have in our State Capital,  I had been the brunt of my fair share of "Gee Shucks, just kiddin'" harassment.  This was especially fun during the final Bill Clinton years and the hanging chad debacle.


And you know, I've always had this thing for bumper stickers.  Maybe it's the teacher in me--you know we are sticker pimps.  But for me,  bumper stickers are like tattoos, they tell people something about you before they even know you.  They proclaim battles you've fought:

What  you think is funny :

Or your alternative interpretation of certain Biblical passages:

So when I turned 40,  I suddenly just didn't care anymore if people thought I was that crazy, liberal, universal health care, Universalist Unitarian, pro-choice, anti-nuke, environmentalist, LGBT-lovin'
radical.  And I got me some bumper stickers.  My favorite, and the one I always replace when I've traded in my old bumper for a new one:

I've had more comments and questions on this one than even the "What Would Scooby Do?" bumper sticker.  You can choose your definition of uppity--especially if you google it.  My choice is from the World English Dictionary: uppity--adj:  not yielding easily to persuasion or control.  I mean, really, shouldn't we all be uppity in our lives?  Who can argue with that? No one--except maybe those ex-husbands and bosses we had to get rid of.  (Definition of "get rid of":  divorce or quit...and maybe just once, fired)

And for all my concern, I will say that nothing ill came of covering my rear with bumper stickers--no riots, no burnings at the stake--in fact almost the opposite happened.  When I claimed my crazy-ass beliefs on a silly little sticker, people I would have never thought would agree with me, sometimes did.  People who disagreed with me still spoke to me.  And more often than not, I was treated a bit like your eccentric, uppity aunt--you know, the one with the tattoos.

Funding Fun

Maintenance, it's all about maintenance now.  Maintain the boobs with the yearly mammogram, the teeth with the six month cleaning, the brain with the bi-annual visit to the neuro, hair; every four weeks, nails; every two weeks,  skin routine; 30 minutes nightly to slather all my creams on. And this week the annual Finance Review.  

When Money Man shows us the graph of how the market has performed over the past 15 years, I see the Rocky Mountains.   When he points to a certain year to talk about the bull market of the 90's, I'm trying to remember to whom I was married at the time.  When he shows us the huge dip in the market in the early part of the century, I'm wondering who was president and if I can use this information to my advantage when encountering a political adversary.  In other words...*yawn*.....

I really don't worry about my investments.  I mean, what can I do about them?  They are in the hands of some mysterious Fund Manager--whom I imagine to be somewhat like the Wizard of Oz--Ignore the man behind the curtain!  So I trust, and usually take, Money Man's  advice on re-balancing my portfolio because, Lord God!  No one wants an unbalanced, bi-polar, schizophrenic portfolio!  

All that balancing usually leads to the existential question: What is money for?  I don't mean the money it takes to make your house payment and buy food, or put your kid through college, or keep you in a nice nursing home.    I mean  the money that, if you are lucky, might be left over.  Some folks, like Money Man, think that all extraneous funds should go into...well, funds.  

I on the other hand, think funds like that should fund fun.  Money Man and I have had this discussion.  His young whippersnapper intern who was running the power point,  had not heard my views on this.  We had just finished discussing the fact that both Ken and I have very well-hidden chronic illnesses, the kind that Hallmark likes to make movies about.   The talk had turned to funding a fun fund when whippersnapper said something to the effect that I should be investing more of my fun fund in unfunfunds--I looked him in his yet-to-wrinkle eyes and said "I can't go to Paris in a wheelchair".  Note that I said this with the same look in my eyes that I used to give a first grader who had just gotten on my last nerve.    But I really am not satisfied with that.  I wanted to say so much more to him.  How dare someone whose teeth aren't as old as my fillings pronounce judgement on my choice of making memories over making another buck.  

Granted, it is a fine balance and I know how lucky I am to have to make that balance work.  I also know how hard Robert worked, and I've worked, and Ken works, to make sure we fund funds and pay the bills and take care of our families.  And when that is done, I'm buying shoes, taking Katy to Paris, flying to San Francisco for a sweet kiss from Sophie, and holding Ken's hand when we fly to New Zealand...just for fun.