The Art of Aging Gracefully

The doctor poked around a bit, checked eyes, ears and throat, patted the old rump and said, “Hmm, there seems to be a few extra pounds around the middle. Have you thought about exercising?”

“Hey, doc, I’ve been working out! Three mornings a week I’m tortured on the treadmill.” Called treadmill trekking, it’s like hiking part of the way up Mt. Everest and sprinting the last mile to the top, then jogging halfway down only to change your mind and run back to the top.

"Not YOU, Contessa. Bongo."

Oh, yeah. I was in the veterinarian’s office, not my family doctor’s. I get the two confused. They both wear white lab coats and dispense treats. Those pizza pup cookies go well with Cabernet.

Bongo, man’s best friend and Contessa’s personal wine caddie, has hit the age where AARP sends HIM notices. Every morning he wakes up with newly sprouted white hairs on his chin, groans when he crawls out of bed and limps around the kitchen on arthritic legs. Bongo, buddy, I feel your pain. At least he gets to spend the day lying on the couch in front of the television while someone shoves food under his nose. Oh, right, that’s Pinot and Grigio. Bongo gets the floor.

Rest of the story

Happy Birthday, Barbie!

Wow, ANOTHER thing Barbie and I have in common - we both hold AARP cards! You'll have to watch this video to discover what else we have in common:

Cougar Barbie

And no, I do not chase after teenage boys. Okay, Pinot & Grigio, after I tell them it's time to pick up their dirty socks.

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By the way, my first fashion doll was not Barbie but Miss Suzette, a cheap knock-off with bigger boombas. Here's a trio of Miss Suzettes; mine was the brunette.

When I finally got a Barbie doll, I wanted Ken, too. What I got was a doll with three curly-haired wigs that looked like Little Orphan Annie throwaways. The doll didn't have boombas, a waist or fake tippy-toes, either. I ditched the wigs and turned she into he. A tranny doll! Barbie wasn't impressed.

I finally got my Ken doll but Barbie wouldn't give him the time of day. Go figure.




Her taste in plastic was more macho.


So, Barbie dumped Ken for Joe, Ken ran off with she-man and Miss Suzette hooked up with her pals in a convent and went onto a successful singing career.

Again, in Florida

At least the State of Florida has put the kybosh on this one: fish pedicures.

Seems there's a beauty trend in the making where women dip their feet, hands or other body parts into basins filled with tiny fish that nibble away on dead or decaying skin.

I dunno about this one. Remember all those times when Tarzan narrowly escaped being picked to the bone by schools of piranhas? When he barely made it out of the water, followed by the bad guy who didn't and ended up as dog food filler? Yeah, I'd pass on that one.

Next thing you know, they'll be offering pedicures for dogs. Oh, right, they already do.

Old Friends and Old Shoes

A buddy from high school just told me how easy it was to be my friend. Sorta like an old pair of shoes, he said.

What? Like something you throw on at the last minute and hope no one sees you in? Something even the dog won't fetch? Something Goodwill won't take? Something you try handing to a panhandler and he gives it back, along with his change AND a free windshield wash?

Sheesh.

Helpful Haute Flash Hint

Don't sneak up behind your hubby to plant a kiss on his cheek while he's snacking on trail mix and watching the final scenes of the movie "Jaws." Otherwise, you'll be picking dried apricots, almond slivers and granola out of the cat's fur for a week.

Middle School Dance Redux

It's hard to believe, but I chaperoned another middle school dance. This time, I actually volunteered at the school's valentine's day soiree. Cat was not pleased when I followed her out of the car and headed toward the gym.

Cat: Where do you think you're going? Yikes, she used that same tone of voice my mother did the time she caught me coming in late after a football game.

Contessa: I'm chaperoning.

Cat: Why? It'll be just like the YMCA dances. Let's cut to the quick. She knows I'd rather sunbathe on a beach filled with Sports Illustrated swim suit models than chaperone another Y dance.

Contessa: No, it's not. It's your school and they need my help so you kids can have a good time. Some of us are serving refreshments, others are taking pictures. Some moms are running the shoe check. That's like hat checks in old movies, where men dropped off their hats and picked them up on the way out. Seems tweens think they're actually capable of dancing in five-inch stillettos. Oh, and medics are there to bandage sprained ankles. You need me there to help give you a fun night. What I'm really saying: I'm going to check out which girls try to sneak in not dressed according to school code, and the boys tailing them.

Late in the evening, I strolled into the gym where all the kids were hopping up and down to music. They call it dancing. Why they can't just flail their arms and wip their hair around like we did is beyond me. I spotted her and her peeps against the wall. She spotted me and broke out into a run toward me. How sweet of her to leave her friends just so she could hug me.

Cat: What are you doing in here? Again, my mother.

Contessa: Just looking around, watching the kids have a good time.

Cat: But you're standing in the middle of the gym. I wish mom would lay off the attitude.

Contessa: So are teachers and other parents.

Cat: Yeah, but I don't have a personal relationship with them.

I left the gym. I thought it important to preserve that special relationship between mom and me.

Tween Talk

Overheard while driving Cat and her best friend around after a sixth-grade student council session:

Cat: Did you hear who likes me? Tory Smith.

Kel: Who's he?

Cat: You know, coconut-head with shaggy hair.

Kel: So, I heard Mace likes me!

Cat: Duck-face Mace? No way.

Cat & Kel: Eeeeewwwwwww.

Shoot Me, Please

I just read last week's hints from Heloise and one reader wrote in saying how difficult it was for her to tell her right slipper from her left. Plus, it tired her out to turn them over before she put them on. Oh yeah, that right vs. left concept is a tough one -- and the exhaustion from flipping fluffy footies! It's a wonder she dares to take them off once she's got them on. I bet figuring out which hand fits her oven mitt sends her back to bed.

Who Needs Corn Bread, Anyway?

Okay, it's a given the Contessa isn't much of a cook. She tries. Homemade dinners are sooo overrated. So are dinners, for that matter. But, every now and then, the Contessa trades in her corkscrew for a spatula.

Last week she gave homemade corn bread a shot. Yummy aromas filled the kitchen and it looked delicious. Well, it looked normal, except for that brown spot that fit right under a dollop of Country Crock Shed Spread. All right, it was edible.

Not.

Contessa's cornbread tasted like cardboard and was a tad dry. Okay, cotton-in-your-mouth dry, just not as tasty.

How did The Big Guy handle his disappointment? With gentle finesse. He scooped up the leftovers and lined the bench on our deck, as a treat for the squirrels. Our yard is overrun with the little buggers. They love ears of corn so The Big Guy figured they'd chow down on my cornbread wonders. Funny little creatures. One scooped up a mound of 'meal, stuffed it in his mouth and keeled over. I thought only possums played dead.

The little critters must be hibernating, too stuffed to move. I haven't seen a single one ever since The Big Guy put out the cornbread treats. Hmm, haven't seen our outdoor cats, The Yard Rats, either.