What to do??

Dear Bear,

Well we did get away for a couple weeks, didn’t we? We did have some fun, but I am sorry that I wasn’t my usual bouncy self during our travels. While being away, my worried mind was distracted by the excitement of being away, but then my usual excitement was distracted my worries that would not leave me. I needed to get away, to have a relief from my worries, but in getting away, my worries never left. They were always just brewing under the surface.

I did my best to be cheerful and fun, especially for the sake of my D.O.D (Dear Only Daughter). Was I successful? She and I did have our laughs, and excitement in exploring castles and cathedrals, in looking at art, and walking everywhere. I hope my worried sad mind didn’t surface too much. It’s hard to be strong sometimes.

D.O.G. (Dear Only Guy) does not seem to be getting better. He might not be getting worse, but he is not getting better, and he should be by now. He looks so worn to me. It hurts to see him that way. Most of it, I am sure is because of the meds they gave him. They make him so tired. He is housebound, and doesn’t go out unless it is to the Dr or sometimes I can get him to go to the grocery store with me.

My deepest of fears is that one day I will come home from work, and he will be gone from me forever. When he doesn’t answer the phone when I call from work, I always fear the worst. A few weeks ago, when I took him to the ER, I hoped they would find out what is wrong with him, but they sent him home with nothing to say. Why can’t they find the problem? Even if it can’t be fixed, at least we would know what to do to make it a bit better.

I feel so alone and lonely much of the time. Sure D.O.G. is always there. But everything has changed so much. We never go anywhere together. He just can’t. We don’t do anything together. He isn’t capable. He sleeps and spends time in his room. It’s like having an empty house. But even so, if he were not to be there, even in this small way, what would I do?

Talking to a dear friend the other night scared the crap out of me. My friend (as good friends often do) voiced my deepest concerns which I do not want to face or admit.. Is the relationship really over? So much has changed. Being a caretaker sure takes the romance out of a relationship.

What would I do, if I were to face up to this? Being alone is  scary but then, is it better than what I have now? All it seems is I give, and there is so little that is given back to me. Please help me Bear…what am I do to do and think?

 

All Work, No Play

Dear Bear,

Sometimes I get really sad. You know when I do. I grab you in my arms and just hug you. I burry my face in your fur and cry. You really give me a lot of comfort.

Sometimes I seem to work hard for nothing. I work all day, then come home and work some more. But I never seem to get ahead. It doesn’t help that I have to take care of everything by myself.

Take D.O.G. (Dear Only Guy) for example. You know that he has been sick for a few months. I worry that he will never get better. No matter what the Dr does, he doesn’t improve. He just never feels well, and the meds that they give him make him feel even worse. He is so bad, he never even wants to leave the house. Those rare days when he does go somewhere with me, he doesn’t last long. He needs to go home. I worry that our fun-days are over. I doubt he will ever even be able to go on vacation with me, even if he had the money to go with me.

I feel hopeless and helpless most times. I cry too often, while pretending to be happy and silly to those who don’t really know. But what else can I do? I really feel alone even though D.O.G. lives with me. We don’t really spend any “quality” time together. He sleeps, and plays on his computer. I just get so deep into my own work, as an escape that I have built up a wall. The harder I work, the less I feel the pain of the situation. I know he loves me, I don’t question that. But we just never seem to have fun. We rarely laugh anymore. We can’t afford to go anywhere because I have all I can do just to pay bills, and he has no income to help me.. And even if I could afford it, he just seems to be permanently ill so he can’t

do the things we want to do together.

Sometimes it is all so hopeless. I need to go away on vacation. I thought of going alone. At least that would give me something to look forward to. It is the one thing I really look forward to every year. But if I were to go…I would feel guilty, and worry about D.O.G. What do you think I should do? Should I go away for 2 weeks, get recharged? Maybe you would like to come with me? How does Paris sound?

 

Old People’s Job

Bear,

I always wondered what old people did with their days. I fantasize about not having to go to my 9-5 daily grind, so that I too can get up when I want, take long daily naps, and sit in the garage on my chair and watch my flowers grow, just like the old folks do.

I never have enough time to do all the things I want. And really, I am looking forward to the day when I no longer must go to work. I am envious of older people, with no one to answer to, doing what they want to do.
I imagine it is like this for you, Bear. You have nothing you must do, nowhere you must go. You just wait for me to come home to hug you and talk to you. And you aren’t that old!

I learned something the other day though. Old people don’t have it quite as good as I thought. I had to help my aunt Sally. She was not feeling well. First it was a trip to the Emergency Room, then all week long there were trips to the Dr, then the pharmacy, Each one took over ½ the day.

I learned that going to the Dr can be a full time job for older people. They have to wait forever in the waiting room, then they get poked and proded. And at the end of it, they are so tired, that it was if it were a full day of work.

Maybe I should readjust my thinking…being younger and healthy to be tired from work is a lot better than being older and having Doctors wear you out!

 

How I Count the Years

Bear,

I remember when I was young, how I couldn’t wait for my birthday. I couldn’t wait for the kids to come over and play pin the tail on the donkey, and eat too much birthday cake and ice cream. And let’s not forget the PRESENTS!!

A few years later, I couldn’t wait to be 16. I couldn’t wait to be old enough to date, old enough to go to the prom. Then I would lie about My age so that I could go out dancing, and have a drink. I just couldn’t wait to become older and have my own life, and be an adult and to have total control of my life.

Then I started to count off the years one by one. The yearly additions to my age made me cringe. Each year that passed, I start to fear that I have missed the mark.

“I am 30! I should have been married by now!”

“I am 35! I should have had 2.2 kids by now!”

“I am 40! I should have bought a house by now!”

On and on it goes with some sort of age related benchmark that I either have achieved or missed. But birthdays are not something I looked forward to.

UNTIL…..

“Are you a Senior Citizen?” The girl behind the box office window asked me.

“Uh…yes! I am! I am indeed!” I answered.

With that, the price of the movie ticket went from $10.50 down to $7.00!

I felt like a 19 year old being carded for a 21 and over Club, and getting in! While I am not yet a “Senior”, I guess I can pass as one to a young girl who takes the money for a movie theater.

What is the age for being a Senior? I had my AARP card when I turned 50 a couple years ago. Is 55 the real age for being a Senior? Is it 60? Or 63? I guess different places/organizations have different ages that will qualify someone as a Senior. All I know, is I felt like a kid again, trying to be “older” and I gleefully got away with it.

I notice that “older” people do not lie about their age to look younger, as many people do when they are in their mid-years. A 45 year old, for example, might try to pass as 40. But a 70 year-old will claim every year like a girl scout badge, to be worn proudly. Each year is earned, some with the thrill of life, others with the agony.

Bear, when you become old, you will be an antique. You will probably be worth a lot of money to someone. I guess in some cases being old is a good thing.

Hmm…I wonder if they will card me when I saddle up to the snack stand and buy popcorn and soda?Will I be too old to handle the caffeine this late at night? Will they check my teeth to see if I can chew the popcorn? Or perhaps the movie will be too exciting for my feeble heart to take so they will give me a cardiogram first. Think I will just run and claim my seat!

Are the paramedics standing by??

 

Thongs are just Wrong!

You are lucky, Bear. You never need to worry about what you will wear. You wear the same fur, day in, year out. Even your Woodsy cousins, don’t worry about what they will wear. When it gets cold, nature has programmed Bears to get thicker fur. Fat or thin, old or young, fashion is never a concern for you.

Humans are quite different. We are often judged on what we wear. Especially females. Some female humans become a slave to fashion. They need to have the trendiest clothes, and the fanciest shoes. Not to mention hair style and manicured nails.

I went into Victorian’s Whispers the other day with my daughter. I LOVED the colors I saw. The clothing (underwear) was in the brightest Caribbean shades of blue, yellow, pink and green. I had color envy!

I touched one of these bright jewels. It was a THONG. I don’t get thongs. I mean I REALLY don’t. Never has a piece of undergarment been so useless. What is the purpose of underwear? Let’s get really specific, under pants or panties, or what ever you choose to call that particular piece of garment, is it not to serve as a barrier between the body and the outer clothing?

Yes, the panty (or briefs or boxers for men) serve to be a barrier between our body, which can sweat, or produce other fluid or semi fluid substances (Do I need to be more graphic?) and the pants or skirt we are wearing. You don’t want” racing stripes” on your fine white linen pants, do you?

So, given that fact, how do thongs serve that function? With a little band that slips in the crack of the butt, to join a small patch of fabric that sits just under the other source of moisture of the female anatomy, I fail to see the usefulness of this garment. Or why anyone would want to wear something that I would find annoying. Whenever my panties get in a bunch and slip into my butt crack, I need to pull it out. It’s not really a comfortable feeling. True, the little strip of fabric of the average thong is less bulky and quite likely less uncomfortable. But STILL…even the idea of it makes me reach for my behind.

I guess I can understand the male viewpoint. I guess it looks sexy to a guy. But then that’s only when a model with a firm, well endowed butt is modeling it. For the average female, I don’t think thongs will look at all good. And don’t even ask me why they even consider making thongs for us big girls. ARE THEY NUTS?

But as if that weren’t enough, they make thong panty liners. I can’t imagine that these will ever stay inplace. What idiot would wear a thong when a panty liner is needed? Even for those “light days”? I really think that some women are “taken to the cleaners” on that one. But then…they don’t ave much on do they? Can’t take much when there isn’t much to take, right?

I think the only thing a thong is good for, is a sling shot. Maybe those women who wear a thong should have a concealed weapon permit.

Leave me to my full coverage, fully functional panties.

 

Changing Tastes

Bear,

Sometimes I think you are lucky that you don’t need to eat. Because of that, you don’t have to wonder “What’s for Dinner?”  And there are other benefits to not needing to eat. But you really are missing a lot of fun, too. Your Woodsy Bear Cousins, worry about what to eat, and if they can get enough. But over all, what they eat is pretty narrow. Fish, berries, honey, a few ants here and there, and perhaps the occasional furry animal that happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bears never really worry about what “sounds good”, just  “what can I find”.

I have noticed that as I got older, my tastes have changed. Things I loved as a kid, sugar coated cereals, strawberry flavored milk, gum balls, and Ding-Dongs are things I would not dream of eating now. But also, the reverse is true. I hated brussel sprouts, celery in potato salad, olives, and my mom’s cabbage soup. Now, I love them.

I wonder why that is? Why have my tastes changed as I have gotten older? Have the taste sensors gone awry?  Have I lost taste sensing brain cells that tell me, “Brussel Sprouts! Ughh…Danger…Run Away!!!” Or maybe the brain cells are slow on the sensing. They don’t sense dangerous foods like cabbage soup until dessert time hits. No…that can’t be true either, because I still like dessert. Only not quite as sweet.

I think changing tastes are a function of aging. Maybe it is in preparation of more pill swallowing as we get older. Pills don’t taste good. Luckily, I don’t need to take any yet, but I can see that having failing taste buds will help the medicine go down. And maybe they will taste of brussel sprouts. This must be the case, because I see that kid’s medicines come in grape, cherry, and fruity-tutti flavors, and adult’s medicines, well….they only come in the bitter-you-have-no-taste-buds variety.

See, yet another reason, you are lucky to be a Bear!!

 

My Morning Fright!

Bear,

It has been a terrible morning. I got up this morning and stumbled over to the sink to brush my teeth. And as I looked in the mirror, I saw that my body was taken by the body-snatchers and replaced by another one.

MY MOTHER’S!!

How can this be? When did I get to be old, and when did I start to look like my Mother?

I realize I am getting a bit long in the tooth. I know I have some gray hairs, and a few wrinkles here and there. But when did I become old looking?

I guess I should have suspected it when the young cute guys would call me “Ma’am”. Maybe I should have gotten a clue when some people at work began asking me when I planned on retiring, or when I last saw the Dr, I was asked if I still got my periods.

What’s next? Will I be shuffled on to an airplane on my next vacation with those needing “extra assistance”. Will they wheel out the wheelchair for me?

I gotta tell you Bear, that glance in the mirror this morning, woke me up with a start. I became so startled that I noticed another horrifying thing! My double chin!! The final conversion in becoming my Mother. The transformation is complete. The shock of it had me jump back, and it or should I say, THEY?  Well, THEY flopped side to side and nearly made me lose my balance.

Why do I have that double chin? I don’t need two chins. One was enough, thank you very much. Does it (they) serve a purpose? Perhaps to store something that the body needs? That’s it! I have gone from being a dromedary to a bactrian (double humped camel) overnight. If I ever need a fat transplant, and a skin graft, they can take it from my chin, and leave the rest of me intact.

I know, if I were to shed some pounds, maybe I would lose one of the chins. But then…maybe all that would be gone would be the fat, leaving me with loose skin. Then I would look like a turkey, with a sail under the chin.

I guess, as long as just look like my Mother…and don’t act like her, maybe I will be OK. I just need to get over the shock. I only wish I could be eternally cute, just like you, Bear!

 

Non Aware

You know what, Bear? There is something that kinda gets my goat. I hate those damned awareness ribbons. You see them every where.  For example, there is:

Pink                                    Breast Cancer

Yellow,                              Support our Troops

Red                                    Heart Disease

Orange                              Leukemia

Blue                                    Drunk Driving

On and on it goes. Apparently they have run out of colors, because there is now Pale yellow for spina bifida,  Light Blue (childhood cancer), and many other varying shades of what is essentially the same color.

Don’t get me wrong, I think in many ways it is good that we are aware of these diseases and problems. We need to face them. But I hate that there is a color for every possible affliction known to man kind. And that we should be wearing ribbons to remind us of them. With so many ribbons, if I wore them all (how can you leave any out with out offending someone?) I would look like a badly wrapped birthday gift.

Maybe I should create a few of my own. How about:

A ribbon made of trash, to be pinned on one’s backside:            Trailer Trash Awareness

A ribbon in the shape a female dog with teets hanging              Ultra Bitch Awareness

A ribbon made of  shreds of other ribbons                                      Multiple Issues

A ribbon made of dried dung                                                               I don’t give a crap

A ribbon made of screws                                                                      Screw you, assholes

I am just tired of all the ribbons. It seems we are asked to be aware of so many issues, that we are all on overload. No wonder most people are going around in circles. They can’t keep up with what is what anymore.
I would like to take the fools who invent these things and tie a large rope like ribbon around their neck. Hmmm….I guess that would be the “No more ribbons Awareness”

 

Drip Catchers for Men

Bear,

I am really annoyed at D.O.G. (Dear Only Guy), today. Why is it that men always piss on the floor?

I got up in the middle of the night to make use of the toilet (pissing the night away again…I must learn not to drink so much tea in the evening!), and thought I was in a porta-potty. It was really disgusting.  My bare feet in a puddle not to mention the hem of my nighty.

You know I am not demanding. I do not insist on the toilet seat being put down. I figure if I live with a male, I should expect it to be up. Doesn’t he have just as much a right to have it up, as I have to have it down? I never did understand that power struggle between women and men.

We have had many discussions about puddles before. I don’t know why D.O.G. can’t aim better. Why can’t he just assume that he will miss, and plan on wiping up his wet spot? If I had a constant problem of wiping my butt after taking a crap and getting it smudged on the seat, I would make it a habit of wiping the seat. It’s consideration for the other person isn’t it?

I know that pee on the floor is one of the hassles of living with a guy. Do you think all guys are like this, or do I have one that is just a slob?

Maybe there is a business in the making…you know those drip catchers that “proper teapots” often have? They catch drips of tea so that your fine linen table cloths don’t get stained with tea. Maybe you and I can go into business and create pee-drip-catchers. They can be in fun colors, perhaps shaped like an animal or citrus fruit or something. It would slip over his spout in the same way as a tea-drip-catcher would slip over the spout of a teapot. Same sort of shape, so it shouldn’t be difficult.

Of course it would have to be adjustable, and not be so tight that it would cause discomfort nor so loose that it would just fall off. Maybe there could be some way to tie it on?  Or a  gentle elastic?

What do you think, Bear? Would it work? I am just so annoyed at having to hike up my pants, and getting wet feet. And I don’t want to get into the habit of cleaning up after him every time he goes.

Maybe I could even get D.O.G. to model it for the advertisements.

I doubt that I am the only woman with this problem.

 

Monday Blahs

I hate Mondays. Actually, I don’t like any of the weekdays, because I have to go to work. But Mondays are the worst because the long week lies straight ahead. The exception to this is Fridays, because the glorious weekend lies ahead.  I hate not liking Mondays, or any other weekday for that matter. I should love every day. Every day that I wake up in good health, with my bowel movements in control (the occasional problems I discussed with you yesterday) should be happy days.

But here it is a Monday. I got up this morning, my head still throbbing from the overly loud Barbara Streisand/Barry Gibb CD I played and replayed last night, and the too many cups of tea that kept me up half the night, pissing the night away (not in the Brit sense either), just not looking forward to starting a new week at my job.

Bear, you are lucky that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. No wonder you are always happy. But shouldn’t I feel happy too? I have a good job (for the most part). I usually get to schedule my day as I need to, deadlines not withstanding. So why do I feel miserable about going to work?

I have become one of the salty-old-dogs. I remember when I first started my job some 20+ years ago, I was all young and enthusiastic. I loved going to work. I loved the challenges. I looked up to my coworkers who had been working for many years, and noticed how much they knew, how much experience they had and the relative ease with which they did their jobs. I wanted to be “just like them”.

That is until I really started listening to them. Oh, how they complained. This is not right, that is not right…how could they be so unhappy and bitter when this job is so INTERESTING!? I thought to myself, “I could never become as unhappy as they are!”

Bear, I am sorry to say, I have become the “old timer” that I didn’t understand 20 years ago. Not only have I become one, I UNDERSTAND THEM!! After many years, the youthful optimism of believing that you can make a difference, that what you contribute to your job is valuable, that YOU are valuable to the entity that hired you, you finally learn that you are wrong. You only serve to keep the bean counters happy. You realize that your skill and knowledge mean nothing if the numbers do not meet their expectations. All you are is a DRONE…a worker bee.

I would really rather stay home now, and work at my hobby. It wouldn’t matter if my hobby were just polishing rocks. It would be more fun than going off to work. But you know, I love my hobby. I get to be artistic and creative. It seems to be so much more satisfying to play with colors and create something rather than feed some bean counter’s bean pot.

I guess I should just be happy, and be more like you, my dear Bear.