Category Blog Posts

Unfortunately for me, I have to have a final colonoscopy. Other people my age don’t have to, but because of my history, one more time. Things have changed from five years ago, when all  a person had to do was not eat the day before, and of course, purge. Pretty easy, despite all the liquid consumption.

But no–these days, the doctors require that you go on a low residue diet for a week before the scoping . Low residue involves eating nothing that has any fiber in it. As I discovered, this means basically eating only white food for a week. You can have canned vegetables, but who in their right mind wants to eat canned peas, green beans, or wax beans? Side bar: who wants to eat fresh wax beans? And no fruit? Again with the cans. I gave up canned peaches and pears long before puberty. And applesauce? Who eats applesauce for fun?

I thought this would be easy peasy. I never eat white bread, so I thought that would be a treat. I like mashed potatoes. Chicken is fine. Cottage cheese. Regular cheese. But I soon discovered that all of this food is WHITE, has little flavor, and having to have it for all my meals for a week is almost as awful as that final day when you can’t eat anything, followed by the vile prep juice.

You can’t use seasonings. No pepper, no garlic powder, no onion powder. No paprika, no little flakes of anything green. God forbid you eat anything RED. No seeds. No mayo. No mustard. So if you have a chicken sandwich, it’s dry as a bone. I thought the fact that I could have pancakes was a blessing, but I soured on pancakes after two breakfasts–pancakes are way too much, and I became irritated with Mrs. Butterworth. Here’s the thing about white food: it’s WHITE. Of course, they tout yogurt. I hate yogurt.

I began to dread having to eat. I longed for anything with color. Heck, I would even eat lettuce, as I would end up the week having to have diarrhea anyway. But no. I envied my husband as he gleefully ate olives. He taunted me with celery. I became depressed and lost my motivation. I couldn’t wait for the purge day when I couldn’t eat anything.  Eating nothing seemed better than one more bite of white food.

I will never look at mashed potatoes the same way again.

Everything sucks right now. And then Dolly Parton died. How can we go on?

Multiple therapists, pundits, and Dear Abby say that one way to feel better is to go out in “nature.” This seems logical, but here is the rub: What exactly is nature? Is it your backyard, where the kid next door might lob a basketball over the fence and hit you in the head? That is neither calming nor renewing.

So is nature just going outside and taking a walk? Walks are fine, depending on where you are walking. Again, walking on a sidewalk could mean dodging scooters, hearing horns honking, stubbing your toe on uneven pavement, or stepping in dog poop.

Is nature a park? Nice. But parks have walking trails with ticks.

So if you want to get out in official nature, you have to get in a car, train, or plane, and go to the forest, a national park, or wilderness area. This requires time, hiking boots, bear spray, bug repellent, and physical fitness. You could feel unfettered and free, looking at the clouds, but trip over a root and sprain your ankle. Or you could be bitten by an insect and get a gigantic welt. In real nature, there is WILDLIFE. I am not a fan of wildlife, no matter how cute that marmot is. Snakes. Snakes are in nature. And if you go far enough into nature there are bears, big cats, and wolves. Oh yeah, ticks too.

If you go far enough out there, you have to pitch a tent. Then you have to cook dinner on a meager flame, opening a can of beans and threading a weenie on a stick. Which gets burned and tastes more like ashes than a hot dog. And who wants to pee in the woods and get poison ivy on their private parts? This makes you feel more peaceful and optimistic?  

Nature can be hot, wet, muddy, humid, or it can be cold, windy, rainy, stormy, or dark. Yes, with ticks. Who wants to go out there? I know people who have said they spent their entire childhoods outside. Those people may find nirvana outside someplace, but those people are mostly the ones on Survivor.

As far as I am concerned, nature is uncomfortable, dangerous, overrated, and the least peaceful place a person can go. For inner peace in trying times, I vote for the Dairy Queen.

I am such a reader that if I got paid for it, I would be an extremely rich person. Unfortunately, I am not paid, but that doesn’t stop me. Nothing stops me unless my Kindle runs out of juice.

Guess what? I just came across a list of books that one can read in ONE DAY. This is fantastically convenient for busy people. Are you busy?

Then let me help you:

• The Invention of Morel, by Adolfo Bioy Casares, translated by Ruth L. C. Simms
• Of Mice and Men, by John Steinbeck
• Animal Farm, by George Orwell
• The Hound of the Baskervilles, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
• The Postman Always Rings Twice, by James M. Cain
• Passing, by Nella Larsen
• The Stranger, by Albert Camus
• Pedro Paramo, by Juan Rulfo, translated by Margaret Sayers Peden
• The Awakening, by Kate Chopin
• In Watermelon Sugar, by Richard Brautigan
• The Autobiography of an Ex-Colored Man, by James Weldon Johnson
• Death in Venice, by Thomas Mann, translated by Henry Heim
• We Have Always Lived in the Castle, by Shirley Jackson
• A Single Man, by Christopher Isherwood
• Cane, by Jean Toomer
• Giovanni’s Room, by  James Baldwin
• O Pioneers! by Willa Cather
• Bonjour Tristesse, by Francoise Sagan, translated by Irene Ash
• Billy Budd, Sailor, by Herman Melville

I have not myself read many of these, but I very much appreciate this handy list.

This list is courtesy of Lit Hub https://lithub.com

It’s the economy. The Strait of Hormuz. Egg prices, gas prices, and you know, everything. We all are clutching our wallets, full of anxiety. Yet life seems to go on, at least in America. However,  we are saving money on lettuce.

Seriously, money is tight. What can be done? We can get out a sheet of paper, or if tech literate, open an Excel doc, and develop a budget. This isn’t something I want to do, but it is weighing on me: how many tee shirts can I buy if the ones I have all have grease spots?

I discovered in my news feed that I can do LOUD BUDGETING. It sounds much more fun than doing the math to analyze how exactly we spend each month on various categories like food, rent, gas, entertainment, and utilities. Loud budgeting is, in the vernacular, telling all your friends what you can’t afford. You can Google it; there is a much more technical definition that involves your accountant and a “conversation,” but as a non-technical person who wouldn’t know our accountant if I fell on him, I am now going to announce to all of you friends out there what I can’t afford. You know, like going with you to Paris.

• I can no longer afford to throw away a used Baggie. Turn that sucker inside out, wash it, and use it at least one more time. Or, stop buying Baggies completely and just wrap leftover food in a damp cloth, the way our Grandmas did, or Ma on Little House on the Prairie. But on the prairie there were probably not many leftovers, I reckon.
• I can’t afford a shirt from L. L. Bean that costs $65 dollars. For a plain old blue shirt? You can get one of those from a thrift store for $3. Of course, there is also an article in my Google feed that says getting thrifted clothing is dangerous, because no matter how much you wash them, they might have cooties. True, I guess. If Clorox can’t kill Cyclospora, then it surely can’t kill cooties.
• Go on a cruise? Are you kidding? All that money to get Norovirus?
• You know what’s too expensive? Cat food. My cat eats dry food that is $50 a bag. But she throws up the kind of kibble that I can get at the grocery store, so I have to get special food that has salmon in it. You do what you have to do when it comes to the ruling member of the family. Buy the kibble and not the caviar (side note: I despise caviar, but it is such a good example).
• Cashmere. I cannot afford it. Luckily, wearing it gives me hot flashes.
• Oh, gosh. I want a facelift. UM, no.
• I could go on and on. My favorite flip flops are $95!!

There it is-right out loud. There are many other things I can’t afford, like new Uggs, that really nice linen blouse, anything from Pottery Barn, Ralph Lauren, and, sorry Ina, “Good olive oil.”

Luckily, I can still afford

This is the truth, because I saw it on the Internet. There is a growing demand for ANT PETS. Not just any old ant (people get so snobby about pets), but these giant ants from Africa, called African Harvester Ants. They cost up to $220 each! Just think of this: what if somehow these ants become popular pets? Then a couple escaped? They would REPRODUCE. And we would be in so much trouble over here, and let’s face it, we have way more trouble than we can handle without ants, for God’s sake.

Apparently, these ants have interesting, complex behavior, and they are “low maintenance.” Look, if maintenance is your problem, get a cat. All you have to do is change the litter box and feed them. Since you have to feed any pet, it boils down to the litter box, which is annoying, but have you heard the expression “Do you have ants in your pants?” Cats don’t get in pants, unless they are just out of the dryer and laying on your bed.

And the descriptor GIANT. Look at that photo above. It is an actual (again, according to the Internet)  image of one of these ants. Do you think it looks cute, or something you might want walking up your arm? Or God forbid, your leg? (see pants reference, above)

I do know that when I was growing up, ant farms were kind of popular. I never had one, because my mom was extremely intelligent, and she also had an imagination, in which her kid’s ant farm got knocked off the dresser, and hundreds of of the damn insects swarmed all over the house, ending up in the pantry, munching on Cheerios, getting in the flour, crawling into the Ritz crackers, and having children, until the carpeting in the living room looked as if it was moving, there were so  many horrible ants all over it.

I carry that image as well, like any sane mother.  I think one can still get ant farms on Amazon, but they just can’t be in demand. And if you wanted a farm for these giant ones, my Lord, it would have to be big enough for them, so where would you put it–on the dining room table?

What kind of person would want an ant as a pet? Here is what I think: it would have to be a man. No woman, unless she is an entomologist, would want a huge ant.

So  let’s call this ant lover guy “Harold.” Harold is in his early thirties. He has never had a girlfriend, but he imagines being married to Billie Eilish. He had a turtle in fifth grade, but it gave everyone in his family Salmonella, so his mother flushed it, and Harold mourned for a whole year. Harold plays mahjong online, because he only has two friends, and they hate the game. Harold’s favorite food is cottage cheese. His favorite TV show is Love, Death, and Robots. Harold stays inside; he is so pale that people passing him on the street wonder if he is an albino. Harold has been a bug fan all his life, but could never indulge in his passion until now, because when his mother died last month,  Harold inherited the house. Now Harold is FREE to indulge in whatever he wants to do, which right now is THE ANT.

Harold would name his new, great big ant “Bertha,” despite not knowing its gender. Harold would live in harmony with Bertha until, like in all of these sorts of situations, Bertha would grow bigger and bigger, and begin biting off bits of Harold, until you know what.

Forget the ant, people. If you need companionship, look at these options, below:

They might bite you, but as for eating you alive? Of course not, Harold.

Who taught you how to read a map? Nobody taught me. This is why I am never the navigator on a road trip, or why I never go anywhere I have not been before, because I have no idea how to get there. My husband telling me to “Go north on I 75 and take the east so and so exit” might as well be in another language.

So when Siri came along, my life changed. I can go to a dermatologist in Cincinnati if I want to, because Siri will gently tell me how to get there, and if I make a mistake, she merely shrugs and reroutes me.

My husband never uses Siri. He puts a map in his lap and glances down frequently, despite the traffic. This makes me nervous and puts us in slight danger, but there is nothing I can do about it, because he doesn’t use Siri. Why? “BECAUSE IT DOESN’T WORK IN MY CAR.”

“But it isn’t IN your car. It’s on your phone.”

“Ok, then. The next time I will show you that this woman never answers when I call her, and in my phone or not, it doesn’t work. So I use a map. Maps always work.”

“But Siri is built in to your phone. It is on ALL iPhones!”

“Not on mine.”

So the next time we went to the grocery store, I wanted a demo of the nonworking, built-in app on his and every other iPhone on the planet. “So ask for directions,” I said.

“Ok, then. Here goes, he said. “Hey, Sheila. Directions to the Kroger.”

Naturally, there was no answer.

“See? It doesn’t work. I told you!” He gave me a smug look.

“Two things: First, her name is SIRI. Second, do you know how many Krogers there are on the Eastern Seaboard? Thousands. You have to give her something to GO ON. The one in Kettering, Ohio, or the one in Schenectady, New York, for instance? But really, the main problem you are having is that you have no idea what her name is. You can’t just shout out any name starting with an S.”

I thought back to when we visited our daughter at Christmas. That was frustrating as well, because my husband wanted to give “Alicia” orders, and “Alicia” never complied. He didn’t get it, because whenever my daughter gave her an order, Alexa did just as she was asked.

I don’t want Alicia or Alexa, because they eavesdrop all the time, and I don’t need them to overhear me wondering about how I look in Capri pants, and snitching to Google, who then sends me all sorts of ads for Spanx and control-top panty hose.

Technology has gotten invasive…but only if you remember its name.

Here’s the thing: I am a senior citizen who hates hiking, bugs, sunburns, rocks, thorn bushes, and snakes. To me, a walk is going around the block, not scaling mountains. However, my favorite tv series is Alone. Have you watched it? It is the franchise in which a helicopter drops off ten people in a beautiful but very challenging place, and they are each alone. Completely–no camera crew. They film themselves surviving. Oh, and each one can only bring ten things with them. The last person who doesn’t “tap out” wins $500,000.

Why do I love this? I love learning how to make a shelter out of sticks. I will never have to make a shelter out of sticks, but now I know that moss is the best thing to shove between the sticks for insulation.

And hydration is so important. However, you need to boil the water so you don’t get diarrhea.

Everybody on this show gets their primary protein from fish. I hate fish. And the way they have to eat it is to boil it. And of course, they then drink the “broth.” Only two contestants over all twelve seasons have brought salt. So the rest of them are just eating their fish boiled, just boiled. Ok. Some of them, if the fish is large enough, cook it over a fire. But still, no salt. Ugh.

They are all, by the way, survival experts. So they know a ton of things about living out there in the desolation. All they have is a bow and nine arrows, so if they shoot up a tree at a squirrel and miss, they have to expend precious calories finding that arrow, or it’s one less tool. Doesn’t this sound like a great show?

Some of them are lucky enough to kill a big animal, like a deer. They have to process that immediately or the meat goes bad. I take my glasses off for that part, because I feel so sorry for that poor deer. And those darling beavers! Don’t get me started on the beavers.

Those contestants get so dirty! Again, only one so far has brought soap, so they just either go swimming (not so much in the Arctic), or they just get stinky and disheveled. None of them brings a comb, because those ten items have to be crucial for survival, like fishing line and hooks.

Some of them are so confident they don’t even bring a flint to start fires, because they think they can always rub two sticks together. Oh yeah, they are usually the first ones to call for help.

I will never be alone out there. But if I ever am, I will know that there are 40 calories in a scorpion, and if you can’t find any berries to eat, you WILL get constipated. And I swear I would leave the beavers alone.

Screenshot

My back hurts. All the time, but especially after I spend hours bending over, doing my favorite hobby, pottery. I am terrible at it, but it is a whole lot of fun. But when I am finished potting for the day and come home, my back muscles scream.

There are exercises for this, and every day I look at the videos that physical therapists post for back relief. I try all  of them, looking for the perfect set of stretches and strengthening ones that will, according to these therapists, “release that knot instantly.” None have done the trick so far. Not instantly, for sure. They all promise instant relief. When relief isn’t instant, I resume searching.

Today, my husband left for church at 8:45. I had just started my exercises. He got home at 11:30, and I was still on the floor, my phone beside me, following along with physical therapist number 12. Nothing had been instant.

You don’t need to worry that I am exercising way too much. Because some of the exercises the therapists suggest are absolutely impossible. I either don’t bend that way, I can’t get my arms to wrap that way, my knees hurt if I squat down that far, or my shoulders won’t flatten against the wall like that. Thus, a lot of the time spent between when my husband leaves and comes back from church are spent down some internet rabbit hole for people with tight backs.

I had no idea that there are 100 exercises for your rhomboids. And my trapezius is screwed as well. And I can’t remember the names of the muscles in my lower back and sides, but they all need help. And there are individual exercises for each of them. As soon as I can find the right ones, I will have my own exercise regimen.

In the meantime, I will continue on the floor in my pajamas, searching for just the right physical therapist. You are probably thinking “Why don’t you go to one in person?”  But that costs money, and the internet therapists are free! Some of them have nice voices and interesting outfits. And they are all very serious and professional.

One of them is bound to show me one that gives me that instant relief. That therapist is out there. I just have to stay on the floor and keep searching.

Meanwhile:

There have been complaints. Why has Molly not written any columns for two weeks? What is going on? Tell her to stop loafing around and get writing!

It isn’t that easy for me, because I have been blogging for twenty years. I have written about absolutely everything. So I often come up dry. I thought I would discuss my process, so that all of you might understand.

If my husband or I haven’t done anything noteworthy, that stymies me. So then I cast around in my head for past events, things I did as a mother that weren’t like what other moms did, why I hate certain foods, what I can say about my husband that makes him sound both ridiculous yet charming, or what I made for dinner that tasted awful. If none of that works, then I head to my news feed.

People do stupid things, like putting frogs in their pockets. But I have written about that, so I look for “interesting news.” But I haven’t found any headlines that make fodder for my writing lately.

I sit with my laptop, staring at the walls, waiting for something to come to me. For the past two weeks, nothing has floated to the surface, and I find myself thinking about what I could buy on Amazon, should I get one more geranium for the balcony, what on earth I can make for supper when it’s my turn to cook, or if I can skip my exercises today. But column ideas? Nada.

Books. I read so many books that I sometimes wonder, for instance, where “Amy” is–she hasn’t been mentioned for three chapters. Then I realize that Amy was the main character in the last book that I read, and I transitioned into this book too fast. But when in doubt about what to put in my column, I post book lists, which is what I am going to do now. The “Amy” book wasn’t that great, so it won’t be on the list.

Here goes:

• The Winter Soldier and The Piano Tuner, both by  Daniel Mason. This man is a doctor and a writer, and he is a genius. The Piano Tuner is one of my favorite books, ever.
• New People, by Danzy Senna. Anything she writes is wonderful.
• Best Offer Wins, by Marisa Kashino. Oh, my God. Obsession.
• Class Reunion, by Rona Jaffe. A friend recommended her as an author, and I thought she was just like Danielle Steel. I was wrong. All Jaffe’s books are remarkable.
• Hazel Says No, by Jessica Berger Gross. Thank God Hazel said no.
• Run for the Hills, by Kevin Wilson. This book has personal meaning for me, but everybody will love it.
• Cassandra at the Wedding, by Dorothy Baker. This one had me rooting for the title character, until I didn’t.
• Leaving Lucy Pear, by Anna Solomon. This one had me marveling at how the author even came up with this plot line.
• The Round House, by Louise Erdrich. How have I lived so long without reading this?
• Heartwood, by Amity Gage. This is why I hate hiking.

Maybe I will come up with something for a sparkling column soon. Maybe there is a person out there who puts toads in their pockets…

A few months ago, I closed all my social media accounts. My phone informed me that I spent an average of four hours a day browsing the internet. Four hours. This was embarrassing and shameful–what a total time waster. When I thought about a person of my advanced age wasting that much time, I tried to analyze what we Boomers want from social media.

Many of us apparently believe that all of the people who look at our posts on, for example, Instagram, want to see what we are eating. In restaurants, we take pics of our dinner and post those, thinking that perhaps Aunt Ida in Nebraska would love looking at that fried chicken and slaw. Seriously, how many shots of entrees have you seen on Facebook?

The photo above is one I actually posted on Instagram. Egg salad. What was I thinking? Who would care about my egg salad? Would it generate “likes?” (Nobody “liked” it.) My husband liked it for lunch. That was it.

Others of us old timers are convinced that the world needs to see our vacation photos. Fred standing in front of the Eiffel Tower, or Jeannine getting ready to eat clams in Cape Cod. Really–as a person who had to sit through endless slide shows of my in-law’s trips abroad, I have never understood this. Absolutely nobody who has watched Rick Steves really cares about your vacation shots.

Oh my gosh. Grandchildren. Here is the thing: the only grandchildren I want to watch grow up are mine. And nobody else on the planet cares how tall my grandson is getting. So all those cheerleader posts on Facebook are wasted on anybody that isn’t a close blood relative. But grandchild photos abound on SM (which I learned just last month means “social media,” and not sado-you know what).

I understand that teens spend nearly as much time as I used to on Social Media. But they like to make TikToks about makeup, gymnastics, and doing the choreography to Taylor Swift’s latest songs. This was shocking for me to realize that my scrolling for posts of other folk’s dinners and shots taken from the balconies of cruise ships consumed the same amount of time that teens spend looking at makeup demos and skateboarding tricks.

So, in one fell swoop, I deleted all of my accounts. It was hard at first; I reached for my iPhone for no reason. I felt a little frustrated that I no longer had any reason to take photos of my cat or my latest pedicure. I had all that free time suddenly. I began to fill my empty hours with television crime shows: it’s always the spouse. So then I started doing more exercising. This has caused an increase in in my visits to the chiropractor. But one benefit of doing all these Bird Dogs and Planks is that I no longer have to worry about falling and not being able to get up.

Are you still on Facebook? Well, get OFF.