I am never certain of the full importance or the eventual impact of any single event in my life. But of one thing I can be sure, each experience offers something valuable to my overall development. I must not discount the experiences that are long gone. They contributed to all I've achieved at the present. And wherever today takes me will influence what tomorrow will bring.

The Ticket

I think that if I were an ordinary logical thinking person I would start this journal with a synopsis of who I am and what ailments plague me. You already know my name. If I am posting an entry in this diary I have either 1) Pulmonary Hypertension or 2) am a caregiver for someone with PH. I fall into category number one with Pulmonary Hypertension and Scleroderma. Any more about myself you'll learn along the way. This explains my non-logic Mr. Spock like thinking process.

Today I got a haircut, which I really needed, and a traffic ticket, which I did not need. I paid for the haircut but will have to wait a bit to pay the ticket. On my way home from the hairdresser in the drizzling rain, I was probably not paying all that much attention to my driving (mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa and for non-Latin speaking readers, my fault, my fault, my most grievous fault). Humming and singing along to Cher on my CD player, I passed two police cars and drove right through a yellow light that turned red in the process. Surprise! red and blue lights flashing in my rear view mirror. When the officer came to the window I attempted to look as pitiful as possible, with no make up on, a fresh hair do, and my oxygen hose hanging from my face. Alas, he wasn't moved. He gave me a lecture about paying more attention to my driving in inclement weather and returned to his car to make sure I wasn't an escaped fugitive or something. When he returned, there it was, The Ticket. At home when I told my husband, Paul, all he could do was snicker and giggle. Now this, from a man who has never had a ticket in his life, but was carted off to jail overnight for driving and drinking 30 years ago. OK, I thought, he is entitled to give me a hard time at least once, after all he is my husband and we've been married 35 years.

And now, as Paul Harvey used to say, for the rest of the story. My youngest daughter, Paula (who is anything but young at age 30) arrived home from work and began the inquisition.

Paula: How fast were you going?

Rena: Well not very fast since I was pacing not one but two police cars in the adjoining lane.

Paula: Was the light yellow when you entered the intersection?

Rena: Yes dear, I don't ordinarily run red lights.

Paula: Then why didn't you stop?

Rena: Because I was too far into the intersection on the yellow light to apply my brakes without skidding, spinning, and generally wrecking havoc on other unsuspecting drivers and vehicles.

Paula: Did you have your seat belt on?

Rena: No, as a matter of fact I did not - but I lied to the cop so I wouldn't have an additional fine.

Paula: You know you really need to be more careful. Your responses are not as fast as they used to be and without your seat belt you could have really hurt yourself if you had had an accident.

Finally, I found myself sitting quietly as she wagged her finger at me and said, "You need to be more attentive, don't make me take your Drivers License away from you." Granted, she meant it with all love and kindness, but isn't it interesting how children grow up and try to become mothers to their own mothers.

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The Bathroom

There are five people living in our house instead of two. Even before our numbers increased, Paul and I and Community Bank had begun what I laughingly call my "Quest for Change." With Second Mortgage in hand it started. My son-in-law Bo (the carpenter) and Paul installed fifteen new windows. We contracted to have the trees trimmed, new siding installed and the roof replaced. Everything was going smoothly. I was content to spend my days surrounded by decorating magazines, swatches of fabric, samples of carpet and multitudes of paint chips.

Then we got the news. Paula, Brittany and Austin needed a place to stay for a while. Only until husband Cory finished his tour of duty in Oklahoma. Now mind you, I genuinely believed we had removed the revolving door from the front of our house when the kids graduated and got married, but Paula circumnavigated her way in through the back. Reluctantly, I put my interior redecorating dreams on hold. With a baby running around the house it was illogical to do much with the inside furniture and carpet. I lovingly packed the swatches and paint chips away, thinking wistfully of the day Paula and our grandchildren would leave us one more time. Happily, moving day is scheduled for some time next month. However, being the impulsive person that I am I found it difficult to contain my internal "interior designer" during this year long extended visit.

The first stirrings of rebellion crept out from under the wallpaper in the upstairs bathroom. It was just a little bit of loose wallpaper, but I worried it like a reluctant pimple. The decorating dam sprung a leak. All right, I thought we'd work upstairs since the baby wasn't allowed on the second floor without supervision. Down came the wallpaper (I never liked those yellow flowers anyway) and it was off to Home Depot for solution to clean and prep the walls.

Since we were doing the walls, why not take up that old flooring? We blithely wended our way to Home Depot again where we purchased box after box of peel and stick tiles. After all, they look so easy to install on the TV commercials! Before the new flooring could be installed, Handyman Paul (who can do all things electrical and mechanical, but comes up short on other home repair projects) decided the toilet should be removed and the underlying floor checked. Let me ask you a question Diary, if you were Paul, where do you suppose you would put an extra toilet in a two-story house where each and every room is full to capacity? Of course, in my study, right next to my computer, certainly not in his garage. Lo and behold, when the commode was removed, he discovered that the seal required repair and was off to Home Deport for plumbing supplies.

Of course, you can't paint a room and ignore the ceiling. Right? Right! So we were off to Home Depot again for ceiling paint. With roller in hand, Paul began to paint, the ceiling however, had other ideas. With the first application of the roller, he took off half the stucco finish. Another dilemma…. another hold up. The entire ceiling had to be removed and the surface refinished before painting. You guessed it, another trip to Home Depot.

Once Paul finished the ceiling, Paula put in her two cents. She applied a layer of leveling compound to the bare floor in preparation for the new tile. A process the man at Home Depot assured her was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, she didn't read the directions first and applied it too liberally. The entire floor of this very large two-sectioned bathroom had to be sanded smooth so that the tile would adhere properly. That sort of heavy duty sanding in an inside bathroom prevented me from helping (at last something good comes from PH). Paul was off to Home Depot for sandpaper and I spent the day sitting on the couch eating bon bons and watching soap operas.

At long last the ceiling was painted, the floor was sanded, the plumbing repaired, the toilet re-installed, and the tile in place. Finally, we were ready to paint! In a manner faintly reminiscent of the Beverly Hillbillies, we all piled into the car and trucked off to Home Depot for wall paint and other supplies to finish our masterpiece. After much discussion, Paula and I picked a color sample that appeared to be a very soft coral. Once applied to the walls, it was anything but soft coral. The color could more aptly be described as that of a bright fresh Georgia peach. Should we cover it with another more neutral color? Naw, lets just offset the color by painting all the cabinets white. However, with natural wood cabinets I spent the next several days in our back yard sanding doors and drawer fronts. By now it was apparent to all of us that we were clearly not planners; it was back to Home Depot for cabinet paint.

Then came Hurricane Isabel. Another circumstance we had not planned. All work came to a screeching halt while Paul and I beat it out of town to Roanoke, but that's another entry Diary.

When we finally got back to work in the bathroom, another two weeks had elapsed. Ready to reinstall the cabinet doors, I was back to Home Depot for new hardware and then back again because I couldn't count and hadn't purchased enough knobs.

I am happy to report the room is finally complete, only three months after the inception of our decorating drama. There appears to be only one problem outstanding. Paul says he really doesn't like the color of the walls and will paint again after Paula moves. The moral to my story - - buy stock in Home Depot.

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The Safari

Ah, sometimes I long for the good old days when I could run into the grocery store on my way home from work and pick up a few things. Since I have never been a great planner, that used to happen two or three times a week. No sweat, really, just got me home from work a little later, dinner was later, dishes were later, and so on and so on.

I don't know when things started to evolve. Probably after I started working part time. Then the picture changed drastically when I quit working all together. Never in my whole life did I believe you could take a task as simple as grocery shopping, add one well-meaning husband and turn it into a weekly quest. In prehistoric times, I'm told, caveman went out to kill the food for their families. I am not so sure there is much difference between the caveman and my husband, except perhaps the kind of Club. Now the Club is not an elongated stick used for pummeling the head of some noxious beast, the Club is a building, with bells and whistles and lots of shiny displays. I am speaking, of course of the local warehouse store, in our case, called Costco.

Friday nights in our house always start out so innocently, with Paul rummaging around in the cupboards and freezers. "Checking out" our supplies, as if we were on our way to a month long safari in the Nairobi desert. Then the paper and pen comes out and I blithely begin making a list of the "things" he thinks we are low on. "We only have a half bottle of laundry detergent," he sings out with his head inside the laundry room. He ignores the fact that the laundry detergent bottle is the large economy 64-ounce size and will last until Thanksgiving. "Oh, and we had better have some more cheese, we only have about a pound and a half left." "Eggs! Better mark down three dozen." I begin to shake my head as he moves on to the freezer in the garage. "We have hamburger, chicken parts and a beef roast, better get some ribs, whole chickens, a pork roast and some steaks." As he meanders on toward the pantry, I hear "we've only got one reserve bottle of catsup, better get two more, and should we get one of those five pound packages of polska kielbaska?" Now I ask you diary, exactly how much food can three adults, one ten year old and one two and a half-year-old eat on one week?

So Saturday morning bright and early I am awakened by my husband - "get up, hurry up, we want to get there before the crowds." Now mind you diary, I have taken to sleeping late since PH became a member of our family so I am never too sure whether to get up or throw a pillow at him. Most times it's the later. But I do get up and we head on out.

First we hit Costco and usually exit about $150 lighter. Then, of course, my economy minded husband suggests we go on to the Commissary on the Naval Base for the rest of our groceries because the prices are so much better there. Contrary to all I know, shopping at a military commissary is anything but a pleasure. You don't wander up and down the isles at you leisure. You must follow the traffic and grab the things off the shelves as you sail by. There is no stopping to browse or comparatively shop to find out which of the two yogurts is the better buy or whether the frozen french fries are cheaper in the five-pound bag. Then, when you are finished you are faced with the joy of standing in a queue with about twenty other folks until there is a checker free to ring up your purchases.

Finally we head on home, my caveman and I, our car laden down with groceries. He grunts happily as he drives and I sit there in a half stupor trying to mentally figure out where to put all the food we bought, since we really had a house full in the first place. There must be some secret parallel between Mr. Caveman and Mr. Husband that connects them magically and brings out this hidden desire to provide for their families. Ah, but who am I to complain. We have the food and the roof over our heads and plenty of love to go around and most of us even have good health. I will continue with our Saturday safari ritual and smile and be grateful.

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Plans

Today is our 34th Wedding Anniversary.

But I must digress in order to get to the point of this entry. Earlier today while I was having my hair done, my hairdresser of many many years and I were reminiscing about how it seemed like only yesterday that we were all celebrating our 25th Anniversary at a Gala with some 75 friends at the Chief's Club at Little Creek Amphibious Base. A nearby customer asked me what Paul and I were doing tonight to celebrate. "Shopping for new family room furniture and dinner at Lonestar Steak House. But next year we will have another bash like our 25th. With all our friends and loved ones, with lots of food and dancing and fun."

For you see, dear diary, I plan to be here next year for my anniversary. I plan to live each day as it comes, but I do not choose to plan each day as if it is my last. It seems to me that it is healthier to look forward with joy to something than to worry about whether tomorrow is going to be there. Our higher power is the only one who really knows, and he is not sharing that information with anyone.

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War Zone

My house looks like a war zone.

When or daughter Paula and her two children, Brittany age 10 and Austin 2½ moved out three weeks ago Paul and I closed the door with a sigh. Praise God, Praise God, Peace At Last!

I looked forward, with a glad heart, to putting all my clothes back in the right closets and rearranging my dishes where I had had to make room for children's plates and glasses. To digging all my winter sweaters out from under the bed where I stored them in plastic bags and placing them back in their proper dresser drawers. I dreamed of being able to leave my glasses on the coffee table and my crochet bag in the family room without the fear of a little boy breaking and/or unwinding something.

I also looked forward to some long awaited remodeling. Not what you would call big jobs, just some things around the house that I had postponed until all fear of spilled drinks or unwanted crayon marks had disappeared. Well, we are right in the middle of those "not so big" jobs now and it appears I underestimated the scope of our work. Our house looks like someone ran a car bomb right into the middle of it. Why, I ask you diary, are we such pack rats? Why do we need so many things? I have spent the last two days cleaning out closets and drawers, have relegated a five drawer file cabinet, all our family room furniture, and box upon box of clothes that don't even fit anymore to a charity, but still I have had to "find" places to put stuff. I have a pile for our older girl Rachael to take home and a pile for Paula to do the same. There is also a pile for trash (the trashcan runneth over) but we are still inundated with piles.

To top this all off, what I really thought wasn't going to be a major project has turned into something akin to the building of the pyramids. All the furniture has been removed from the family room. Our big screen television is sitting on a dolly in the middle of our kitchen. All the pictures and artwork from the walls in that room have been relegated to the garage. The lamps and small tables and knickknacks are residing on our dining room table. The carpet (only 20 years old) has been removed. Unfortunately, I couldn't help with that because the dust that the carpet removal created made a Sahara sandstorm look tame. Paul still has to scrape up all the stuck-on padding and run the shop vac in there, as well as put a final coat of pain on the ceiling between the open beams. All this must be done before tomorrow morning when the new carpet should arrive. Then the following day the new furniture should be here and I can begin cluttering the family room again with all our treasures and momentous. It seems to me to be an endless circle.

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Common Sense

I received a calendar from a dear friend for Christmas. It is one of those "Don't Sweat The Small Stuff" desk calendars. Each day you pull off a page and there is a new thought to read. Today it said

"Gently remind yourself that life is okay the way it is, right now"

It is rainy and gray here today and I suppose that makes my thoughts a little melancholy. I can remember when every minute of my life was occupied. From the minute the alarm went off in the morning till time for bed at night. Every hour, every minute, yes, it seemed like every second.

My life has changed. Now time is not so relevant. There are doctor's appointments, pulmonary rehab, occasional hair and a manicure once in a while. Always groceries, of course, and the weekly trips to Costco with Paul (but that is a "man thing"). Before the holidays, and for the preceding year, my daughter Paula and her two children were here. So besides working, I still had a whole family to look after, a house to clean, lots of laundry, meals to plan, and so on. Now Paula and her husband have their own home with their children, the holidays and all the chaos are over, and pulmonary hypertension is part of my life. Half of me has been enjoying the peace and quiet with my husband, the other half has been trying vainly to push me back into the old way of life. Common sense, and my PH, tell me to kick back and do what that calendar advised. My personality tells me something else entirely.

I certainly hope common sense wins out.

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Ducks and Snow and Little Girls

About once a year Virginia Beach gets a nod from Mother Nature in the form of snow. Thus far this year we've had not one, but two storms. This time our "nodding acquaintance" brought three inches. Since we live in the south, and snow storms (however minor they may appear to other folk in colder climates) are unusual. Most working folks were allowed to go in late, the schools are closed, extracurricular evening activities are cancelled and Paul took the day off, "just because".

Since there is no school, Brittany is with us. She and two little friends were out front playing in the snow when I happened to look out the window. There they were, surrounded by a dozen ducks. The ducks, it seemed, were as confused as the children at the onset of the white stuff. It appeared they thought the girls were going to feed them, since everyone in the neighborhood does that time to time. As these very tame waterfowl waddled through the snow, I could hear the girls squealing, giggling and sliding across the slippery stuff, trying to outrun the hungry birds. The ducks won, and the girls decided to play in the back yard. Final score ducks 12, little girls 0.

However, our neighborhood ducks were not through dominating the scene yet. While Paul was shoveling the driveway, one of the hardier souls waddled into the street and planted himself there. Not even an oncoming truck would make him move. So the truck stopped, Paul walked out into the middle of the street to shoo the duck away.

Would that more people in the world had the tenacity of our southern ducks - the world might be a different place….something to ponder this snowy day.

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Shepherding Seagulls

The snow covering everything yesterday has turned into mushy slush today. It is wet and cold and depressing. I had an appointment at 11:00 this morning and was not looking forward to leaving my warm cozy abode. But I did, and as I left the house I found one lonely duck in our driveway, probably a straggler from yesterday's flock that had chased Brittany and her friends across the lawn. The duck made me smile again - poor confused southern ducks - don't know what to do with snow.

As I pulled into the parking lot at a small neighborhood shopping center, I was greeted by another curiosity of nature. Seagulls. Seagulls are not a rarity in a beach town such as ours, but when there are three dozen of them sitting in the middle of an almost deserted parking lot, even that becomes an eyebrow raiser. Poor addlepated birds. In this resort community we've grown accustomed to seeing seagulls gliding through the skies, emitting that ear piercing noise they make, then dropping down like dead weight when their keen birds-eye spies a morsel of food. No food or trash on the ground today, even the seagulls didn't want to fly.

When I was younger, awash in my career, and preoccupied with the rhythm of my life, I would have never noticed the seagulls. Nor would I have stopped to ponder little girls trying to run away from ducks in the snow. Now it is different. I look at even the simplest pleasures as fun. Today I played with the seagulls. As I drove my car through the parking lot, we played a game to see who would move first - the seagulls or me. The seagulls won. I really wouldn't have hurt them, but it was fun driving around and around in my coral colored car, herding the seagulls. Little pleasures are the best.

The weatherman says it will be warming up soon. I am just too delicate a southern blossom to be exposed to such elements. Bring back the sun!

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Smelling the Roses?

I've been away from you too long diary.

The last few weeks were filled with Easter and birthday parties and annual doctors appointments and specialist doctors appointments, a new coiffeur once in a while, and of course my beloved manicure. The days were just running together and I didn't feel like I had much control.

Now, with the warmer weather at hand I am still not in control of my days, but its much more fun. I'm spending time in the yard, "puttering." Thus far I have "puttered" a half dozen hostas, a flat of geraniums, a potload of petunias, some snapdragons and a collection of coleus. A good friend sent me some cockscomb seeds and I have been deliberating where I can place them so that they can lift their flowing plumes toward the sun. This will be a little difficult in a yard with five large oak trees and a couple of pines. But I will try because gardening seems to have adopted me. You know when I was diagnosed with PH I really thought my life was pretty much over but there is life after PH and I think I have found some of it in my back yard. During my healthier, career oriented years, the closest I ever came to the garden was when I went out to empty the trash. Now I not only have a patio set with umbrella, but also a swing my daughters gave me last Mothers Day. They completed the outdoor ambience this year with a set of bamboo wind chimes, five-foot long. Add to that the new six-foot privacy fence Paul installed and I have my own little Shangri La. Someone once said we should stop and smell the roses and I am certainly trying to do that.

Despite my new nature lovers frame of mind, I am afraid I must admit that I have not completely conquered my old nemesis - "Hurry up and get it done." A good example of that would be our day yesterday. Paul woke me at 8:00 a.m. (Normally it is all I can do to crawl out of the bed at 10:30.) Grumbling all the way, I applied my make up, did my hair and dressed. Paul knew we were in for a long day so he loaded another canister of 02 in the car. First stop, drop a prescription at the pharmacy, and next stop at the hairdresser for a can of hair spray. Then it was on to his beloved Costco where we managed to spend $100. Next it was off to the Commissary on the Naval Base. During the drive I spent my time pondering and mulling over the Costco bill, how can two people need so much STUFF? Did we really need eight new kitchen towels? And what about that computer thingy you bought? Was it absolutely necessary? Forty minutes later the Commissary shopping was completed and we headed home. But only long enough to put the purchases away.

Then it was off to Home Depot for a new storm door for our back door. We got that in his car and brought it home to drop it off. Ah, but it was still not over. We next headed to Sears because Paul had been "Jonesing" (for those of you too mature to be aware of the current slang, "Jonesing," according to my children and grandchildren means an intense desire or need) for a new gas grill. He picked the one out he wanted and then we strolled down to the treadmills and he bought one of those for me. Of course about that time I reminded Paul that we drive a Monte Carlo Super Sport and the trunk space is severely limited. He thought about that for a New York second and then picked up his cell phone to call our son in law who came over and carried our purchases home in his pick up truck. Good thing too because if Paul expected me to help carry that treadmill upstairs he would have gotten the same sort of answer he got when he wanted me to clean the fish he caught last year. I will spare you the exact quote….use your imagination and assume the word NO was somewhere in there.

Finally we were finished at 4:30 in the afternoon. I used to be able to breeze through a day like that in the blink of an eye. Now that breeze helps propels me through the errands and straight back to my bed for a nap.

Happy Mothers Day Diary, for you must have little diaries out there somewhere. And to my PH friends, Happy Mothers Day to each and every one of you.

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Ankle Bracelets and Toe Rings

Peter Pan and I have something in common. We're never going to grow up.

Even Tinker Bell isn't showing a gray hair and I won't either as long as there is Lady Clairol. I admit, I am not an animated Disney character so I suppose I am growing older but I do refuse to grow UP. I also refuse to become one of those women who are referred to so euphemistically as "senior citizens" or "mature adults" or "silver haired ladies" or some other pusillanimous poppycock.

As is my habit, every year on Memorial Day weekend I "emerge", much like that big brown bear who was sleeping all winter. Sometimes I open like a lovely flower and sometimes just skip down the stairs into the sun. Of course if I skip down the stairs I usually fall on my face. Last year in March when I was diagnosed with PH I spent the whole summer fussing with doctors and medications and appointments and tests. It was not a fun summer and the time that I wasn't engaged in all those meaningless medical procedures, I was sitting around feeling sorry for myself. "Poor me, I have Pulmonary Hypertension, my life will never be the same…" So there was no flowering or hopping or skipping at Rena's house.

Before I got sick my daughters always dreaded the end of May because they never knew what Mother would do to herself or with herself. There was the year I bleached my hair and wore mini skirts and boots. Another year I grew my hair longer, hid under a big hat, behind bigger sunglasses and wore a bikini, another year I decided to be studious, spend 75% of my day in bookstores, wear long skirts and hang around Starbucks (or one of its alter egos). My fashion changes and personalities were endless but certainly none of them were "old." No, they were all young of mind and spirit. My choice of fashion each year seems to tell me how I feel and perhaps, just perhaps, how I should behave. Well diary, this year I'M BACK.

This year's bathing suit is a one piece and I got part of my summer tan early by visiting the tanning booths. Doc said that was a skin cancer no no but I ignored him. I mean after all, "a little couldn't hurt." I went shopping the other day and discovered much has changed since my summer of hibernation last year. They have these adorable pants on the racks now called Capri Pants (of course some of us will remember them as Pedal Pushers twenty years ago but we won't tell anyone). I bought three pair, one white, one pink with embroidery and one denim stripe. Of course, I had to have some of those cute little short sleeve shirts that come just to the waist to go with them too. Now I have a nice summer base for my wardrobe but what about my feet!

On to the shoe store, of course! I have always loved to wear sandals. I like the way they look, they are comfortable, and while I am wearing sandals I even get a pedicure once in a while. Oh, and Diary if you've never had a pedicure - splurge honey - you'll never be the same.

As I dressed in my new finery this morning to go watch the grandkids play baseball , I realized something was missing. My ankle looked naked in its new sandal. Ah yes, my ankle bracelet from two summers past. There it was, right where I left it in my jewelry box. I snapped it on my ankle and slipped into my white sandals with the little wedge. Still something was missing. Of course! I need a toe ring. Something with a little width to go on my first toe after my big toe. Oh, won't that be just divine! No time to shop for it today though. I wonder if I can make the search for just the "perfect" toe ring into a whole day of shopping at the mall. I still need some new shorts…….

Look out summer. I'm ready! No old oxygen tank is going to keep me down. I'll be right out there with the best of them - now if I could only figure out where to put an ankle bracelet on my 02 tank so she'd be in fashion too.

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Vacations and shirts

I think I remember reading somewhere that vacations were supposed to be fun. I wonder if someone who had had a few too many martinis wrote that supposition?

Before we even leave home there just seem to be too many things to do. Maybe I need to hire an assistant to assist me. No wait, Paul is my husband. Shouldn't he be pitching in? Of course he is doing the manly things. Making sure the lawns are mowed and his brand new car is spanking clean.

Somehow in the mix of things during our nearly thirty-five years of marriage it has fallen to me to do his clothes shopping and packing for trips. Spoiled brat! I don't think I have ever complained about the later, but the former is going to send me to the loony bin. Where was it written in our marriage contract that I get to buy that man's clothes? Granted, when we married he looked like a lost and malnourished refugee with bad teeth, but come on! All those years of tender loving care have produced a handsome man but I am still shopping.

The major crux of my complaint today, dear diary, are shirts. Jeans are easy because he only wears one brand and one size. But, as Dorothy said in the Wizard of Oz, shirts are a horse of an entirely different color.

Before Fathers Day I began my quest and here it is two days before our departure and I was in the mall yet again today to exchange a shirt. The first shirt, a golf type, was too large. I returned it for a smaller one and purchased two sport shirts in the same size. They were too small so I made another trip to the mall to return them and pick out something else. Armed with two new shirts in what I thought was the correct size, I returned home only to find that one fit and the other did not. Before my next trip to the store I had a brainstorm. Let's check the label on the one that fit. Surely I would be able to get another short sleeved shirt in the correct size using the label brand. So there I was, on Saturday afternoon in the middle of one of the biggest malls in all of Virginia Beach on a shirt safari. Diary if you want to preserve your sanity, never never go any mall on a Saturday afternoon at the end of the month, let alone a large one! After wandering around in the men's department looking lost and forlorn with my 02 tank on my shoulder and the canula positioned under my nose, I found a sale table with the label I was seeking. Congratulating myself, I purchased the correct size, on sale, and returned home.

As Paul was unpinning and unbuttoning the shirt to try it on, I proudly proclaimed how much I had saved on the sale. As he turned to look at me with puzzlement written all over his face he held up the shirt I bought. I had stumbled out of the short sleeved display section and into the long sleeved shirt section. Well after all, they do all look the same when they are folded up! Diary, we are going to Florida. Even I, with as much personality, charm and wit as I have, could convince him that a long sleeved shirt was perfectly acceptable in Daytona Beach, Florida in July. Alas, I tucked my tail between my legs and returned to the mall this afternoon; and I finally got it right!

Now, if I can get the stuff organized to take the dogs to the kennel. Pack up all we will need in clothes and sundries, make sure the house is in order, the trash is out, the dishes are done, the refrigerator free of things that might grow green and fuzzy while we are gone. Take delivery of the spare 02 tanks I will need, make sure the mail and the newspaper are stopped, and my coiffure and nails are properly primed, we should be ready to go.

I wonder if I could just talk Paul into leaving me at home for my vacation?

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A Shoppers Paradise

A dear friend of mine called me last week. Candy and her husband Terry are absolutely computer illiterate. I take that back, Terry can check his laptop for his stock prices, but that is it. Ask either of them to search or purchase, or get in a chatroom, or even play a game and they are totally lost. It used to be a standing joke with Candy that if she needed anything by way of computer she would call me.

When she called last week I really thought she had lost her mind and I would not be able to satisfy her desire, and with Candy believe me if she wants it she gets it! It seems she and Terry had been in a Mexican restaurant for dinner and found a painting she wanted for the hallway of their new house. "OK Candy, I'll try. Who was the artist?" In her very southern accent she replied, "why honey I don't know…I can tell you it's a picture of a chubby man and woman dancing…. but I don't want the one with the woman in the blue dress, I want it in red…can you find it sugar pie?" "I'll try Candy, but the chances are probably slim and none. I'll get back to you."

Some time went by and I made a couple of half-hearted stabs at searching the web - all to no avail. Then she called me back with the name of the artist and I thought, "Ah ha, now we are getting somewhere." But she still insisted she wanted the dancing lady to have a red dress, not blue. I am thinking to myself…self, if this is a known artist and he's only painted the dress in blue, how in the world am I going to get it printed in red…..self had to think about that for a while.

The next day I sat down at the computer and went into a puter-land where I had never trod before. eBay! Diary, if you have never been to eBay you are truly living in the dark ages. If it's out there, someone is trying to sell it. I mean, I expected to find antiques and jewelry boxes, wall hangings and Persian rugs. I never expected to find The Best Microbrasion Cloth in the World or a Custom Biohazard Wall Clock or a 7" Poly Resin Vampire Skull with Scorpion. Come on, give me a break!

I did find the painting, with the lady in red, by Frederico Botero and as I was congratulating myself on my expertise I was slapped in the face with another challenge. It seems most of the sellers on eBay would rather not use a credit card. They have a little thing called "PayPal" instead. It allows a direct debit from your personal checking account. Saving the seller the costs of credit card processing. But what an experience! I followed all the online directions, had an assist from my daughter by telephone, and had Paul hanging over my shoulder to make sure I wasn't giving someone access to our entire bank account. My daughter, who has been in eBay land before, assured me all was safe and I put the whole thing in process. Sure enough, this morning when I awoke I found a message from PayPay confirming my account and the purchase is complete; the oil painting is on its way, all the way from Quebec!

Diary, I have found a whole new world of shopping. Given sufficient time I am sure I can bankrupt Paul with no trouble at all. Chhhhhhhhharge it!

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An Attitude of Gratitude

My old Nana, my great grandmother, used to warn me that sometimes I needed an "Attitude of Gratitude" in order to put my ten-year-old thinking into prospective. During my mis-spent youth, and to this day, I have tried to subscribe to that premise. However, when someone with a Higher Power than mine deems that I shall be besieged with Pulmonary Hypertension and other associated ailments I begin to question whether there is any room for gratitude in my life. In the last two days I have learned that the gratitude is still there. I may not be thankful for my health, but I can certainly be thankful for my life and for those around me.

On Thursday morning my husband of thirty-five years, Paul, informed me that he didn't feel quite right and was not going to work. At 6:00 I just nodded and went back to sleep. When I arose at 9:00 to get ready to go out to run errands, I inquired about how he felt. "Well, I don't know. I think it's a little better. You go on and do your thing," he said. So I kissed him good-bye and promised to keep checking in during the day. And I did just that. When I called around 2:00 he informed me that he thought he would make a detour on the way to his urology appointment (scheduled for 2:30) and make a short stop by the Emergency Room. That he was feeling a little worse, that he was having chest pains. If it weren't for the seriousness of his statement I would have had to laugh because we all know that you can't put "short stop" and "emergency room" together in the same sentence - they simply don't compute. I suggested an ambulance since I was half way across town, but "oh no, I'm fine." Sick men sometimes do not compute either.

I made a u-turn and drove directly to the hospital. Without going through all the details of the ER visit, the blood work, the nitroglycerin, aspirin and the x-rays, the emergency room doctor decided that everything looked OK but they wanted to keep him overnight for further observation. Our daughters stopped by and I stuck around to see him settled in his bed. I then came home to try to explain to his two little canine pals, Bubba and Phoebe, that Daddy wouldn't be home. They then proceeded to lie on the stairs and whine all night long. While they whined, I prowled the house, as I couldn't sleep. I was playing the "what if" game. We all know that one. Where you think the worst and pray for the best. My sleeplessness did have one benefit though; I now have the cleanest kitchen in six counties.

Diary, one of my dearest friends lost her husband suddenly on September 8. They had been married 54 years and his death put us all in shock. Last night I knew Paul was safe in the hospital. In the exact place he should be if he was having heart problems, but all I could think of was my friend's deep and tragic loss and the possibility I might be facing a loss as well.

This morning dawned bright and clear. The birds were chirping in the trees and there were three full-grown ducks, four "teenage" ducks and five ducklings on my lawn. When I went out the front door it almost seemed they were greeting me, telling me to go bring Paul home. Tonight Paul is home. Sleeping in our bed in the next room. He had an Angina attack, probably brought on by a lot of stress at work. But he will be fine. We will follow up with my cardiologist sometime next week.

I have again fixed my sights firmly on my Attitude of Gratitude. I thank the Powers That Be for giving me Paul and our wonderful children and grandchildren. I know I can manage anything that comes my way as far as my health is concerned as long as I have my fine family, my support circle of PH friends, and my faith.

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Demolition Derby

Paul is threatening to buy me a scooter, and not those spiffy ones with three or four wheels and a motor. At the very least he says he is going to buy me a helmet to protect my feckless brain.

We own three vehicles. His brand spanking new 2004 Chevrolet Monte Carlo, my 1995 Mercury Mystique, and his old 1992 Mercury Cougar. When we bought the new Monte Carlo we decided to keep the old Cougar as an extra car. The Cougar is an automatic transmission and my car is a stick shift. On those days when I am feeling a hundred years old, I use the old car as a break from the stick shift. All was well and good with our three-car family until I decided to single handedly become the Vehicular Terminator.

About two months ago it was raining buckets while I was out running errands in the Cougar. I had only one last stop, at the bank. As I rolled into the driveway I saw an itty bitty puddle. Who would have thought one itty bitty puddle could be four foot deep! Yep, I took the Cougar for a swim. I learned something important that ill-fated afternoon. Now I know cars don't like to swim, nor do they float. There I was, standing in the pouring rain, cell phone in one hand and 02 tank in the other, calf deep in cold rainwater. I think before I was through, I called every male member of our family who owned a truck, including my ex-son in law, for help. Help finally arrived and pushed the car out of the puddle. After work for the next three days Paul drove to his poor old stranded car. There was lot of swearing and fussing, wrestling with wet spark plugs and soggy air filters, but he got it started. Unfortunately, he found the oil was milky. He tells me that is a sure sign there is water in the engine. The poor old thing was towed home and we are now debating about recessitating it or giving it a decent burial.

All my NASCAR family and friends say "rubbing" is all right in auto racing but not in traffic on the street. Not that I pay much attention. About two weeks after the "drowning" I was toodling down the road in my car, the Mystique. I tried to change lanes and what to my surprise, there was a car in my blind spot. Yes, of course I looked to the left before I made the change. Doesn't every good driver? The other car and I rubbed bumpers. We stopped and exchanged information. She filed, and received, a settlement from my insurance company. I took my little car in for an estimate and my repairs are exactly $8 over my deductible. That demolition attempt is going to cost us $258.

While Paul was in the hospital overnight last week, I arranged to drive my car home and get a ride back so that I could take home his beloved Monte Carlo. After all, we wouldn't want to leave that fancy new car unattended in a hospital parking lot now would we? It is the first new car he has had in about 17 years. The next day before I picked him up at the hospital, I stopped at my pulmonogist's for an appointment. Upon returning to the car I found that someone had bumped into the front of the car, gouging and cracking the bumper and destroying his vanity license plate. Which, by the way, reads "HISMCSS." Paul's translation is "His Monte Carlo Super Sport." A friend of ours says it translates better as "His Mid-life Crisis." In any event, when I told him what had happened I thought he was really going to have a heart attack instead of Angina. Like a dutiful wife I took the car in for an estimate yesterday. The repair costs is under our $200 uninsured deductible for repair. Demolition attempt number three is going to cost us $189.50.

I believe I learned a valuable lesson from my Demolition Derby campaign. If you're going to have an accident, hit 'em harder. .

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FORD isn't always an automobile

My husband, who is not a Ford fan, has always maintained that F.O.R.D. isn't just the name of an automobile manufacturer, but also an acronym for its mechanical proclivity. For Paul, F.O.R.D. really means "Fix Or Repair Daily." I have decided I have a body made by Ford.

Way back in 1985 when I was diagnosed with Scleroderma I learned that it was an ailment with a big family, a big family with lots and lots of cousins. One of its first cousins, my Pulmonary Hypertension, was diagnosed in March of 2003. However, prior to that PH diagnosis, I had the rare privilege of becoming intimately involved with several of the other cousins. During those famous family reunions, I acquired more than a nodding acquaintance with all sorts of medical and surgical procedures. As I sit here now, ticking them off on my fingers, I can count surgery for sinusitis, a faulty knee and a bad back, just to mention a few. Thinking about it in hindsight, I believe whenever I complained about specific aches and pains my doctors moved into a "search and destroy" mode. Don't misunderstand Diary; I know complaints are necessary so that our physicians may keep us relatively healthy. But looking back, perhaps it would have been better if I had just kept my mouth shut from time to time. My present predicament is a good case in point.

On a recent visit to my Rheumotologist I mentioned some numbness in my left arm and hand. The next thing I knew my doctor got a suspicious gleam in her eye and was grabbing for her prescription pad. She assured me it "was probably nothing," but better "check it out" and have a nerve conduction test. Like the obedient little patient I am, I trotted to the neurologist who informed me (with a gleam in his eye?) that the test showed moderate to severe nerve damage to the left ulnar nerve. "What's an ulnar nerve, I asked?" Turns out it is what we lay-people call our funny bone. Funny? I ask you, is any of this funny? With those results in hand, I was shuttled on to the hand surgeon who (with a gleam in his eye?) informed me that the way to fix the problem is - you guessed it - an itty bitty surgical procedure.

Just swell! Diary, you know me better than anyone on this earth, since you are privy to all my deepest most inner thoughts. Well, deepest most inner thoughts, I ask you, does Rena want to go have her arm cut open (just a tiny little six inch incision) and then be immobilized for two or three weeks in a sling? Does she, who wants nothing, I repeat nothing, to deter her from running hither and yon in the pursuit of fun and happiness, want to be tied down by anything? No, I say….absolutely not!

But, with prodding from my family and reassurances from the surgeon that the itty-bitty operation will render me one-winged for only three weeks, I shall forge ahead. Surgery is scheduled for November 2, which is not only Election Day but my Birthday as well. Henceforth, just call me "Fordie."

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Its Never As Bad As It Seems

I have always tried to be a positive thinker. I was diagnosed with Scleroderma in 1985. My mother had Scleroderma and we lost her to that disease. When I was initially diagnosed, of course, it was a shock but I knew it was long term so I went on with my life.

When I was diagnosed with Secondary PH in 2003 I figured I'd learn to cope; and I have learned. All my friends know me and know I don't let much hold me back. When I do get down I go looking for something to get me back up again. I have had a little slump lately. First it was elbow surgery before Christmas and then, as with most of the human race, it was the let down of the holidays being over.

Now it is time to look ahead and think about someone worse off than myself. Tomorrow a dear friend of mine is having open-heart surgery. She will have her aortic valve replaced. To make matters worse, she has emphysema so there are breathing problems to be deal with. Her children and family from out of town will be here. I will be at the hospital with them. Once upon a time an older wiser gentlemen I know gave me a very sage piece of advice. "When you are feeling down, find someone who is worse off and wrap your arms around them." Tomorrow I will meet with Michelle's family in the surgical waiting room and wrap my arms around each and every one of them. Who knows, maybe I can even generate a group hug. During that interminable waiting for the surgery to be over, I will probably be the one running for coffee and sodas. That's an idea, maybe I'll stop on the way there at 7 am (o'dark thirty in military time) for donuts! I suspect I will be in that waiting room making a pest of myself, chattering about nonsensical things and, of course, the weather, but I'll be there and you know pests can be such a distraction.

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Nubbins

On January 13, a mere eighteen days ago my friend Michelle had open-heart surgery. The surgery was successful and everything was proceeding well with her recovery. She had the usual edema, pain, etc., but every time the doctor saw her he said her heartbeat was strong. Last Monday night between 8:30 and 11:00 she died. Her roommate found her on the couch, her puppies curled up at her feet. How can it be that Paul and I have to go to another funeral tomorrow? It's just not right. She was only 53 years old. She left three grown children and five grandchildren. When the surgeon arrived in the Cardiac Waiting Room to report that all went well we were all filled with joy and relief. We knew about the recovery ahead, but we were all thinking "recovery" and nothing more.

I convinced myself to have a positive attitude when Michelle had her surgery. I gave it all over to my Higher Power to deal with. But why didn't He give us, her friends and family, a vote on whether to take her home or leave her here with us. I suppose there is a divine plan for everything. Today, as we prepare for the visitation tonight, I am having trouble seeing the significance of that plan.

On a brighter note, although we had a mixture of snow, sleet and freezing rain last night, this morning I looked out my bedroom window and spied little "nubbins" of buds on the branches of our big old gnarled and knobby oak tree. Spring must be on its way and, of course, along with spring comes new growth and new life. Coincidentally, I just found out today that the young woman who works at the company where I get my oxygen supplies is pregnant with her first child. I am going to crochet her an afghan. All new babies deserve new things to start their new lives.

The moral, I suppose, is that despite all we may or may not do, time marches on. Therefore, I propose we embrace each and every minute of it. God willing.

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Baseball, Ducks and Dachshunds, Bunnies and Colored Eggs

According to the calendar, spring has sprung. Outside our house that is still doubtful. The grass is trying to turn green, the nubbins are still on the limbs of the trees and when I turned the corner the other day I actually saw a bush of some kind in full bloom. The squirrels and ducks are out in full force. I hear tillers and assorted other gardening machinery throughout the neighborhood attempting to coerce this hard Virginia soil to product some beautiful plants.

When I left the house yesterday we had half a dozen ducks foraging in our front yard. Oh yes, I guess I should mention that I had our 7.8 pound miniature dachshund on a leash as she was on the way to the vet for her annual check up and vaccinations. If someone had been around with a camera, that little vignette would probably have made it to America's Funniest Home Videos. Picture this, six very large, well fed ducks that are very savvy about human and canine behavior, lounging around our front yard, waddling to and fro without a care in the world. Enter the "enemy" Phoebe and I. I tried to head for the car, but this very small, almost diminutive, dog on a leash dragged me all over the yard barking and doing her best to snap at a passing tail feather. It wouldn't have been so bad, but since she was hooked to that darn leash that I was clutching in my hand I was following her and trying to balance my 02 tank, my purse, the dry cleaning, an Easter plant for my hair dresser, and assorted envelopes to drop at the post office. Now I have told Phoebe time and time again that dachshunds hunt badgers and little underground critters, not ducks that weigh twice as much as she does. Be that as it may, she dragged me all over the yard using her most ferocious bark. Not that the ducks cared. After all was said and done, I finally dropped all my parcels and picked her up bodily then placed her in my car. I then took a tranquilizer and we had a little chat about how she is a lover not a fighter.

But on to other spring like activities. Yes, baseball season is just around the corner and since I have been nominated "Nonna" (Italian for Grandma) of the year for our Little League Baseball and Softball Teams, I was granted the opportunity to sew the Little League patches on all the boys and girls shirts. When my daughter asked I said "sure, piece of cake." Well my piece of cake turned into sixteen shirts for the boys and eight for the girls and a few hours in front of my sewing machine. But it's all done now so I can move onto my next spring project.

Tomorrow we will color the Easter Eggs for our families. We always do it at Nonna and Paw Paw's house. That way I get the grandkids and the parents don't have to clean up the mess. Well I don't usually have to clean up any mess because in the past we have always colored eggs in the back yard. Alas, alas, and woe is me, the weather is not cooperating this year. So tomorrow I'll have four little girls, ages 10 to 12, and one very active three year old boy coloring five dozen Easter eggs in my house. Happy Easter! Paula my daughter will be here to ride herd on little Austin (the three year old) thank goodness. My darling husband, on the other hand, has volunteered to do the grocery shopping tomorrow. I suspect that is because he wanted a way out of the house. Don't you think so Diary?

In between all that fun stuff I have to start the preparations for Easter dinner. Baked Ham, fruit salad, deviled eggs (of course) asparagus (our first this year), sweet potatoes and a strawberry-rhubarb pie for my favorite man.

Oh my, I hear music and singing coming from downstairs! I can barely hear the wordsbut it sounds like, "Here comes Peter Cotton Tail, hoppin down the bunny trail, hippity hoppin Easter's on its way…."

So……………Happy Easter Diary and please pass my greetings on to all your readers

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Boggity Boggity Boggity, We're Goin Racin

In July of 2004 Paul and I and seven of our friends hatched a plan. It was a big plan, you might even call it a far-fetched plan, but nevertheless it was OUR plan. We were all gathered in Jacksonville Florida so that my Paul and Paul E and Paul E's sisters in law, Susan, Anne and Barbara could go to the Pepsi 400 at the Daytona Beach Speedway. Since it was so hot at the race and required a lot of walking in heavy humidity toting my 02, I opted to stay with Paul E's wife, Liz, and their two sons at home in Jacksonville in the comfort of the air conditioning. It wasn't what I wanted to do, but sometimes we have to capitulate to our PH whether we like it or not. All the race watchers had a wonderful time even though it rained about four times during the race.

After all the race fans had returned to Jacksonville, we sat around the pool with cold beers discussing how we could all go to the race in 2005, be comfortable, be right in the thick of things, and if it got too hot, have a place to cool off. We made a plan. We have all been saving our pennies and compiling our data and making more plans…… FOR THE LAST VERY LONG ELEVEN MONTHS!!!

And we looked at the plan and saw that it was good and now, and now, and now, WE'RE GOIN' RACIN!. Thanks to our friend Paul E who has pretty much orchestrated this whole maneuver from his home in Florida, some of us meet in Jacksonville around June 27, load everything into our respective cars (including my concentrator, compressor and two mini 02 bottles) then drive to Kissimmee Florida on the 29. There we will hook up with the rest of our travel contingent and load all the "stuff" into two motor homes, which have been rented for the week. One is a 26-foot travel trailer that Paul E will pull with his new truck. The other is a 39-foot monster RV fully equipped with every convenience any human being could want and which my Paul will drive. Drive where? Well Daytona Beach, of course. We have reserved two prime spaces in the infield, near the new man made "Lake Lloyd" where we will live for five days. We will be there for the entire speed week, will be able to watch the races them from the top of the RV, meet and make friends with other race fans, and will be just generally there to have a good time.

Diary, when I was diagnosed with PH I figured my days of gadding around were pretty much at an end. But given a little determination and a lot of planning, anything is possible. Shoot, the fates have even seen to it that one of our friends, Susan, is a real-life nurse. So if I do something stupid, like forgetting to turn my 02 on, I'm sure she'll tell me. I can be a Dale Jr fan in person (Diary, since you are unable to watch TV or have NASCAR discussions with other Diaries, Dale Jr., is short for Dale Earnhardt Jr.) Now I am not saying that I would turn down an autograph from Jeff Gordon or Matt Kenseth or any of the other guys, but I do have my preferences.

I know it'll be a great trip because I am going on it with a positive attitude. So as Darrell Waltrip always says at the beginning of a Nascar race, "Boggity Boggity Boggity, we're goin racin."

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The Justices and the In-Justices of Life

I can't sleep. It's late, but here I sit pondering the justices and in-justices of the world. Well, of Paul and Rena's little world anyway.

It is justice that we are planning to leave on our vacation to the Daytona Motor Speedway a week from Sunday. Everything is in place, we started making arrangements one full year ago, and we have been saving like little misers so that we would have our share of the costs. We are not, I repeat not, putting our expenses on a credit card. We thought it would be more enjoyable if we worked toward saving the money. We are excited and we can't wait.

The in-justice came in the form of a phone call to Paul and a request he attend a meeting at the general offices of Raytheon (the company he works for). Paul is being laid off effective June 27. The "Powers that Be" are looking for another position for Paul, but the pickings are slim and none. Being a Government contractor, Raytheon bids on military work (along with all those other guys) and unfortunately some of the smaller companies can undercut a large company such as Raytheon.

So, on June 24 we will leave for a vacation that we must pay for because others have paid our portion and we would never leave them "Holding the Bag" so to speak. We will have a good time I am sure, but when we return to Virginia Beach and Paul reports for work on July 7 he will probably be told he is no longer needed.

The second in-justice comes in the form of our health insurance. We were using Paul's coverage through his work and my Tracleer was provided with just a $15 co-payment. If Paul is no longer working for Raytheon, we can fall back on his Navy Retirement insurance but that is very limited. For instance, if they approve my Tracleer, the co-pay on my $3,000 per month will be $750. Even with Paul's Retirement and my Disability Check and whatever meager unemployment he may be able to collect, there is no was we will be able to afford a $750 co-pay to continue Tracleer. What? What is it that you're saying Diary? Apply to the Tracleer Company for medical assistance. The problem with that is we are on the edge - we make just a little too much money to qualify for a financial break.

When we get back from the trip I will have a "sit down' with my pulmonary doc but its just a shame because I have been doing so well on Tracleer. Perhaps he can try me on some of those channel blockers again. They didn't work the first time but maybe they will this time. I'm bummed diary. I don't want to be sick at all (do any of us?) but I don't want to start back from square one to try to get this darned disease under control.

I've got enough Tracleer and 02 for the trip to the races. I guess I'll pull a Scarlett, put my hand to my brow, and in my best southern accent say "I'll think about it tomorrow."

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Creating My Own Chaos

Way back in the dark ages, a shrink I knew told me I "created my own chaos." If a special party were being held at my home, instead of just cleaning and planning the menu, I would decide to redecorate the bathroom (or another room depending on my whim) two days before the party. I would always have everything done and in apple pie order before the event, but I would have totally frazzled my brain in the meantime.

There has still been no word about a job possibility for Paul at Raytheon. His last day is now June 30. Of course we will be in the middle of our vacation on June 30 so when we get back we'll probably be facing an employment crisis. It's a good thing we have been together other things during our 35-year marriage. We can pretty well figure each other's moods. One day he will be just worrying himself to death about what is to come. On those days I have to be the level headed one and reassure him everything is going to work out all right. Other days we do the role reversal thing. I turn into this banshee from hell; just sure our next meal will have to come from the bread line. At that time Paul just puts on his calming face and pats me on the shoulder. "It'll be alright Rena, just take a deep breath." You know, come to think of it, that is a really great way to support ourselves, and each other. Gads, of I could bottle that talent we could sell it and make a million dollars.

But back to creating my own chaos. Diary, you know I always do something strange at the beginning of the summer. Well, combine my ritualistic ways with our upcoming trip to Daytona for NASCAR and, you've got it, I've created my very own Chaos for 2005. You see I already have three pierced holes in each ear for earrings. The first I got on my own back in my twenties. Then as the girls grew up, they wanted their ears pierced but wouldn't do it without Mommie. So OK, now I have three holes, each holding a nice conservative set of gold studs, you know, nothing too improper or inappropriate for a woman on the shady side of fifty.

Well, fifty are damned. Today I went to the jewelers in the mall. Firmly tucked into my jeans pocket was the diamond my great great grandmother left me when she died. Mi original plan had always been to have it mounted in a pendent or something sensible. However, the evil chaotic side of mine took over my mind and spirit and I had that half-carat diamond placed in a pierced earring setting. Now I am the proud possessor of another pierced earring set in the top outside of my right ear. God forgive I should have another for my left ear, that would be too predictable and not nearly eclectic enough. And anyway, now all the earrings and ankle bracelet and toe rings go together. If I keep this up, I'll be a flaming gypsy by the time I'm 65.

But what the heck, "Carpe Diem" ("Seize the Day" for those who don't read Latin) has always been my motto, soooooooooooooooo, why stop now?

Stand by for reports on the races, we are carrying our laptop and I understand our RV's are so decked out they even have Internet access. What a hoot!

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Approachability

I had to run to the mall today for a few little things. You know, last minute stuff for the trip. As I entered I noticed an elderly couple in the men's department. Both were small and thin but had beautiful white hair. Hers looked like she had just had a fresh permanent. He was well-groomed, clean-shaven and freshly pressed. They both looked healthy even with their advanced years and were smiling at each other. I am not very good at guessing ages, but since I am qualified as a "senior" it was a safe guess they were in the same group.

When I approached Customer Service to pay for my purchases, they were also waiting in line. The gentlemen came up to me and asked in a very nice way if I would tell him about my oxygen. From time to time I've had folks ask me questions, i.e., who my supplier is or how I got such a nice case, etc. I often wonder if I have a sign pinned to my back "Ask Me About My Oxygen." Or perhaps I have a nice approachable face; nevertheless, I have never minded the inquiries. This gentlemen went on to say that he had just found out the day before that he was going to have to use oxygen, at least at night, and their 02 supplier was coming that afternoon to go over his needs. Diary, they were such a cute couple, cared so obviously for each other, and so polite, I went out of the way to explain all the ins and outs of the Oxygen Kingdom. There were also other ladies in line waiting to make their purchases who were trying not to listen but careful not to miss a word. Eavesdropping can be such fun sometimes. When we were finished talking, the gentlemen got right up in my face and asked me how old I was. Normally I wouldn't tell anyone my right age without being at least a little evasive or a lot inebriated, but he was so sweet, I told him the truth. When he reciprocated and told me his age I about fell out on the floor. This spry senior who I estimated to be in his mid to late sixties was actually ninety-one years young.

I think there must be hope for all of us.

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Ponderings

Well the bags are packed and we're ready to go (wasn't there a song like that once?). But we are not flying. We'll be piling into Paul's Monte Carlo tomorrow morning headed for Jacksonville Florida. After that it is on to the Daytona Motor Speedway for the races.

Before we go, I have a couple of things to ponder.

1. Why is it that everyman has to have a brand spankin clean car to make a road trip. Doesn't the silly thing get dirty on the way? Yesterday I was privileged to take Paul's car to the detail shop where it had a wash, wax and interior cleaning. Shoot, I don't get that much at the beauty parlor. Do you see something wrong here?

2.  Also, why do we have to have fifteen pounds of snacks in the car to "eat along the way."? Now correct me if I am wrong, but I believe Interstate 95 which runs from someplace up north in Rhode Island all the way down to the tip of Florida probably has a few restaurants strategically located for that hungry traveler. But no, Mr. Paul has to have stuff to munch on on the road while he listens to his oldies rock and roll. Problem there is, if he eats, I eat and there goes any chance of maintaining my girlish figure.

3. Finally, where in the marriage contract does it say that wives have to do all the packing. I might not even be too upset if it was just the packing, but its not. There's the shopping for the shorts he'll need down in that horribly hot Florida weather, then the casual comment that his tennis shoes are looking pretty ratty. Then the old persuader gives me that grin and says …."but you pack so much neater." You'd think after 35 years I'd learn, but no, here I am at 12:15 just finishing up the shirts and shorts that needed ironing before we can leave in the morning.

We leave tomorrow (well actually today) the 25 of June and shall return around July 7. Still no word on Paul's job so we may be coming back to word that he must come into the plant to clear out his things. We will keep a positive attitude and enjoy our trip. You know they say God works in mysterious ways. I just wish he'd confide in me once in a while.

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I'm Coming Out

I am about to have a birthday, very soon, and it's going to be a big one.

In the past decade I have been very careful, even with my closest friends, to avoid any mention of my exact age. When asked directly, I found replying that I was "on the shady side of 50" worked quite well. For a while my own grandchildren weren't sure exactly how old their Nonna was because she kept changing her mind. I labored diligently to camouflage the gray hair and wrinkles, exercised until I was blue in the face, tried almost every diet known to mankind, took enough vitamins to float a boat, and did some other rather outrageous things in search of the Fountain of Youth. I do not regret one single minute of it, nor do I intend to cease my never-ending search for endless vitality just because I am a year older. What the heck, birthdays are all part of the fun of living.

However, I think the time has arrived to fess up to the truth. OK, here it goes, I'm coming out, I will be 60 in a couple of days. There, I have uncovered the most closely guarded secret since Monica Lewinsky and Bill Clinton.

Reflecting upon the past years, I am reminded of that song Frank Sinatara sang, "It Was A Very Good Year." As I was driving to the mall today, I tried to remember where I was or what I was doing when each decade mark rolled around. I can't remember what I was doing when I turned 20, but suffice it to say, the day passed in a purple haze with Bob Dillon, long hair, beads and flowers in my hair. My mind is not gone yet though, as I can still remember where I was and what I was doing on my 30th, 40th and 50th birthdays. The celebrations and family gatherings always happened, some of the friends have come and gone, but I can honestly say I have had a glorious time and they have all been "very good years." I don't think of myself as "old" and although it may take a little longer now to "put myself together," I can still smile and laugh at my life. Shoot, I would even consider a face-lift if breathing, general anesthesia and pulmonary hypertension were all better companions.

All in all, I think I have a good life and I intend to celebrate another twenty years at least. With Paul and our daughters, son-in-laws, grandchildren and my special friends I will probably last even longer. We'll never know…….

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Uninvited Intruder

I was channel surfing the other day and paused on one of the shopping channels. The lady was selling crop pants with a rhinestone embellishment on the pant leg. During her commentary she likened the trim to ankle bracelets, a little flash but not too much. With a laugh she recalled that when growing up she was told not to wear ankle bracelets because only "ladies of the night" wore them, but now-a-days that wasn't the case.

"Ladies of the Night" not withstanding, it's almost time to break out my ankle bracelets, toe rings, sandals, sunglasses, and summer wear. In fact, I have a brand new silver ankle bracelet with a butterfly dangling smartly from the links that I intend to wear regularly. I suppose one of these days I will have to act my age and discontinue such frivolous things, but not until hell freezes over. I just can't wait, spring is here and the warmer weather is on the way. Time for crop pants and ankle bracelets, highlighted hair, pedicures, and anything else I can think of that will liken me to a slightly worn butterfly emerging from her cocoon.

Unfortunately, the other night we had a mysterious visitor who may have put a crimp in some of my spring/summer wardrobe plans. Paul and I were sleeping peacefully when my neighbor called and said she thought she saw a dark figure lurking near the big oak tree at the front of the house. That old tree is just ripe for climbing and my bedroom windows face its old gnarled limbs. After I hung up the phone, I jabbed the old man in the ribs, rolled him over, snatched his covers and kicked him out of the bed to have a look. He stumbled down the stairs, nudged the sleeping dogs aside, stubbed his toe on the coat rack, but found nothing when he flipped on the porch light and opened the door. I was scolded for being such a "female" and presently he was snuggled back into bed snoring loudly. I fretted around for a while and then decided my neighbor must have been seeing things.

When I awoke in the morning I found that there had really been a monster lurking under my bedroom windows. While I was sleeping blissfully I had a midnight visit from the The Cellulite Man! After I took my morning shower I glanced in the mirror and found strange little lumps on my upper thighs. I poked and prodded the stubborn little bumps but they wouldn't go away. Gads, does this mean I won't be able to wear short shorts this summer? Am I destined to wear only bathing suits with skirts now? Only The Cellulite Man knows for sure! I, for one, am having an alarm installed on my bedroom window lest he think he can pay me another visit.

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