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Category Archives: middle aged

Mid-Week Middle-Aged Memory

Alternative title: “When the Hand Dropped”

Last Sunday while watching It! The Terror from Beyond Space, I suddenly said, “I’ve seen this movie!”

A crew member is missing. The rest of the crew has not yet seen the monster, although the audience has seen its feet (which, come to think of it, look a little bit like the Creature of the Black Lagoon’s). One man is standing next to a ventilation grate, pondering. Suddenly, a lifeless hand drops down, inside the grate, right in front of him. EEEEEEEEEEE!

I remembered that hand dropping down. It is, in fact, the only thing in the entire picture I remember from that viewing. Do you suppose there are other sci-fi monster movies where a hand drops down in a grate? And what occurs to me now as I write this is why is that ventilation grate a great big square at eye level looking for all the world like a window? But that’s neither here nor there. I remember the hand.

It was the ’70s. My parents would go out for dinner and dancing on a Saturday night. These were more elegant times: my mom and her friends would wear long dresses, the men wore suits. I admit to being envious. My older sisters and I, once Victoria was deemed old enough to be the babysitter, got to stay up till Mom and Dad got home.

Oh, the joy and mystery of staying up late! These were the days when cable offered seven channels and some stations went off the air at midnight. It was a challenge to find something to watch. We loved it when one of the all night stations showed a scary movie. Who doesn’t want to see a scary movie? At least, who wants to admit to not wanting to seeing a scary movie? I seem to think I wanted to be scared, then didn’t necessarily like it so much when I was.

So there we were, ready to be scared. When the hand dropped, we jumped.

“I don’t think anything would have scared me more than that hand,” Victoria said.

“What if it was that things head?” I asked. I think the thing’s head would have been more scary.

I took all these fake monsters at face value. If I was meant to be scared, I was scared. I was scared of every monster on Lost In Space, even when I could see where they had recycled a monster from two episodes ago.

Well, maybe not as scared of the recycled ones. Then too, things are always scarier at night, especially when Mom and Dad aren’t home. Lost in Space re-runs were generally shown in the afternoon, so those monsters were automatically less nightmare-inducing.

Sometimes we could catch a scary movie on a Saturday afternoon. Didn’t there used to be a feature called Chiller? A six-fingered hand would rise up out of a swamp and a gravelly voice would say, “Chil-ler!” Those were the days.

I suppose now I could segue into a middle-aged musing about how I am trying to recapture my childhood by watching these old movies. I don’t think that’s it, though; I think I just enjoy writing about them. And, you know, really, what I’d like to recapture is my parents’ young adulthood and wear a long dress to go out dancing on a Saturday night.

Funked Up Monday

Why are Middle-aged Musings Mondays so much more difficult than Lame Post Fridays? And I’d also like to know why so many of my posts turn out to be about How I Can’t Write a Post Today.

I have seriously been trying. I’ve gotten a few paragraphs written, and they actually don’t seem too bad. But I can’t go on (said in a dramatic tone of voice, with one wrist to my forehead).

The point of this blog was NOT to be a forum for my personal problems. Not that there’s anything wrong with a blog like that. Some people find it very helpful to write out their problems. I’m sure some people even like to read about other people’s problems. They can say things like, “Ha! She thinks she’s got it bad!” or “And I thought I had it bad!” Probably they think of good solutions. It’s always easier to solve other people’s problems (hey! that was a middle-aged musing, wasn’t it?).

I just seem to be having an ongoing problem of being in a funk on Monday. Perhaps I overdo it on the weekends. Being middle-aged, I perhaps should not try to act like I did when I was in my 20s. Perhaps it would be helpful if I wrote Monday’s post on Saturday or Sunday, when I am not in such a funk. That’s not cheating. Stop shaking your finger at me!

Oh, you’re not shaking your finger at me because you think I’m cheating. You’re shaking your finger at me because you’ve been thinking for the past three Mondays that I ought to have written that post on Saturday or Sunday. Good idea.

OK, so in posts about running, I admitted to having conversations with various body parts. Now we see I am having conversations with imaginary readers. And if I keep doing ridiculous posts like this, I may be left with only imaginary readers. Say it ain’t so!

I will try very hard to find something better to write about tomorrow. Thank you for your patience.

Moody Monday Musings

As I walked into work this morning, the comforting thought occurred to me: Mondays suck; almost everybody thinks so.

To feel that we’re all in the same boat and that I’m not SUPPOSED to feel chipper and cheerful, that’s a comfort. Then I thought about my post yesterday, specifically how I scorned a DJ for always playing the song “Rainy days and Mondays always get me down” on Mondays. I asked myself, feel differently now? A little more understanding perhaps? The answer is no.

My bad Monday mood is a much more robust emotion than the gentle melancholy expressed by Karen Carpenter (I think she sang that song; it would perhaps behoove me to check before I hit “publish”). I’d just like to throw in a disclaimer here that I don’t hate my job. I actually like my job quite a bit. But it would have to be a damn good job to make me feel good about getting up at 3:30 in the morning after three days of sleeping in. No worries, though, now that I’ve been up for a while and the coffee is kicking in. I’m beginning to get a little of that chipper, cheerful feeling that eluded me earlier.

Oh dear, that kind of blows my Moody Musings, doesn’t it? Well I don’t know how fun it would have been to muse about a bad mood for 600 words or more (although I may try it sometime; you never know). I have another musing to share that’s been bugging me ever since I finished reading a pulp fiction detective novel I picked up somewhere: Why would you ever try to blackmail a murderer? You know they’ve killed once already: they know how. Why don’t you just put a big sign on your forehead that says, “Kill me too while you’re at it!” That I could go on for 600 words about.

But I shan’t go on for 600 words this Monday. I’ll keep it short and silly (perhaps you thought I was going to say short and sweet, but I always say go with your strengths). I’ll try for a real Mohawk Valley post tomorrow. Happy Monday, everybody!

Note: My musically knowledgeable husband Steven tells me Karen Carpenter did sing the melancholy Monday song.

Muddled Monday

I was either going to write about Saturday’s wine tasting or resort to Middle-aged Musings. Well, I mislaid my tasting notes, so musings it is.

I’m actually bemused this morning, because my coffee has not kicked in. What’s that all about? I can’t still be tired from Saturday, can I? Am I getting too old to have fun? Say it ain’t so!

I can’t write a whole blog post about how tired I feel. Actually, I could because right now that is uppermost in my mind, but how boring would it be? The sad thing is, I think I have mentioned how tired I am many times in this blog. I know I’ve talked about my desire for an old lady seat so I can shower sitting down. Yesterday I even considered staying dirty.

Actually, there is something else I could blog about (such a silly verb): Friday night. Friday night was to be spent with my husband. I felt so bad that he had to work and could not go on the wine tasting tour. Really, the older I get (ooh, it’s another middle-aged musing), the more I just want to be with my husband. Fun without Steven is just not as much fun. I’ve always felt that way to a point; heck, why would I have married him if I didn’t like to be with him? I may be an independent, take charge kind of woman (and say so in my blog), I may be my own person (others have described me that way), but I like to be with my husband. So there.

Our first stop Friday night was the Ilion Farmer’s Market at Clapsaddle Farm, Otsego Street, Ilion, NY. I just talked about it last week. This week we took our schnoodle Tabby. Tabby loves the Farmer’s Market. The old barn has so many smells for her, and there are always nice people who like to pet a cute dog (which she is). We got into a big conversation with one lady about dogs, cats and skunks.

After the Farmer’s Market we headed back down Otsego Street to Ilion Wine and Spirits, 10 E. Main St. They were having a wine tasting (kind of a warm up for my Saturday). We left Tabby in the car, because she’s not 21. I have some notes on that tasting too, so I guess I’ll write more about it later.

We took Tabby home before we went to dinner at the Herkimer Elks Lodge on Mary Street. The sign out front used to advertise Fish Fry, but now it says Dinner, reflecting their expanded menu. The cooking is by Dominick Scalise of Dominick’s Deli in Herkimer, and everything we’ve had so far is quite delicious. Friday I had seafood stuffed haddock and Steven had baked haddock. I look forward to eating my leftovers.

I’m thinking my musings were more entertaining than my activities, or do I flatter myself? No matter. I’ve written both, I’ll type in both (like last week, I have little time and am too flustered for extensive re-writes). People can like it or not (although I hope they do).

Miscellaneous Middle-aged Musings

One thing I’ve noticed about middle age is that losing the hour for daylight savings time kicks my butt. What’s up with that? I never used to notice. No fair! And it seems so disproportionate. I understand that my body thinks it’s 4 a.m. when the clock says five. What I don’t get is why my body can’t seem to acknowledge the two cups of coffee I’ve consumed.

I started thinking, somebody might advise me to give up coffee entirely and let my body’s natural mechanisms help me to wake up. No way! I love coffee! It is one of the few consistently wonderful things I encounter. If it doesn’t wake me up, at least it tastes good. If it doesn’t taste good, at least it wakes me up. It very rarely does neither (obviously this morning it tasted good) (just as an update, some time after I wrote this, I had some that woke me up. So there).

That got me thinking: what other things in my life consistently bring me happiness? That might be good for a blog post.

Laughter. It is true what they say: laughter is the best medicine. And it is NOT true something else they say: that the truth hurts. It doesn’t always. Today a lady called me a snot-nosed little brat. Quite true. My spring allergies have kicked in with a vengeance and, well, at least I cop to the brat part. I’m still laughing about it. When I laughed about it at work, it woke me up better than coffee usually does and it was more fun. Unfortunately, laughter is not as easy to come by.

My husband and my dog are great sources of happiness and contentment to me (you knew I was going to mention them, I hope). Of course, nothing you love intensely will be all comfort and serenity. For example, when my dog Tabby was ill last Friday, it was a source of stress and worry. You’ll have that.

Food. I love food. Sometimes when I’ve eaten a good meal I’m actually a little sad, because it’s going to be a few hours before I’m hungry and can eat again. I guess it’s a bittersweet feeling. When it’s been a lousy meal, it sucks. Again, you’ll have that.

I’m beginning to think (or muse, to stay on topic) that Middle-aged Musings is just another expression for Half-Baked Philosophy, which I have on Lame Post Friday. But what’s wrong with beginning and ending my week on a silly note? Happy Monday, everybody!