G 51

Note to self- Don’t rent a pull at your heartstrings flick (Sex and the City) that you only just now found 1 hour and 30 minutes of precious time to see after its twelfth-of-never release date, even though it was at one point your very fave series shared with one of your very fave buds in the world (remember our "Sex on Sundays", Tim?). Then while watching said film, decide to re-read a letter from your mom that for years your sappy self has carried in the small side pocket of your purse that tells of how much you are loved and what a good mother she thinks you are (not too shabby since she is the best in that department), all the while being only hours away from your menstrual cycle and then wash down all of the above with two very strong vodka tonics. Oy hormone vey. The tears have been a flowin' these days. Yep, life is coming at me double time as my sweet mamacita took a nasty fall three weeks ago on her carport, face first, and ended up in the ICU for a harrowing week and is now sitting in re-hab, almost three weeks later...eating some scary things that kinda look like chicken, popping wheelies on her walker but recovering, thank the heavens above.

After only an eighth month hiatus from my Lifetime medical melodrama, I am back at it... sans Joanna Kerns. But I’m lucky to have another lovely co-star milking the drama with me...my ole sis. Another oy goes out to her. Our heads and hearts are exhausted, but like Emeril, we’re kicking it up another notch, working our tails off, and are looking forward to bringing our sweet mammy back to her nest by hopefully next week. Only after completing a major safety overhaul on her casa and setting up some extra health care hands to help us get her back up square on her tootsies and to stay there- away from throw rugs, all things pointy and stairs. Oh, yeah, and concrete. Definitely anything under the heading of slab needs to have a big red circle and a line through it, for sure. Talk about scary Halloween stuff. Whew. More of that entire saga to come. But let me just say, for an 87 year old lady, she is one tough broad. I come from good stock. It looked like Apollo Creed had his mitts on her for a few rounds and then with a long left hook outta nowhere, he decided to TKO me while he was at it. She is my heart and my hero and it will sure be nice to see her back in her easy chair, sipping java, before too long.

And speaking of TKO’s...this Mama’s sort of flabbing out again. It's kind of like Raging Bull- The Latter Years. The gym has fallen off the priority list and I’d like to say I don’t need it because I’m phat but alas, I’m not. It’s more like the "f" kind. Well, I won’t go that far, but let’s just say Big Daddy’s chunky monkey is on the way back. Thank goodness, love is blind. That’s exactly what it should be, too. It’s better for all parties involved. I’ll save ya the whole blubbery song and dance and just put a link right here to an earlier post...regarding the extra 16 pounds o’ Mag that I tread milled off of me last year. Well, crap. I guess this means I had better revise that little priority list of mine and place pounding the pavement in early morning runs right at Number One. With three exclamation points following. Will someone out there tell me how Angelina can have eleven babies and her arms are still the size of spaghetti noodles?? Oh, life is cruel, my friends. So are the forties. And yesterday, the arthritic hand of fate, placed me in a dusty closet looking for one thing but finding another...a wedding gift from my husband- a beautiful wooden box full of memories and skinny-ness, circa early ‘90’s.....back in the day, when I had killer gams, a flat stomach and a tan. Well, I guess the tan ended up not being so good as basal cell took it’s vengeance on me two years ago, resulting in four stitches on the old temple. But the nice young body parts...well, that's always a good thing. Tortuous perhaps, but always good...in a brutally gnawing reflective kind of way. Yes, those were the good ole days when I also was the proud possessor of a nice décolletage which in the here and now has become more like the inside spread of the National Geographic. I guess that’ll happen when you carry two watermelon-sized humanoids in your midriff. Oh, hell, I better stop weltering in all this mid-crisis mud. Besides, I gotta hoof it over to the nursing home. There's a mean game of Bingo with me, mom and my three year old T. written all over it.