I like to practice safe flex by going to the chiropractor. Several days ago, I missed the regular path I was walking on when before I knew it, I fell and my backside was completely contorted. I’m convinced that the central purpose of a backbone is to stumble onto furniture in the dark. The fall knocked me out and my boyfriend tried reviving me in different ways. With the car alarm, pretending he was on the phone with another woman, and drowning me with a can of Red Bull. After my irascible resuscitation, I figured it was best to see a doctor. My sixty-three years had already arched my sensitive small spine. But there was nothing small about the pain I was suffering. And because I had goldy locks streaked through my hair, my primary care physician assumed that just because I’m into quality assurance, I must have tripped while jumping from a hard bed to a soft bed. He must have thought I was either a hooker, or I went walking in the woods raiding houses where bears reside. Except I’m not into unlawful entry.

When I woke up this morning, I had no plans on being this fragile. Or this satirical. I ended up going to my chiropractic king. He makes my heart sing. He makes everything, groovy. I indubitably admire this man’s handiwork. He certainly has gone where no man has gone before. Interpret that however you want. He asked me how I hurt myself and I told him I wasn’t sure, but I did have a dream that I was doing a highwire circus act with The Flying Wallendas and there was no safety net. He said that I could do a lot for my body by eliminating extreme entertainment that leads to abnormal curvature of the vertebral column. But I saw the look on his face. He really wanted to tell me that once again, in the case of crackpot versus circus acts, the ground always wins. He also mentioned that I wasn’t very well adjusted. I didn’t ask him for much….just that he holds me tight, and moves me. Women want to be kneaded by wild thingies. Again, construe that any way you please. I meant through vigorous and healing hand movements.

Pity me for all the moan I made since I had a small misalignment in the spinal segment causing immense irritation to my nerves. Normally, I’m taking Tylenol for headache pain caused by Cromolyn sodium I take for the allergy I acquired from Zanamivir for the uneasy stomach from the Methylphenidate I take for my short attention span caused by the Hyoscine Hydrobromide which is for motion sickness generated from Atropene, that anti-diarrheal. I’ve been feeling contempt for all these plotting pill companies. To alleviate the discomfort, I sat in a steaming bath. Then I put my phone on vibrate and tried placing it on my back. I ended up with curvature of the arm bone. Then I had the rather somber thought of calling the suicide hot line. If I were to choose the best face that described how I felt, my smiley face turned into that of James Caan who endured nightmarish captivity in Misery.

It was my chiropractor who saved the day. I stretched out onto his adjustment bench where he explained the partial unilateral collapse of formation and bilateral failures of segmentation. Then the snoring began. Who knows. I may have passed a little gas on the table as well. While my fine devotee of spinal manipulation is adjusting me, he tells amusing jokes and gives good backrubs. It’s not like being naked with a masseuse where there’s oil and dark lighting involved and you feel the need for a sextastically chisled bikini bod besides being worried that they are going to rub you the wrong way. And when I leave this miracle workers office, I don’t have Pug or Shar-Pei looking facial features from being squished in the face cradle like I do when I get a massage. Although he could use some hot stones and bring in his three brothers, tripling my pleasure and tripling my fun.

As a kid, I was always told to tuck in my tailbone. And they used to make me walk around with a stack of books on my head. If you had been there, you would have heard the sound of several publications simultaneously imploding on parque. I was sure my parents were trying to turn me into a totem pole, yet I had more the appearance of a knotty pine. If I slouched, then I wouldn’t have to tell people that their breath was bad. And I’d probably find more loose change on the earth’s floor. There are other useful things you can do when you’re not in the upright position. But I would hate to look bent, bothered, and bewildered.

My boyfriend won’t let me go to the healer by myself. He says the guy is too good looking. My alarmist is just creating needless worry and doesn’t realize that he is a megalomaniac on par with Alfred The Great and Gustavus Adolphus of Sweden. Although the chiropractic professional cutie pie has helped me so much that in turn, I was thinking about going home with him to help with his yard work or something. His bulging biceps and ninja routines undoubtedly assure him a substantial increase in business. I’m certainly not a paid endorser for the man. But he has a fascinating approach to postural positioning. If only he would include crème brulee and when he’s done, I’m able to play Twister, bench press a piano, and possibly walk to the park without an aching worry. I do need to be more on guard against my human weaknesses. He told me that most injuries occur with men, when they are reaching for the remote during Dancing With The Stars.


Young parents these days are a bit more attentive to pesticides, additives, and preservatives than my generation was. Having become a grandmother my second time around, I can’t help but ponder the practices of child sustenance and what awaits this new mother. I’m surprised the food industry hasn’t come out with low fat tofu Tater Tots.

In my day there was no nursing in public, simply because you couldn’t subject engorged weapons of mass lactation without stares of indecent exposure. My middle daughter pretty much rejected my colostrum anyway after realizing it wasn’t chocolate milk. However, it was my passion to put a twinkle in my starling’s eyes by pleasing her palate. Her year old mumbling voice clamored for my cuisinely challenged attentiveness, trying to divert me down the path of confections. We had to come up with a mutually beneficial plan for her happiness. Guiding me was Dr. Spock, although he prophesied that there are only two things a child will share voluntarily. Communicable diseases and its mother’s age.

While I worried about my daughter’s fuel deficiencies, Kix was meanwhile kid tested and mother approved. I used the old spoon/airplane technique trying to land un-sweetened cereal past her lips. She scoffed, probably fearing that I would forge the tasteless ramjet down her esophagus. Before long I became a punster air pilot professional. I tried everything from oatmeal to lime beans sprinkled with cinnamon. Sometimes I threw her a hot dog and she willingly ate it, as long as I made smiley faces with ketchup on her plate, put a bendy straw in her drinks, took away the bun, chopped the meat into microscopic pieces, and spoon fed them with an ice cream scooper layered with ice cream.

One time I had an early morning power outage. The big thaw forced me feed her fish filets, chicken cutlets, ground beef, and mushy mixed vegetables for breakfast. For she was a jolly good food-flinger, and I came precariously close to having a fist flung in my face. I should have worn a crash helmet while waving a white flag. The only way to minimize sorrow that came with every eating experience was through sugar. But that wasn’t listed in Spock’s advisories. Look who she role modeled after. Me. The queen of sweets. Children who aren’t allowed much sugar growing up subsequently end up siphoning anything that contains sucrose.

And nobody didn’t like Sara Lee. Admittedly, I wanted to let there be peace on earth and let it begin with one of her goodies, and let me sit with my toddler in perfect harmony. Except there was a lot more joy in sweet potatoes topped with Chips Ahoy. Though tempered chocolate always discolored my dining room wallpaper. M&M’s weren’t the only things that melted in places and not in her hands. How many other mothers have had persevering thoughts of piling chocolate morsels or gummy bears on top of broccoli spears? My ankle clinger never wanted to attend school because they force fed her carrots, when I force fed her carrots covered in brown sugar. It’s a wonder the two of us haven’t developed diabetes.

My cherub loved toast, just not the brown parts. The bread couldn’t be wheat or rye or pumpernickel, and the cat had to eat it first. She would happily consume yogurt as long as I called it pudding. Lucky Charms were magically delicious as well if smothered in Hershey’s syrup. And she was more likely to eat peas if they were splashed with honey and tossed onto linoleum. That is after she stared at them, poked them, and smashed several onto her chest. I can’t wait for the day my daughter tells me her own youngster looks like a chicken-poxed-pea-farmer.

I found out OJ wasn’t just for breakfast anymore. It was for anytime I didn’t want to see concentrated pulpy extract seeping into my shag carpeting. My little lamb spilled the juice then shot me sober glances while I rattled the ice cubes in my glass filled with lonely vodka. And while choosy mothers may choose Jif, others may choose something entirely different after they’ve seen peanut butter finger painted on their drapes. I should have given her a side order of acrylics. And supposedly cook’s who knew trusted Crisco. I didn’t trust it in the hands or mouth of my babe. She didn’t need kids at school saying, “Fatty fatty two by four, can’t get through the classroom door.” I was already calling her “Sugar Pie Honey Bunch.”

I couldn’t screw up grilled cheese. But cheese gave this girl gassiness. In the often occurrences of accidental anal releases, masks did not drop down from little trap doors in the ceiling. I almost lost consciousness from the flotation of rancid air. Once she caught wind of it herself, it was amusing to see the smirks on her face when she said she was blowing me kisses. My cutie was a keeper, even though she removed her diaper and left doo doo dumplings on my area rug. I took on the role as her personal pooper scooper. How could I be startlingly disappointed by such progressive and generous company? It would have been worse if she had been a constipated dairy carrier.

Equally menacing were the uh oh, Spaghettios. Diabetic retinopathy had risen after my eyes were fed with images of my youngster eating circular saucy shapes from everywhere but her bowl. Visualizing an army of bacterial critters patrolling her body made my own skin crawl. But my daughter came hungry and left healthy and happy.

My home was clearly a Build-A-Babe workshop. I couldn’t find one book that would help me contrive new ways to stuff good nutrition into my child. She could never guarantee that she’d eat anything wholesome any more than I could guarantee giving her a unicorn. But when my munchkin woke each morning, I figured I was successful at keeping her alive. And I must say, it is truly satisfying now to see my children grown and not shooting straws full of milk at me while we are dining together.


Ecclesiastes says that there is a season for every activity under heaven. A time to be born, a time to die, a time to figure out what the heck I’m going to do with myself in between. It’s January. A month of listlessness and prevailing boredom. The kids have gone home. Credit card bills will start pouring in from Christmas and I might get off a whole lot cheaper if I just change my address. I have already failed my New Year’s resolutions somewhere between nine and noon. And I need vagus nerve stimulation. If I want to start out the Year feeling somewhat optimistic, I should probably begin with several milligrams of Paxil.

To ward off boredom, I accelerated my respiratory system by breathing in and out till I got dizzy. I replaced every powering device in my household with a fresh round of batteries. It took me an hour to figure out if blue or green was my favorite color. I can always lie in the hammock and take a long winter’s nap, or clean something. There are chores that start over again the minute I complete them. I cast a rapid glance to all those in the room and grabbed those pencils placing them in a cup by pointing them in the same direction while talking to the lead filled sticks. “I’ll bet you’re all wondering why I gathered you here today!”

Heaven forbid if we have an earthquake. The etch-a-sketch portrait of myself will be ruined. I did stand at the sink full of dishes watching my dry cracked fingers prune as I gathered more ideas on how to have a good time. Thankfully my granddaughter called giving me a good time. I told her that she should have motivating New Year’s resolutions. “Be helpful, drink more water, and marry Adam Lambert.” After that, I grabbed my phone and took a snapshot of my last meal and sent it to everyone as if they have never seen guacamole dip before. I could change my car horn to the sound of fireworks. Or I could ponder the problems of mutation. Except the Neanderthals did it and they’re all dead. Every last one of them. A massage would feel good. Then it dawned on me, I’m out of ice cubes. I refuse to dissect spiders on moral grounds. Except that the devil intervened and tried coercing me into becoming mischievously unprincipled by texting random numbers trenchantly expressing, I hid the body in your back yard. I called down legions of angels to rescue me from executing that idea. Although temporarily amusing, I knew after four hours of doing it that I would just be bored again. I’ve been meaning to conduct myself with more practical expediency. But there are too many other rousing options.

If my mother were alive, she would tell me, “Go find something to do!” Not wanting my cortisol levels to go down, I decided to run outside garnering enough photosynthesis from the sun’s luminous veil of light to turn it into nutrition for my body and basically keep me from getting vehemently depressed. After filling ice cube trays, I watched Ferris Bueller who stolidly declared, “Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in awhile, you could miss it.” I looked around. All I saw was a basket overflowing with dirty laundry. I decided to take the day off myself from doing anything stressful that could result in skin conductance, sending mild electric shock to my system since I’m out of dryer sheets.

Ferris made me realize that I’m a righteous dudette. Although the sportos, the motorheads, the geeks ,sluts, wasteoids and dweebies don’t adore me and could care less who I am or what I’m doing. My computer soon summoned, making me Google movie stars. Specifically, Mark Wahlberg’s brachii muscles. It was about the same time I was thinking what I’ll have for lunch tomorrow and if I should diet. Come to find out, Mark stays in top shape for films then rewards himself. Pancakes, double dough pepperoni pizzas, brownies with a huge mug of milk. If I rewarded myself with that much food, I would be resting for a lengthy period within the confines of a coffin. Although I do find it’s impossible to experience happiness unless I’m gorging on the weight inducing blissfullness of anything that isn’t good for me.

Which brings me to fitness. Thus far, I haven’t been too inclined to diet. Now I’m into gut jiggling. The most calories I’ve burned was the apple crisp I forgot was in the oven when I went outside to pick weeds. Back in 1991, I lost 7.3 pounds, but that was with my third newborn. I’d lose 24 more pounds per year if I stopped eating those 3-gallon tubs of premium ice cream and probably seventy more pounds if I ran around the block every day with my neighbors Irish setter. So much for entering the Olympics. I’m on my third cupcake. I spent the entire holiday season running myself ragged and exercising every part of my body. So I’m giving up any sort of physical activity for Lent, starting now. Anyway, my insurance doesn’t handle body splints. The only way I’ll get to be smokin’ hot is in a fiery tunnel turning to ashes when I’m dead.

I’d like to take a moment of silence to observe the stair stepper, that mega metal of resistance and severe boredom unidentifiable to my aging and senescent physique. Personally, I’d like to observe twelve months of treading silence and not spend one micro-second on a machine that makes me hold on for dear life. Where some see body building, I see sweating, over stimulation, and general nausea. There are far better ways to trick my body into releasing oxytocin. Who’s with me? Or we could play hunger games and see who comes out of that alive. Furthermore, let’s all take a moment of silence for all those younger parents who cannot take a moment for either exercise or silence since they have toddlers.

Life is mesmerizing. Eat. Sleep. Poop. Try not to be bored. Which makes it even more entrancing when I can’t stop thinking about vacations and retirement.