Ruminations of a Red Dirt Hussy

November 22, 2014

Here. Have a glass of Metamucil. It’s on me.

Filed under: General — Vadasmaker @ 7:32 am

Getting old sucks. Collagen leaves your body like rats deserting a sinking ship. Little lines appear around your lips and make your lipstick feather, which probably doesn’t matter because your lips are sort of disappearing anyway. All that’s left are the feathers. The formerly taut skin between eyelid and eyebrow has given up the ghost and taken up residence on your eyelashes, if you have any eyelashes left.

The very worst part about being old is that it’s a state of being. Because it’s insidious, you’ll be happy to know I’ve done all the thinking for you, and I’m fixing to tell you what that state will look like. I’m going to call it a public service. If any of it hits a nerve, It could be that you’re already there and didn’t know it before I told you. You might ought to have a drink to calm down. Metamucil on ice, maybe.

What Jim thinks will happen is that someday we’ll retire and buy a Winnebago which we’ll drive all over the US, staying at campgrounds with other old people. At 4:00 we’ll all load up and go to Golden Corral for the early bird special. All through dinner we’ll talk about how the world is going to hell in a handcart and maybe we should be Republicans after all and what is up with all the kids and their tattoos and shit. Then we’ll return to the Winnebago and fall asleep watching Wheel of Fortune.

Ha! Thirty-six years and I’m still a mystery to him! That buy-a-motor-home-and-see-the-USA thing is definitely not going to happen. I will tell you for a dead dog certainty that I’m not setting foot in a Winnebago.

Here is how it’s going to be.

Jim will hang out at Walmart. Not by the fishing stuff either. Closer to the Ducolax. He will wear those old people sunglasses he got from the cataract doctor. He will buy a Ford Ranger after he accidentally backs the Toyota Tundra into the lake when launching the boat. Might as well buy American if it’s just going to end up at the bottom of Fort Gibson Lake.

His ass will have disappeared long ago, as men’s asses are wont to do. He will wear baggy polyester shorts 10 inches higher on his thighs than they should be, and his hands will always be in his pockets. Every so often he will pull out the contents of one pocket to reveal half a dozen loose Rolaids, a bunch of lint, and 9 keys that don’t go to anything.

He will pull his socks up to his knees. They will be white with three colored bands around the top. He will wear sandals with them. On special occasions he will wear shoes with Velcro closures, and they will be that dirty white color old people find at the Old People Store. I will constantly tell him to trim the hair in his ears or I will braid it. He will insist he has no hair in his ears.

Every time I play the old “Help! I’ve fallen and I can’t get up” trick, he will believe I really have done it this time. He will call a neighbor to help me up. Our neighbors will stop answering the door and will refuse to meet our eyes when we are outside at the same time.

He will wear Depends. They will probably have man-panty ones by then. Maybe camouflage.  He will still think farts are funny, and he will still be trying to blame his on me. Trying to blame his on me me will be patently ridiculous since he will be the one who confuses the Bengay with the Preparation H at least twice a week. He will belch the alphabet for the entertainment of small children. If that doesn’t work, he will clack his dentures at them.

He will have an Ejecta-chair and next to it will be a table holding a lamp with John Wayne’s face (as Rooster Cogburn) on the shade, 5 remote control units, and a macaroni-decorated cup with 37 pencils in it. Real pencils because he doesn’t trust those fancy-shmancy mechanical things. On the wall behind him will be a clock made of a piece of wood with John Wayne’s face (as Hondo Lane) decoupaged on it.

He will accidentally set off his Life Alert device at least once a week and blame it on a faulty sensor. He will spend a lot of time on the front porch, yelling at neighborhood kids to get off his lawn.

And then there is me. I will spend a lot of time yelling at him to get his crazy old ass back in the house before somebody calls the police. I will have 37 cats. Every time he gets another Ticonderoga #2, I will get another cat.

I will give up bras because putting one on will be like trying to put a Slinky in a hairnet. I will wear granny panties and different colored socks on each foot. I will buy flowered polyester dresses and the belt will buckle at the top of my ribcage. I will wear sensible shoes. SAS, probably. Usually I will have toilet paper stuck to the bottom of one. Sometimes I will exit the bathroom with the back of my dress stuck in the waistband of my support pantyhose, but only at the Golden Corral.

I will almost always have a stain on the appliqued cat on the front of my sweater. My jeans will have an elastic waist, and when they are on backwards, I won’t be able to tell because I’ll have a front butt and a back butt.

I will put talcum powder all over me and wear perfume that smells like feet. I will have a mole near my nose and it will always have one hair growing out of it. I will insist it is a beauty mark.

I will look in the pantry before I go to the grocery store and come home with stuff just like the stuff in the pantry. When I die, whoever cleans out the house to sell will find 52 packages of brown gravy mix in the cabinet.

I will eat prunes for breakfast and spam for dinner. For Thanksgiving I will make canned ham and a green-bean casserole with French fried onion bits. For dessert I will serve Jell-O with cottage cheese in it.

I will drive a 1977 Cadillac 10 miles an hour everywhere I go. On special occasions, like when the urologist tells me that peeing when I laugh is perfectly normal and gives me a coupon for pastel Depends, I will go to Furr’s Cafeteria instead of Golden Corral.

I will watch America’s Funniest Home Videos. I will eat only vanilla ice cream. I will keep peppermints in my purse at all times. I will fart walking up the stairs. And down the stairs. And in public. I will still not think farts are funny.

For his birthday, I will buy Jim a commode he can sit on without his feet touching the floor. He will buy me a walk-in bathtub for Christmas.

We will be a pair. A sad, sad pair.

But—a very big but—I will have a tiara. And he will always, always, always be a third of a year older than I am.



  1. Dang, I’m going to start exercising just so I can live long enough to watch this stupefying transformation of that old Johnson couple. But the thing with the shoes with the Velcro closure? Don’t mention that in front of Al because he thinks they’re cool and that’s all he wears. But hey, he’s nearly 75 going on 90 so… I’m hoping that if these things do come to pass (in my life) that I’ll be too old, senile and hateful to even care. So, keep shining that tiara, baby!


    Comment by gloriateague52 — November 23, 2014 @ 1:57 am | Reply

  2. I usually think your entries are hlarious, but this time, what is so funny? It’s like you peeked in my windows and recorded my life! I gave up on Hap and his socks and house shoes and flatbutt syndrome. I am practcing for retirement every weekend. Tick Tock.
    And I still think it beats the alternative! It is STILL better than being a teenager. Love you CArol!


    Comment by pony-tale — November 24, 2014 @ 8:51 am | Reply

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