Pneumonia be damned – It’s Cheetos and Salami all the Way!

Life in my shoes has sure been an adventure, lately.


I’m as sick as a dog and a pork pie short of a picnic, as my Uncle Tony likes to say.


But other than that, I‘m doing just peachy, People – just peachy.


Went from having the galloping consumption (as the Princess fondly calls it) to full-blown pneumonia all in a period of 3 weeks and am sitting here munching away on some cheese puffs and Italian salami and thinking I damn well need to get better real soon, ‘cuz the Princess is not exactly the Heloise of Homemakers, and if recent grocery purchases are any indication of my fate, I’d best be looking into my cremation arrangements, soon….REAL SOON.


On Sunday morning, I woke up feelin’ kinda light headed and queasy and told her that I needed some chicken soup and maybe some protein in my diet to help me keep up my strength.


All the coughing that I’ve been doing lately is totally exhausting me, and I really think my diet of prunes and Coke are not exactly what the Dr. was referring to when he suggested nutritional supplements be added to my diet.


So, unless the Princess wanted me strolling (and hacking) amongst the unsuspecting public, she’d best put on her big girl pants and venture out into one of these here buildings that most of us know as grocery stores to purchase some sustenance for us (and the wacky cats) or she’s gonna be hearing me howling, soon!


“No, problemo,” she obligingly retorts, “Make me a grocery list and I’ll have you swimming in chicken soup and groceries faster than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking competition, Chica.”


So out the door she ventures with the courage of a lion (and the memory of a goldfish) and no list.


I go back to bed and begin a deep, feverish sleep with the (innocent) hopes of waking up to smells of homemade chicken soup and a refrigerator full of healthy foods and good eats.


Two and a half hours later, I’m rudely awakened by a howling (very hungry) cat with a major attitude, no smells of simmering chicken soup wafting through the air, no Princess in sight and (unless I’m a tad delusional), no additional groceries added to our depleted cupboards.


About the time I’m rustling-up some food for Molly and Boo, the Princess (beaming proud as a peacock and looking none the worse for wear) comes rambling through the front door with a big-ass grin on her face and 4 bags of groceries.


“Got your groceries, Hun!”


“And boy what a mad house it is out there on the weekend,” she energetically continues.


“Do people have nothing better to do than grocery shop on Sunday mornings?” she queries.


“You’d think this city of sinners would be at church on Sunday mornings,” she humorously adds while starting to unpack her proud purchases.


Being feverish and all and just woken up with Boo’s howling, I’m not totally with it, so I ignore her comment and dismiss the fact that it’s after 2 p.m. and that most church goin’ folks would be out of church by now.


I then begin eyeballin’ the groceries that she’s unpacking, while simultaneously starting to worry that I’m not seeing too many nutritional items among her proud purchases, when she magically whips out a bunch of asparagus and proudly announces, “Picked up some fresh asparagus for us for $1.99/lb.! Looks good, doesn’t it, Hun?”


By this point, I’m silently numb looking at the purchases that she’s deftly placing on the counter and decide to ask her if she purchased anything to make homemade chicken soup, when she proudly shows me the box of (Kosher) Lipton’s Chicken Soup that she bought for me.




As I’m eye-ballin’ the ingredients listed on the box of Kosher chicken soup, I’m thinking, “this is either gonna be a very slow, excruciatingly painful death (via malnutrition) or a very quick, miraculous recovery (via the Kosher Lipton Soup),” she starts looking at me with those child-like, innocent eyes of hers and quietly says, “What’s wrong, Hun?”


“I bought you KOSHER chicken soup,” she continues before I can respond.


“It’s better than the REGULAR kind. Right, Hun”? She continues with the innocence of a 5 year old.


“Yes, Princess,” I teasingly respond with a wise-ass grin on my face.


“It’s made with Jewish love, so I’m sure the MSG, disodium guanylate, palm oil and host of other ingreedimunts that this Kosher soup has, also contains a shit-load of curative and nutritional properties, as well.”


I continue eyeballing her treasure trove of delectables as it’s lovingly placed on the kitchen counter and sarcastically say to her,


“Hun, I’m sure the Italian salami, sardines, KOSHER chicken soup, Cheetos, chocolate chip cookies and a side of prunes is just what the doctor ordered. Thank you sooo much.”




Thank God I love this woman. She keeps me laughing (and coughing) every day!


Be good to one another, People.


And remember: God/the UNIVERSE doesn’t always give us WHAT we want, WHEN we want it, but WHAT we need, WHEN we need it!


Thank you, Lord, for giving me the Princess. She’s just what the doctor (and YOU) ordered.


Catch ya next time for another adventure, looking at life from my shoes.




Pneumonia and a Bunged-up Dinglebungus!

OK, People!


So, I’m sitting here having a lovely time experiencing the finer attributes of developing pneumonia and really taking the time to appreciate the “finer sides” of modern medicine and health-care.


In order to combat those nasty, yucky pneumonia germs, one of the medications that I’ve been prescribed is an antibiotic that could take down a young Clydesdale, weaken even the strongest among us and cause a lovely myriad of maladies ranging from sleepiness, dizziness, and yeast infections, to the ever-popular back-door trots and hurling, to the more exotic of ailments like tremors, seizures, mental mood changes, confusion (hm…what was I saying?) and a host of other alluring side-effects.


So, why, pray tell, do I find these side effects so humorous?


Maybe because I’ve been prescribed a dopamine medication to alleviate the leg tremors and sleep deprivation of restless leg syndrome that can cause a host of health issues (among them- increased sexual urges and unusual urges to gamble!) and prescribed a pain medication that can cause dizziness, twitching muscles, hallucinations (rarely, but possible with certain charmed individuals) and CONSTIPATION (most likely!).


As I’m sitting here waiting for a bag of prunes (that I stumbled out to buy this morning) to counter the effects of one of my pneumonia medications and work their magic on my newly acquired bunged-up dinglebungus, I’ve got an unexplained eye twitch and having visions of men in starched white coats picking me up in a little white van to chauffeur me to the ever popular St. Jude’s Laughing Academy that a number of us have been (voluntarily and involuntarily) asked to join.




To think this whole, wonderful little adventure (of getting diagnosed with pneumonia) only cost me/my insurance company THOUSANDS of dollars to have the privileged entitlement of lying on an antiquated, lumpy bed, (with an attractive view of the ER entranceway) in the middle of the drafty, shabby-looking hallway at our local (soon-to-be totally renovated) hospital’s ER!


I guess the ER personnel figured it wasn’t enough that the urgent care doctor that sent me there suspected that I had heart problems and pneumonia. They wanted to make sure that I was thoroughly sick and deserving of such swanky accommodations.


After being “triaged” in the loveliest of intimate, comfy spaces (a 2 by 4 area with an open, thread-bare curtain used for ones privacy from the other sickos), I was whisked away in a squeaky, rickety, (wobbly) wheel chair, to the “guest area” of the hospital to hack my pneumonia germs on other unsuspecting mortals waiting their fait accompli, before being assigned “bed #1” in the ER’s drafty, dingy hallway.


(Yes, People, you read correctly – bed #1 is located in a drafty, air-conditioned hallway!)


In their defense, however, I do need it noted that after an hour of body chills and various tremors that I (hallway patient #1) was kindly offered a warm blanket to stop said body chills and newly acquired tremors.


Whoo hoo!


Lucky me.


I hit the jackpot and was assigned bed #1 in front of the smelly homeless guy that wreaked of smoke and God knows what else and the pajama-clad woman who recently stopped taking her psych meds and kept asking me if I were related to Tiger Woods.


(And, “No People, I assure you – Tiger and I are NOT– in any shape, way or means – related. And I’m sure Mr. Woods is more than grateful for this”.)


Lord! Lord! Lord! How I miss my mind!


Please keep me sane and my humor in tact, God, ‘cuz I need these dam prunes to start working their magic soon or my sunnier than usual disposition is not gonna be so sunny when the Princess gets home.


(And beware my wacky cats, ‘cuz you may not want to be howling at me any time too soon!)


Have a good one, People! And don’t take yourself too serious. Life’s too short not to laugh at it once in awhile. Be well.


Catch ya next time, looking at life from my shoes.

Sickness, Catholic Guilt and Italian Sub Sandwiches

OK, so I’m laying here, sick as a dog with bronchitis — or what the Princess likes to fondly call the galloping consumption (and who the hell knows what else I caught while visiting my relatives in the beautiful snow-covered Wasatch Mountains) thinking about eating again, after chowing down an hour and a half ago, and wondering: Is it “feed a cold and starve a fever” or “feed a fever and starve a cold”?


And what, pray tell, do you do for an undernourished, bulbous, sick Buddha belly? Feed it? Starve it? Or send it to bed?


The Cream of Wheat and hard boiled egg that I ate 90 minutes ago isn’t cutting it and thoughts of a sausage and meatball sandwich on a toasted Italian sub roll smothered in parmesan cheese start dancing in my head.


Then suddenly I snap outta my feverish delusion and begin thinking maybe (just MAYBE!) sausage and meatballs loaded with parmesan cheese isn’t a medically sound choice for bronchitis (or my Buddha Belly) and maybe that chicken soup that I made for myself earlier may be a more reasonable choice for such a consumptive malady.




Even when I’m sick, I’m guilty!


You’d think a recovering, guilt-ridden Catholic who has spent many a year cowering in a confessional, searching for absolution from sins so trivial and insignificant that I actually had to lie to sound more important (and spent many a year in therapy discussing why I did just that ) would have better things to do with her time.


But no, not me.


So here I sit, coughing a lung out and feeling sick as a dog (and looking a little blue around the gills) and all I can think about is how I shouldn’t be eating anything as exotic as sausage and meatballs and feeling as guilty as a nun in a house of ill repute.




Enough already!


I say whatever the Buddha Belly wants, the Buddha Belly gets!

(And if the Buddha Belly wants an Italian sub sandwich with a side of cheese puffs, then I say Miss Buddha Belly gets a sub sandwich with some cheese puffs.)


And if the Buddha Belly pukes up said sub sandwich and said cheese puffs then so be it….


Life’s too short and too precious not to enjoy the small stuff.


Go out and have a good one today, People, and be kind to yourself.


Catch ya next time looking at life from my shoes.


Getting Old’s a Bitch! (But it sure beats the alternative!)

The Princess and I took our Buddha bellies out for a stroll in the headlands of Marin County over the weekend and invited a friend to join us.


After all, it’s absolutely gorgeous weather here in draught stricken California and we may not have any water to shower with soon (or drink for that matter!), but boy howdy, it’s sure fantastic weather for taking walks and sight-seeing, lately.


So we’re strolling along the pathway and totally drinking in the sights, playing tourist and snapping pictures of the Golden Gate Bridge and surrounding vistas, when we suddenly hear this young woman behind us remark,


“I’m tellin’ ya, Judy, since I turned 30 my memory’s in the toilet, I’m starting to lose my teeth and I’m ashamed to admit this, but I had to pick up some old people’s diapers at Target ‘cuz I’m starting to lose control of my bladder.”


“Damn!” she continues. “If 30’s this bad, what the hell is 40 gonna look like?”


The three of us wanted to answer her, but we were giggling so hard that the Princess started one of her lung-wrenching coughing spells (that are typical to former smokers and asthmatics) and we had to stop walking, so she could bend over and catch her breath.


At this point, Judy and her diaper-wearing friend, are giving us an “inquisitive look-over” while walking past us and we’re (literally) bent over laughing and coughing while they’re (I’m sure) wondering if we’ve lost what’s left of our menopausal minds.


We seriously wanted to answer this young woman and let her know that it was all down hill from here on out and that she was most certainly going to hell in a hand basket from this point forward, but we couldn’t stop laughing and coughing in time to enlighten her.


Guess there’s certain realizations in a woman’s life that ya just gotta let her find out from her best friend (or better yet, her Momma).


And this just may be one of those moments of awareness.


Life in my shoes is sure silly some days. Have a blessed day, People!


And remember: if you see a toothless, slightly disorientated thirty-something year old (with urine stained pants) be kind. It could be this kid from Marin County!


Catch ya next week for another adventure looking at life in my shoes.


Lucie and the Bermuda Triangle of Zits!

Exercising, as many of you know, is not high on my list of fun activities to do during the week.


So, when medical professionals politely (but strongly) suggested to me and my Buddha Belly that we needed to start a daily exercise routine of some kind, I acquiesced and decided that walking would be a better alternative to, say, belly dancing for Seniors with Miss Bedelia on Wednesdays, or wheelchair racing for crusty curmudgeons with Mr. Karl on Thursdays.


After all, I still have one working knee left and one foot that, for all practical purposes, is able to fit in my shoe with only one orthotic and a little coaxing from my trusty Mickey Mouse shoehorn.


And walking, unlike other activities, is free, can be done most anywhere (including a mall), requires no special equipment, requires neither the companionship of man nor beast, and is truly good “therapy” for both mind and body.


So why do I (Miss Buddha Belly herself) hate it so much?


I don’t seem to mind snarfing down those extra helpings of rigatoni and garlic bread, and I haven’t seen anyone twisting my arm lately to eat the See’s candy that I somehow need after inhaling said plate of pasta; so what, pray tell, bothers me so much about taking my daily, neighborhood walk today?


It wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that I’ve got the Bermuda Triangle on my face in the form of two chin zits and a cold sore on my upper lip the size of all Texas, now would it?


Or could it possibly be that when I’m not in a blue rubber rain suit and barn boots, I’m wearing a pair of ratty sweatpants decorated with paint stains and an old college sweatshirt that is badly in need of a recycle bin? Most everyone else I run into while walking in the morning look like they’re straight outta the “Stepford Wives” and quite stylin’ in their Spandex and Nike running shoes.


(And yes, People, I’ve tried to look stylish myself, don’t ’cha know, but Nike doesn’t make a running shoe that accommodates old lady orthotics. And Spandex IS NOT meant for those of us sportin’ Buddha Bellies or post-menopausal buttocks. I’m not saying there aren’t those among us who haven’t shared that little look with others, just  saying, “I’m not one of those women who wants my belly, booty and bazoomas bouncing around in Spandex for every Tom, Dick and Harry to see, ya know?”)


I might have the occasional dental drool crusted on the front of my shirt or a lotion goober or two glued on my pant leg, and maybe even a little nose snot escaped on my lip every once in a blue moon, but damn, I draw the line when it comes to flappin’ bellies and bubble butts in under-sized Spandex!


A girl’s gotta have a modicum of modesty and humility, ya know?


I may be old and a tad fluffy in the midriff area, but far be it for anyone to tell me that my Spandex-enclosed belly or buttocks is offending anyone!


(It’s not a site my neighbors are going to be seeing anytime too soon. I’ve already got a reputation for being a bit of a “character.” I sure as heck don’t need “Spandex Buddha – Momma” to be added to my list of otherwise colorful descriptions, thank you very much!)




Anyhow, I’m really disgusted with the fact that I’ve got this ugly, monstrous cold sore in the middle of my upper lip, and I’m asking God how the hell I (a verifiable Ross Dept. store Senior citizen) got not one, but TWO ample-sized zits on my chin, when I look up to see one of my “Stepford Wife” neighbors carrying one of those white plastic, 10-gallon kitchen bags (the kind many of us use for our kitchen trash bin) to use for her dainty, little 3 lb. Yorky.


And it hits me!


I’m not the only one outta my bubble this morning who’s lookin’ a tad silly.


At least I’m not walking around the neighborhood with a big ass 10-gallon plastic bag flapping in the breeze to pick up little “Fifi’s” poo!


Thank you, Lord! I needed that moment of silliness.


Think I’ll stick with my Bermuda Triangle of zits and cold sores today, thank you very much.


Go out and have a grand day today, People! And remember: Life in our shoes may not always be easy, but if we take the time to look (really hard!), it’s usually silly…Catch ya next week for another adventure looking at life in my shoes.