humor

The CPAP Struggles of a 93 Year Old

I love that commercial with all the people in the CPAP support group sitting in a circle wearing masks and hoses with the sound of air whooshing around them.

There seems to be universal agreement that the darned thing is a pain in the you-know-what.

My mom also struggles mightily with that machine. She’s 93 and has lived her whole life without any trouble sleeping. She’s awake and perky all day long too — no feelings of tiredness. But they ran a test and presto, now she’s a CPAP user!

She hates everything about it.

My dad helps her get “suited up” before bed each night, tightening the straps around her head, careful to keep her hair from getting caught in the elastic.

She keeps her “sippy cup” on the night stand next to the bed because of the dry-mouth she struggles with. But to take a sip, she has to disengage the hose that extends out of the mask in front of her mouth. Then she can poke the straw from the sippy cup in through the small hole where the hose was connected. After that she plugs the hose back in. She does this multiple times each night.

Mom says the elastic straps pinch her head causing her scalp to itch. And during the night, her mask loosens up and air leaks out of it causing a whistling sound that wakes up my dad.

Mom: Hey, stop pushing me!

Dad: You’re leaking

Mom: All I want to do is sleep!

Dad: Fix it – I want to sleep too!

So Mom gets up to turn off the machine and free herself from the plastic contraption. This is usually in the early hours. Then she sleeps great for the rest of the night.

They’ve fiddled around with that thing for years, ordering new masks in an effort to find one that fits better. Recently they discovered Mom can wear one that only covers her nose instead of her mouth too. But the company sent her the wrong masks so now she has a big bag full of the wrong kind. And they can’t send them back because they already opened the box. (Sigh)

I keep urging her to consider having the Aspire implant put in under her chin, so she doesn’t have to struggle with the darned CPAP. But she’s hesitant and probably a little afraid of the surgery. If it were me, I’d get it done in a hot minute. (This is not an endorsement and I get no money for mentioning the Aspire implant here.)

But it seems like everyone these days are hooked up to a CPAP. There are reports that they are over-prescribed and some say that losing weight and/or sleeping on your side can reduce or eliminate symptoms. (Another disclaimer: This is not medical advice. I am not a medical professional. I don’t even own a white jacket.)

There’s got to be a better way for folks to get a good nights sleep without “waking” multiple times gasping for air and without fighting with a hose and mask contraption.

My husband and I have agreed we just won’t go there.

Neither of us want to roll over in bed and see the other with an octopus strapped to their face!

New Year Discoveries and Determinations

Happy New Year! Blessings on you all. I hope you’ve had a happy, safe, sane holiday season and I want to thank you for your enthusiastic support of my scribblings. As we head into 2025 there are some discoveries I’ve made and determinations I’ve formed which may be of interest to you. At the very least, I hope it’ll motivate you or provoke a few smiles.

Post Braces Benefits

First, (yahoo!) I finally got my braces off! I’ve had them on since last January and there were days when it was a mighty struggle to maintain patience. (If you missed it, read all about my frustrations with braces). But now that they’re off, I’m free to eat all the gooey foods I had to avoid — like pizza!

You’d think I would have lost weight during the year of “deprivation,” but nooo! So my New Year’s “to do” goals are to shave off a few pounds and increase my exercise. Thank goodness for my husband who urges me to walk the 1.5 miles around our neighborhood with him. We’ll see how disciplined I can be to keep that up during these cold, windy winter months. (I’m afraid I said this last year, didn’t I?)

The Fountain of Youth

But there is one area where I’ve had success. I read an article about how drinking alcohol contributes to aging and leads to the bruise spots that appear on my forearms whenever I bump into something. So, no more wine for me! Not that I’ve had a lot of it – about 4 oz. in the evening and whenever we went out for dinner. But since I’ve cut it out, the bruises have all but disappeared. I’m also saving myself some calories and we’re not spending as much at the grocery store. Yippee! The jury’s still out on the aging benefits though. Despite my best efforts, I’m sure I can only fool Mother Nature for so long.

I gave up wearing makeup/foundation this year once I learned it fills up the cracks in my face and accentuates wrinkles. (Yep, I have plenty of those.) I also discovered that when I’m outside and the wind blows, sand accumulates in my crows feet. Good grief. Sometimes I feel like a walking Navajo sandpainting.

So I’ll drink more water to plump up those facial lines and keep the wrinkle wolves at bay.

Fun with Food

With all the talk of chemicals in our food, I’m paying more attention to the ingredients on labels. I used to spray Pam to coat cookie sheets, etc. I thought we were safe because they proclaim “no preservatives, colors, flavors” — that is, until I looked on the back of the can. Holy cow, whatever is Dimethyl Silicone anyway? They say it’s an “anti-foaming agent.” (It makes me think of fire retardant.) Instead I’ll be using plain old butter and olive oil.

Now I was on a roll so just out of curiosity, I googled “food additives in bakery products” and found this article…

It appears there’s quite a list of hard-to pronounce chemicals swirling around in our favorite cookies, crackers and coffee cake. Makes me want to break out the flour and start baking from scratch. But even flour is jam-packed with all kinds of additives I can’t pronounce. I wonder how the Europeans do it. Their food is relatively free of chemicals. Recently I heard of someone moving back to Paris after getting allergies from U.S. cuisine. Turns out, she was healthier in France. So don’t get me started on the palm oil, corn syrup and lead in our cinnamon.

In pursuit of healthier choices, last year I decided honey would be a wiser option than sugar to sweeten my coffee. I also thought it would cut some calories. But again, curiosity got the best of me and I looked at the label. Considering the amount of honey I’ve poured into my coffee, I discovered that between the two, sugar has fewer calories. It’s also cheaper. Honey is $11.00 a bottle!

So the choice is clear — either bide your time and hope that smart people get rid of the toxic sludge in our foods, or look at the labels and throw out the contents of half your pantry. No more white bread, processed cheese or Cream of Mushroom Soup casseroles!

In the meantime, our counter is covered with plates of cookies, a chunk of fudge, apple pie and chocolate covered pecans. Easily within reach, we’re doing our best to whittle down that supply of sugar. I figure, once we’ve eaten it all up we can pursue a more healthy diet.

It’s best to start the New Year with a clean slate, don’t ya think?

Have a wonderful New Year, friends!

The Engineer’s Wife

I married an engineer.

You’re talking to a woman who doesn’t balance her checkbook, goes by the rule “good enough IS enough” and cooks by the seat of her pants. As my former boss knows all too well, the term “planning” is anathema to me. Risk assessment is a phrase I’ve never much dwelled on. Project management scares me silly and “measure twice, cut once” is a lesson I still haven’t learned.

Enter my wonderful husband, Doug.

He balances his checkbook to the penny, glories in the magic of spreadsheets, color codes his calendar and keeps emails longer than I’ve kept tax records.

I’ve learned a lot in the four short years we’ve been married.

For example: it’s “soil” not dirt; it’s “concrete” not cement; and it’s “fuel” not gas.

I’ve grown used to pillow-talk on Subsurface Utility Engineering, foundation design, reinforced concrete slab, erosion control BMP (best management practices), traffic control device spacing and signal timing.

Oooo, baby! Whisper it to me slowly!

When we read in bed, I’m absorbed in Jerry Jenkins’ Left Behind books. Doug is knee deep in Reinforced Concrete Design.

We have baggies of “soil” all over the house and a jar of dirt and water measuring the separation of clay and sand. The official name is “Sediment Suspension Test” in case you were wondering. The jar sits among other decorative items on our fireplace mantle. While Doug observes sediment layers measured in centimeters, I see an image of snow covered sage bushes.

He’s planning a leach field for our future home and texts me love notes of holes in the ground with protruding measuring implements. Last year for Christmas I got him the Survey Linker Rod he asked for. I call it a BMS – Big Measuring Stick.

Our dinner conversations are all about perc tests and clay deposits.

The garage is now organized with every rake and shovel and broom in their own special spot. A tennis ball hangs to indicate the exact spot to park the car. Tools nest in drawers according to size and function.

When I hang a picture on the wall, it’s a hit or miss process. He’ll measure from stem to stern (he’s a Navy guy) to find the right place for the nail. I marvel at how he only needs one hole to do the job right.

Yet, I’m the fussy one when it comes to loading the dishwasher. I re-arrange to get maximum cleanliness. And God help anyone who puts plates in the wrong spot. I’m sensitive to water flow and soap dispersion, ya know.

Together we make a great pair. We poke fun at our quirks and find plenty to laugh about. I love his wit and sense of humor. He puts up with my penchant to collect books, boxes and old furniture.

I call him “Cookie Monster” ‘cause he sneaks out of bed at night to raid the pantry. He calls me “Blondie” although these days, it’s more a pet name than a fact.

We’re lucky we found each other. And he’s the best Cabin Dude this Cabin Mama could ever have hoped for!

Cooking With Pearls

My siblings and I have a talented Mom who turns tuna, noodles and mushroom soup into a feast fit for a king. Our memories are filled with bubbling pots of savory stews, creamy casseroles and mouth-watering desserts. Mom made liver look good. She dedicated her time and creativity to keep six stomachs full while my Dad worked non-stop to feed his happy horde.

My brothers watch the Food Network. For fun. They glory in barbecue, brisket, spices and sauce. If you want their attention, just whisper, “Talk foodie for me.” My sister will whip up a quiche at the drop of a hat and serve countertops full of delectable dishes at each family gathering.

But me? I’m not a cook.

I read recipes the same way I read science fiction. I get to the end and say to myself, ‘Well, that’s not going to happen!’ — Rita Rudner

You’ll never catch me floating around the house in an apron and pearls looking like June Cleaver or Julia Child. Before the wildfire, I had a few cookbooks and a recipe box I rarely opened. I make a mean banana bread, but will serve up the same simple fare for a long suffering sweetie who loves me for my conversational skills. I’ve been known to scrape and serve burned toast and disguise lumpy gravy with onions.

Of course, baking a birthday cake at 7500 feet can present some problems. But I wanted my son to beam with pride and family to swoon in delight at my scrumptious concoction. I would blush, careful not to steal the limelight, but bask in just enough glory and adulation to be memorable.

“What? Me? Another Julia Child? Aw, c’mon, you don’t really mean that! You DO? No, it’s nothing, really. I made it from scratch in my spare time from an old family recipe.”

The beep of a pre-heated oven snapped me back to reality. It was time to get down to business, so I read the high altitude tips on the back of the box. In went the extra flour with water and butter. I prepared the pans, poured in the delectable goo and popped them both through the oven door. And then I prayed. I prayed to The Pioneer Woman for just a smidge of success, secretly hoping one day I too could make it big from a blog.

The moment of truth arrived. T’was time to cast my eyes upon the miracle I’d made. Two golden orbs of sweet smelling deliciousness stared up at me. I carefully lifted them up and out of the oven, knowing a tap on the counter would free them from their buttery bonds. I would marvel at my skill as each layer fell gracefully (in slow motion) ever-so-gently onto the plate below.

But something was terribly wrong. The darned things were sticking.

If I wasn’t careful, I would soon have a crumbly mess. Large chunks would rip away, revealing grotesquely gaping holes. No amount of frosting would disguise it. I could see those family faces now — eyes wide in shock, mouths twisted in disgust at the senseless destruction of a perfectly good cake. My son would race from the room, sobbing uncontrollably.

It was time for drastic action. Deftly removing my pearls, I reached for my weapons and slowly walked towards whatever fate would deal me. Cold and unforgiving in my grip, these instruments of force were intricately carved, handed down from my great-grandfather through the generations — only to be used if there was no other resort. My son tried to intervene, but I shook him off, demanding he run for cover. I stopped and planted my feet on the hard, dusty ground.

(The theme song from Clint Eastwood’s The Good, The Bad and The Ugly played in the background.)

“This. Ends. Here.” I growled.

With a steady gaze and a lightening fast flip of my spatulas, the uncooperative cakes broke free and landed with a thud, lifeless and beaten. Overhead, turkey buzzards circled in the blinding sunshine and shimmering heat, waiting for a chance to attack their meal.

Oh wait, those were my guests! They came, they sat, they devoured everything in sight. My son looked at me differently that day and forever after. And I, dear reader, now knew how it felt to be tested, revel in the thrill of victory and take my place alongside bakery bastions, heroes and legends!

A Mechanically Challenged Cabin Mama

My husband brought home a tractor. It’s big, green and comes from Mr. John Deere.

And he’s as happy as a pig in “you-know-what” moving dirt around. I was amazed at how many levers and controls are on the thing. The owner’s manual is about three inches thick, but he worked his way through it in just a few hours. He’s an engineer, so to him, this how-to guide is like a romance novel to the rest of us. Then he hopped right up in the driver’s seat and took control of it like the macho man he is. (I can just imagine the book cover now!)

Me? I’m still afraid of my InstantPot. I got it for Christmas and have yet to cook anything in it. My daughter (who gave me the gift) encourages me by saying, “Mom, it’s not much different than cooking on the stove.” But still I hesitate. My guess is that once I use it a few times, I’ll want to InstantPot every meal we eat. Then, I’ll expect a blue ribbon and tons of praise for my efforts, thank you very much!

Yes, I admit it; I’m mechanically challenged. My daughter, however, spent 30 minutes on YouTube then changed the timing belt on her SUV. I was so proud of her I almost busted my buttons! Me, on the other hand, I never even learned how to change the oil in my car. (She can do that too.)

Yours truly has been known to drive around with the parking break on.

It’s not because I’m blonde (most days). It’s not because I don’t have enough grey matter — I’m a pretty sharp cookie (most days). I just have a healthy fear and respect for the risks involved should something go wrong. Let’s just say I’d rather not be thought a fool should I fail. If I do fail, I’d rather it be with devices that don’t do much damage or cost a lot to repair. Our manual can opener is a good bet.

When my oldest was five, he pushed me aside from a kitchen gadget I was trying to fix and said, “Here Mom, I’ll do that for you!” And by golly, he did. Even HE could tell I was in over my head. It’s moms like me who hate to admit, “So easy a five year old can do it!”

Even my 90 year old mother puts me to shame. She can wield a glue gun like nobody’s business and whip up a silk flower wreath in sixty minutes or less. Gosh darn, I’m lucky I can maneuver my curling iron.

The other day my husband asked me if I wanted to get in the driver’s seat and take the tractor for a spin. I rolled my eyes and reminded him I hadn’t even tried out the lawn mower yet.

Maybe I’m not so dumb after all!

Cats Gone Crazy

There I was, wrapping gifts on my bed with plastic bags, wrapping paper, boxes and ribbons laying around. Both cats were in the room and they were having a heyday playing with the paper clippings and plastic wrappers.

(My cats as kittens)

It was a beautiful summer day and I had both the big windows open looking out over the distant hills and the street below. The breeze fluttered through and made for a very calm and peaceful afternoon.

But then it happened. Missy got herself tangled up in a plastic bag and it freaked her out! She tore around on the bed trying to get the bag off, then leapt to the floor and did laps around the bedroom. The bag sailed behind her like a piece of unfurled boat canvas. I tried to no avail to catch her. She was too fast for me and as much as I tried, she eluded my grasp, darting around the bed, under the dresser and over the headboard.

That wasn’t all! Our other cat, Fuzzy, saw Missy’s turmoil and tore off after her. I don’t know why she freaked out too, but emotions must be just as catchy in animals as they are with humans.

So now I had TWO cats streaking around the bedroom in circles! They were becoming more frantic by the minute and it seemed like this went on for ages! I ran to the bedroom door and slammed it shut to keep them from getting out, which seemed to make them even more panicky. Before I could catch either one of them, Missy leapt towards the window. She flew straight through the screen and sailed out into the open air. Two stories up. Then, Fuzzy jumped right out after her!

Two cats sailed out into the wild blue yonder with nothing below to catch them but grass. I ran to the window to see if they were okay and when I looked down, the cats were nowhere to be seen.

However, below stood a stunned couple standing stock still, looking up at me as I looked down at them. Their mouths were wide open, then they burst into laughter. Doubled over and barely able to breathe, the woman said, “That’s the funniest thing we’ve ever seen! Cats flying out of a window — it isn’t something you see everyday!”

It was pretty funny when I think back on it. Fortunately the cats were okay and I was able to corral them back into the house. They were shaken, panting hard and scared as the dickens! It’ll teach me to leave plastic bags lying around where they can get into them. I should resort to something less tempting — either that or shut my windows!

Moving Out of the Townhouse and Into a Cabin

I can’t think of anything more fun than moving. (Did I just write that out loud?) It’s especially “enjoyable” when you’ve been in one place for decades and accumulated lots of stuff — kid stuff, office stuff, hand-me-down stuff, garage sale stuff, family heirlooms and day to day necessities. Yup, we’d pared down before, shrinking from a monstrous Victorian money-trap to a much smaller abode. I was ready. I knew how to do it. I girded my loins. (Can you hear the Rocky theme song?)

I figured a week between the cabin closing and renters taking over our townhouse should be just about right. Seven days seemed like enough time to clean, drag out the dirty shag carpet, install tile and redo the hardwood floors. We had a schedule and everyone had a part to play. I was pretty impressed with my organizational prowess.

Then they changed the closing date.

All of a sudden, my carefully laid plan looked like the candy conveyor belt scene from I Love Lucy. Now, we’d close late on Friday and renters would move in on Sunday

The race was on! Once I had those keys in my hot little hands, I skedaddled out to the woods and unlocked doors for the flooring guy. Back at the townhouse, a few hardy souls appeared, enticed by the offer of pizza and beer. They filled and stacked towers of boxes that swayed to the sounds of My Life Would Suck Without You by Kelly Clarkson. Cats ran for cover and cowered behind the dryer. We worked until midnight knowing our efforts would surely make the next day so much easier.

Morning dawned, full of hope and promise. I got the donuts, commandeered a truck and lurched my way back to the townhouse, expecting to see hordes of eager volunteers. Two lone relatives greeted me at the door, then turned their attention to the donuts.

Where WAS everyone? The clock was ticking and that truck was empty! Turns out, it WAS a great day for a friend to treat most of my movers to a leisurely breakfast. I ask you, what better way to ease into the day?

By Noon our gang was working like a well-oiled machine. We packed and loaded, hour after hour. But without knowing how or why, stuff magically reappeared in closets and corners we knew we’d already cleared. It was as if we were bailing water from a sinking ship. When would it EVER END, I cried in dismay!

Meanwhile, out in the woods…

Boxes were emptied into the dark and dirty recesses of a one-car garage. Furniture littered the driveway and deck. Only once did an inconveniently placed tree interfere with the truck’s front bumper. Slowly, the clutter diminished at one site and rose at the other, like bubbles foaming from a pot of pea soup.

Hungry and tired, we gathered for pizza under the pines. The piano was in the kitchen and the couch was outside by the front door. The only thing missing were a few corncob pipes, a jug of moonshine and a banjo.

As dark descended, my trusty movers drove off and I was left with the cats. They crept from one room to the next, lurking around corners and moaning like tortured souls. They jumped up on window sills, then leaped to the floor and took off like something was after them.

Those windows were big and bare, so I hurried to drape them before who-knows-what discovered I was in there — all alone. I tore open cartons and pulled out one blanket after another. Thankful to find a hammer and nails, my anxiety level dropped with every window I covered.

Time to sleep, but where were the rest of our blankets? I would freeze rather than take them down from the windows. So I curled up under some throw rugs, dozing and waking to the moans of two neurotic cats. They wouldn’t shut up; it sounded like a horror movie. I heard every sound that night.

And I kept telling myself, “Well, it WAS you who wanted a cabin in the woods.”

But soon morning dawned. Again, full of hope and promise.

I opened the front door to the smell of piney air and sunlight streaming through the trees. Dew glistened on the grass. The deer scampered about. Bluebirds swooped down and draped ribbons through my hair.

(I get carried away sometimes.)

If you’ve ever moved, you know how nice it feels to have the packing and stacking part over and done with. Then you sit back, look around at all those boxes screaming for attention, roll up your sleeves and…

…pour yourself a big glass of wine!

Horse Crazy Gal Finally Gets a Pony

How many of us will admit to being a little horse crazy as a kid? When I was a young ‘un, I lined the shelves in my bedroom with lots of little plastic horse statues, hoping one day I’d get to own a real one.

When my parents took us six kids to a winter festival, we sat on a sled with hay bales pulled by a team of huge draft horses. I remember telling my mom, “I love the smell of horses!”

(I’m the one in red)

My sisters and I would pretend to be Palominos, Appaloosas, Arabians and Mustangs. We’d run through the woods, whinnying and pawing the air with our “hooves” to prove just how wild and untamed we really were.

I dreamed of having an office one day like Wilbur on TV. His horse, Mr. Ed, would hang his head over the stall door that separated the barn from the architect’s place of business. Ah, the best of both worlds!

Then I grew up. I rode whenever a chance occurred, took a few riding lessons and vowed one day I’d have my own horse. But the time never came. I got married and the kids came along, which took most of our resources to keep up with. And later on when I bought the cabin, there wasn’t enough room to board a horse on that little spot in the woods.

But my new boyfriend had owned a horse. And he had built himself a small barn to keep “Sonny” in.

So early on in our dating adventures, he invited me over for dinner and gave me a tour of the place. He had a saddle in the basement, horse blankets on a stand and ropes on the wall, just like a real cowboy!

He even called me “Darlin’” with that country kind of drawl. (Every time he calls me “Darlin” it gives me goosebumps!)

But there was more! “C’mon out to the barn,” he said. “I’ve got something to show you.”

He slid open the door and sunshine streamed across the dirt floor to the hay bales stacked against the rough wooden panels.

“I know you’ve been hankerin’ for a horse, so I got you one.”

And there it was, with sunlight bathing its long brown mane and a white blaze across its forehead. It stood there placid, silent and serene and stared deep into my eyes.

My very own stick pony!

He urged me to take it for a ride, but I knew I was too much of a novice to do it justice. So I just took it home and it shares my office. Just like Wilbur and Mr. Ed!