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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/997797
by Nada
Rated: 18+ · Other · Community · #997797
The Second edition of the Boomer's Newsletter
B.A.N.G.

Boomers Aging Not Gracefully...

A
Monthly Endeavor of Grandiose Proportions



Issue # 2
August 2005


Hello, and a Happy August to all of the wonderful boomers and the not-quite-there-yet members of this little effort.

As you know, this whole thing began with an innocent blog mention, but the response was incredible, thus I decided to try to make it a reality. Many of you have submitted things for this issue, and it humbles me to have such witty, good writers want to be a part.

I will warn you now, this edition may be a bit rough as I’m having to put it together in one night, due to constraints of my time this month. I hope that you all will give me a few months to settle in as “head gatherer”, and be able to put forth the effort that I want to, and that all of you have done sending me your contributions.

Having said that, I will not blather on, but get right to the wonderful things I received from many of you. Have fun, and feel free to give me constructive comments.




This is the Dawning
By
Rod Emmons

There’s a new day dawning and I’m excited about it! I call it “The Age of
Aquarius, Part II” and if you’re over 50, it will soon be coming to a town near
you. And what is it? It’s a retirement home!

Now don’t boo, or if you’re highly emotional, boohoo. I’m not talking about
one of those old stuffy, morbid places we so rightly dread; not one of those
drab, prison-like environments where little old ladies sit around a card table
and pretend they can paint, and old men wander around in a daze, trying to
figure out how the hell they got there; where the nurses and attendants act
more like baby sitters than health care specialists. Unuh, brother, no sir!

What I’m talking about is a retirement home for the living, one where people
arrive equipped for fun and excitement This is the New Deal, a new age, a
different kind of party, a place where people dance and play and chase each
other around and have a good old time … as in good old days, the days of
Aquarius.

And it’s going to happen, why? (He asks out loud)

Because all us little old Aquarians will be arriving, that’s why.

It’s inevitable. There is no way the retirement homes, and yes, even the
nursing homes, can continue to function as they do if they expect to house us.
It just wouldn’t be acceptable. And I’m here to tell you, some smart operator is
going to figure that out. When he (or she) does, it will be all over but the
shouting … a new breed of home will emerge and before you know it, all the rest
will follow.

Because, children, we … that means all of us born from about 1940 to say 1955 …
are the folks who invented rock and roll (not Allan Freed; he just named it).
Our mid-generation went to Height/Asbury and Woodstock; we smoked dope, dropped
acid, made Jimmi Hendrix famous, wore tie-dye and validated free love (we didn’t
invent that, but we named it). And as we enter our second (or for some, third
and fourth) childhoods, we are not going to be satisfied with Jazzersizing and
playing bridge; nada, not a chance.

Here’s what to expect: A stereo system that goes 24/7, featuring, for the older
of us, the sounds of James Brown feeling good (like he knew he would), and The
Dells singing “Oh What a Night (and they’ll be right). There will be doo-op
and R&B and Motown. For the younger of us, we’ll not only get Hendrix, but
Joplin and Guthrie (Arlo, not Woody) and The (early) Stones.

Organized activities will give way to disorganization. The guys will shoot pool
all day… for money! The gals will make sexy clothes, grow crops (not
necessarily legal), and wear tight-ass jeans (despite the struggle). Somewhere,
there will be a concert, maybe on the lawn, as five slouching gray hairs
electrify their guitars and instruments to the point of piercing ear drums. A
pungent odor … but not that of old folks … will permeate the halls, and no one
will say, “What’s that?” because we will all know. You’ll knock before you
enter another’s room, because if you don’t, you may wind up seeing more than
you’d want … times two … or for some, maybe three. Pictures of Hendrix and
Joplin and others like them will line the walls, covering the stained outline
of the photos that had once been there; those of the company president, the
administrator, the nutritionist. Those people will no longer want their
pictures showing anyway, as they take cover behind the locked doors of the
administration offices. And the nutritionist will have given up, no longer
capable of controlling the ingredients in the brownies and afternoon punch
(which will taste surprisingly like vodka and Cranberry).

Hand holding will give way to ass grabbing, wet kisses and copping feels.
While slow dancing may actually get slower, hip grinding will remain. Viagra
and its counterparts will be administered along with the other drugs. For
those past that option, “C” and “D” batteries will be the hottest commodity in
the commissary. And most of all, everybody will be smiling.

That’s why I’m excited. I know it’s coming, and the more I think about it, the
more anxious I am to get there. Damn, it will be like living in a commune
that’s air conditioned. How you gonna beat that?

******************************************************************************

Now, that you are warmed up, I have accepted a proposal for a monthly column which you may submit questions for. Let me introduce you to Dr. Bubba via his first question and answer:

Dear Dr. Bubba,

I am just a normal, everyday guy and I got me a girl friend. Now we been dating
since the last family reunion and we really do love each other. The problem is
that lately she has taken to reading that dang Cosmo magazine and she has
started complaining to me that I never hit her G spot. She said that the
magazine told her that the G spot was real important when making love.

Dr. Bubba I don't even know WHAT the dang spot is, much less how to find
it...can you give a boy some help here?

Signed: Lost in Little Rock

Dear Lost:

Son you are not alone. Ever since that dang rag has started to poke it's nose
into the bedroom the dang women have been demanding more and more attention
from us hard working men.

It is no longer enough that we give em a ride, now they gotta actually ENJOY
it...go figure.

Well, you are in luck my friend because Dr. Bubba has taken it upon himself to
discover just where a boy has to go to find this dang spot.

Now as near as I can tell, on most women, and I have checked out quite a few,
its fairly simple to find.

First thing you do is enter the Tunnel of Love, then you head north just a bit
till you get to WHOOO HOO! Once you're there just turn a bit east and keep
going until you enter the OH MY GOD region and there you are! You have found
the spot.

A bit of advise though. Try not to seek out that spot every dang time you take
a ride cause if ya do then they are gonna start expecting all that extra work
every time. You have to keep em guessing.

(Have any of you guessed who our Dr. Bubba is?)

******************************************************************************

Next up is a familiar voice to us all by now, CC, and a very necessary list of words and definitions known to us as CC’isms in his blogs and comments.

CC’isms
Created soley by CC


Dang = Darn,WOW,Oh-NO,I can't beleive it.

Stuff= Things I forgot the name of.

Stuffage= A pile of stuff

Thang = Is a thing with style

Thud = Is the sound ya hear when someone hits the floor

Flung= something tossed or thrown

Flapper= is a mouth

Flappage= talk, babble,jibber jabber,
way to much talk without much real meaning.

Flapperface= A person that will talk till
until your ears bleed.

SaaaWeeeeeeeT= very good or very nice. it said like sweet
ya just stretch it out.

Whacked= not good, just plain nasty..Or getting Hit.

and well ya know about Bloggercide and bloggnapped now. heheee

Terlet= toilet

Serwercide = a person killed by the rising tide of poo-poo coming out anothers mouth.


*****************************************************************************

Gee, I know it is tough to follow that, but Forever In Blue Jeans has written something wonderful and I hope that you all enjoy it as much as I did.

Vaccinophobia or Belonephobia?
Written by Forever In Blue Jeans

When I was young I had a romantic dream. I wanted to be a nurse when I grew up. I have absolutely no idea what inspired this notion because none of our friends and nobody in our family was in the medical profession. I recall reading a series of children’s novels where the heroine – Susan, I think she was called – became a nurse. Her life seemed idyllic – she spent her days handing out prescriptions, comforting sick patients and socializing with nursing friends. She even married a nice doctor!

My dream came to an abrupt end when I was ten years old. My sister was in the local clinic with an infected thumb, and had to have a small operation to have the contaminated tissue removed. The day she left the clinic one of the nurses showed my parents how to apply a dressing to the afflicted area. I was standing with them, and when I saw the stitches on either side of the thumb and watched the nurse tucking her scissors into her pocket my dream started to falter.

“What does she need those scissors for, Mum?” I asked, nervously.
“To cut the old dressing off,” was the reply.

This didn’t answer my question, so I persevered.
“What else does she do with them?”
“I don’t know – removes stitches, cuts plasters -”

Her reply was drowned by my sister’s howl of pain as the nurse injected her in the arm with a final dose of antibiotics. I’d noticed the nurse removing the syringe from her pocket earlier, and although I didn’t see her attach the needle and inject my sister I saw her remove the needle from my screaming sibling’s arm.

As we left the clinic I noticed every single nurse we passed had a pair of scissors AND a syringe peeking out of her pocket – remember this is 1972 I’m talking about! I suddenly thought with horror that perhaps the nurses had cut the afflicted flesh from my sister’s thumb. The thought of having to cut people open and push needles into their flesh appalled me, and the nursing dream disappeared forever.

Of course in the years that followed I had plenty of experience with needles. When I had my ears pierced when I was 16 I fainted – it wasn’t sore, just the thought of piercing my flesh made me feel weak! I tore my palm open playing with my dogs and had to sit while a doctor sewed it back together with six stitches – although I couldn’t feel the needle entering my flesh the thought of the thread pulling through my flesh was simply awful. And dentists – the worst injections imaginable! Finally I spent two months in hospital and endured more injections than I ever thought possible. But this time I had to face The Drip, and the feeling of that huge needle in my hand was dreadful… I couldn’t bear to look at it. But every time I moved I knocked it and hurt myself. And every time the sheets brushed over it its presence was made known.

Fast forward sixteen years… by this time I’d learned to tolerate injections by refusing to watch as the needle slowly pierced my skin. I think this phobia is a gift from my father, who is terrified of needles. Neither of us can watch an injection on television – that’s why I’ve only ever watched one episode of Ultimate Makeover! At the end of January 2003 my husband had undergone his third hip replacement in Greece. The Greek doctor sent him home four days early – on condition that he completed a course of anti-coagulant injections. In his stomach.

There was a deafening silence from me as he assured the Doctor he'd be able to give himself the injections. I realized later he was so desperate to get out of hospital he would have said anything. When we got home he said he couldn’t face injecting himself. There was absolutely no way I was going to do it, so I drove to the village and spoke to the chemist, Stallios, who said if I could get the patient down there in the evenings he'd do it for us. Happy that I’d found a solution I bundled him into the car and to Stallios who did his thing.

The following afternoon it started to snow quite heavily, but it didn't look to bad by 5.30. I was determined to get to Stallios, so I put my husband in the car and we managed to get down the driveway and onto the street. It was snowing, albeit lightly, but the road was pretty clear so I drove very slowly down the hill and over the bridge. As we started to climb up the hill towards the village the car tyres began slipping on the ice. My husband told me to slow down, which I did. Of course I got stuck. So I got the snow spikes out of the car boot and put the first one on.

As I was fitting the second a Greek turned into the road, saw us and drove down the hill for a bit before stopping his car. He got out and came over to offer to help me, but he used chains not spikes and didn’t know how to put them on. As he stood up his car began to slide down the hill. Towards us. The heat from his tyres and engine had melted the ice. My husband was sitting in the car, unable to get out. The Greek screamed "No! No! No!" and rushed around my car towards the bonnet where his car was heading. I could do nothing - stood in the snow waiting for the metal to crunch as the cars hit. He got between the cars and somehow pushed his car out of the way so it went sideways and stopped when it ran into a pile of leaves on the side of the road. The cars were just an inch apart. It was a miracle that they did not collide. I had to reverse down the hill before I could put the second spider on, and we managed to get to the chemist. My husband was in a terrible state and I was crying. Stallios was sympathetic, particularly when I told him it was our fifteenth wedding anniversary! What a wonderful gift to remember that anniversary!

The following day was sunny, but bitterly cold. All around us the snow turned to ice. At 5.30 I checked around the car to see how bad the ice was. It was slippery, and I realised the patient and his crutches wouldn't be able to go down the five steps at our front door into the car. My heart sank…

I poured us both a whisky. I had two sips from my glass – I drink my whisky on the rocks. I got the prepared syringe and needle out of the packet, and with some cotton wool and surgical spirits I wiped my husbands trembling stomach. I was shaking as I put the needle to his skin. He flinched, I gasped and lifted the injection up as he burst out laughing. Furious I lowered the needle back to his skin, focused on that particular patch of skin rather than the person and pushed. As the needle slid in he stopped laughing, and I pressed the plunger so the anti-coagulant was released. When it was empty I pulled the needle out, wiped the tiny hole in his skin with surgical spirits and put the empty syringe down on the table. Then I downed the rest of my whisky.

I completed the remaining course of his injections. It wasn’t easy, and certainly hasn’t helped me conquer my phobia. But at least I know that in an emergency I’d have the strength to administer an injection. Right now I have discovered a new fear – fear of becoming a diabetic and having to inject myself!

Where’s that whisky gone?
******************************************************************************

Next up to bat is our dear friend Tor with his hysterically funny submission:


The Heartbreak of Regressive Cranial Delusion (RCD)
Written by Tor


Forget all the hype about AADD and Alzheimers, Regressive Cranial Delusion
(RCD) has been around as long as there have been men and is responsible for
untold problems, both phyical and social in middle aged men.

RCD is an insidious decease that usually manifests itself in the human male
when he reaches his middle years, usually about fifty or so.

RCD effects the middle-aged man's brain and causes it to operate as if it was
still twenty five years old and not fifty or fifty five.

As you can see, when the male brain is in the clutches of this terrible
disorder the brain will continually write checks which it's middle aged body
just can not cash any longer. Sad, very sad indeed.

I am one of the legion of suffers of RCD and I am now undergoing the only known
cure which is almost as painful as the disease itself. The only way a middle
aged man can become free of RCD is to have his wife close by at the onset of
symptoms so that she can strike him over the head sharply with a blunt
instrument and yell: "YOU ARE NOT TWENTY FIVE ANY LONGER YOU BIG DUMMY!"

If you are wondering if you or a loved one might be suffering from RCD there
are a few warning signs to look for....

Men, if you suddenly find yourself involved in a full court basketball game
with a bunch of college aged jocks and you have to stop for a bathroom break
when trying to run from one end of the court to the other...you might have
RCD.

If you spot some cutie walking past you on the sidewalk and you give her "THE
LOOK" which use to make all the girls swoon and she just rolls her eyes and
looks for a cop...you might have RCD.

Also if the same girl you just gave "THE LOOK" to hurries over to hold the door
open for you and calls you sir....you might have RCD.

If at any time you find you have the almost irristable urge to yank some
twentysomething, loudmouth drunk up out of his seat and beat the tar out of
both him and his three buddies
only to trip over your walker halfway across the barroom.....YOU MIGHT HAVE
RCD!!

The only way to combat this terrible condition is to do what I have done and
undergo the cure. Hopefully you will have a good woman by your side willing to
take the time to administer the medicine.

I just wish she didn't enjoy doing it so dang much!

**********************************************************


Scarlett has graciously allowed the use of a poem that she wrote about something we can relate to:

WEIGHING IT UP
Written by Scarlett



Tonight I’m on a girl's night out and in my head that’s great,
Because in there, I’m young and slim and I haven’t put on weight.
But there’s this hippo in my mirror though I’m sure it can’t be me,
For everything I’ve had today’s been fat and sugar free.


No, I’m sure that I’m much slimmer; I could never be that size,
That’s someone else who’s looking out or my mirror’s telling lies.
But I know I’m fooling no one and it’s giving me the hump.
To think that skinny thing I was, has turned into a lump.


I don’t know how it happened, or when it came about,
But the sylph-like girl I used to be is now quite squat and stout.
So, how to dress for a girl’s night out, when I want to look the part,
But the clothes I own are all too small and I don’t know where to start?


Let’s search the drawer of underwear, pick out that ‘cross your heart’ bra,
At least once inside that contraption, these melons won’t stray far.
Then hunt out those Bridget Jones knickers, with panels at front back and side.
I’ll struggle to breathe or bend over, but they’ll keep all the flab trapped inside.


Now squeeze into my little black number; it’s the colour to make me look thin,
Then step into high heels to look taller and remember to hold it all in.
So, I’ll pass for tonight as we sample the bars and I try to drown my sorrow.
Then I’ll fall into bed and vow yet again, ‘My diet starts tomorrow!’

********************************************************************************************************************

The last submission for this edition is one I received early on, and I thought it would be perfect to end our first round of submissions!

PHENONENAL PYROTECHNICS
Written by Rixfarmgirl

“The pyrotechnics are phenomenal this year, Helen. Such brilliant exploding colors! Have we ever seen anything so beautiful? ”

“No, Honey. Oh, look, look!”

“Ah-h-h……… magnificent!

Boom! Crack! "Wow!" Whistle!

“And there—--see it’s a shimmering silver Statue of Liberty!”

“Let’s watch in the dark, Sweetheart. Can you reach the lamp?”

******************************************************************************

A Final Few Words
Written by Nada

I have enjoyed putting this together, and I hope you folks enjoyed the efforts of all of the wonderful submissions. Now that this one is about to be put to bed, it is time to start thinking of September’s. You realize that without such great writers as yourselves, none of this would be possible, and I thank each and every one of you for helping me out.

That leads me to a few questions, and in keeping with Scarlett’s lists of five here they are:

1.) Anyone want to submit for September’s issue? (See Nada beg.}

2.) How does “Funny Fall Tales” sound as a theme? (Feel free to submit a theme, I am not married to it, LOL.)

3.) How should we be using our Gift Points, so generously donated? (We have a total of 71,557, and the donors are listed. For future reference, send any GP’s to group #991733.}

4.) Have a question for Dr. Bubba? Feel free to ask and I will pass it along.

5.) Would anyone care to join me in wishing A VERY HAPPY BIRTHDAY to our Scarlett on Friday? *Smile* *Hug1**hug**Hug2* *Kiss* All for you Special Lady!
© Copyright 2005 Nada (frasier at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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