Throughout my life I’ve heard reports on my mom’s aging process.

One thing that has remained constant is her belief that that the younger you are, the juicier you are. Therefore, you dry up as you get older.

She has this idea that we start life as grapes and end up as raisins.

She would point out various parts of her body to illustrate her point. One favorite form of “proof” is comparing her hands to mine: the bones on the back of her hand protrude more,  therefore she is more “dried up” than I.

She says, “Look! All the meat is shriveling, that’s why my bones are showing.”

I’m not quite sure how to respond to that.

She says, “You know why older woman have a fuzzy face?”

I say, “I think it’s due to some kind of hormonal change.”

She says, “They are drying up! What happens is that their skin is shrinking so the hairs look longer!”

I say, “Hmmm.”

There is a strange appeal to her juicy/young, dry/old, grape/raisin logic.

The logical side of me is thinking about the aging process: cellular breakdown, loss of collagen, and sun damage.

The creative and emotional side of me thinks that drying up is a good enough explanation of aging as I’ve seen.

You start out as a grape and you slowly dry out until you’re a raisin. Any attempts to make to retain your youthfulness are really attempts to add “juice.”

Mom points out how celebrities add fillers like collagen injections to look juicy. They are trying to plump out the raisin.

Appealing as mom’s logic is, it also drives me a bit nuts.

I don’t want to view aging as a process of drying out. We’re not supposed to be grapes forever.

Besides, how many people do you know who look young but are all dried up inside? And what about all those “old folks” who are full o’ juice?

What makes a person juicy?

• A positive attitude.
• Creativity.
• Curiosity.
• A sense of humor, an appreciation of the absurd.
• Self-acceptance

Dorothy Parker said, “Beauty is only skin deep, but ugly goes clean to the bone.”

There is truth to that statement.

Most people worry about the skin and not so much about what is within.

Anne Lamott said, “Joy is the best makeup.”

I know I’ll become a raisin.  But I hope to remain juicy.
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So sayeth my mom.

“Beauty is like social currency, the more you have, and the more popular you are.”

My mom was quite the hottie in her day.  She’s still pretty cute but when she was younger?

Dang.

My mom is like most attractive women – she feels her worth it tied to her looks: the prettier you are, the more you are worth.

Beauty fades.

My mom is struggling with aging.

But it’s more than the aches and pains that she struggles with, it’s her feeling that she’s no longer attractive.

Aging ain’t pretty: the body slows down, the skin sags, and parts start to break down.

When beauty is your currency, you’re going to run out of cash.

Mom feels poor and there’s nothing I can do to make her feel rich.

She thrusts out her arms, showing me the back of her hands. Her hands are slender and traced with pale green veins, the fingers slightly bent from arthritis.

“Look at this! All dried up!” she tells me.

“I’m no longer juicy, ” she says, pointing to the delicate bones in her hand.

“Young folks are juicy. When you’re young you’re a grape. When you’re old, you’re a raisin.”

According to mom, it’s better to be juicy; life is good as a grape.

My mom is creative and funny and observant and oddly wise.

She drives me nuts and I love her.

Beauty comes at a cost and yet we all want to pay the price.

I admit – it’s easier to be rich than it is to be poor.

At 44, I’m not as juicy as I used to be.

I don’t want to be poor and I struggle with my loss of social currency.

But I also realize it’s only money.

If beauty if only skin deep, then loving yourself seems the better investment.

Loving yourself goes down to the soul.

What better way to be rich?

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Jingle Bells, Winter Wonderland, chestnuts roasting, nothing stirring…

I haven’t had a Christmas tree in years but I recall the glittery twinkly tinsely wonder I had at the Christmas tree we put up when I was a kid.

A REAL tree.

With REAL tinsel (almost like aluminum foil) that mom saved (neatly) year after year.

Dad would buy a Silver Tip tree from some corner lot and out would come the multi-colored miniature lights and the fragile glass ornaments.

Now that I think about it, we didn’t have much money but dad would buy this pricey real tree and I’m not sure how he managed it.

Christmas was great for me. Mom loved dressing me up which was part fun and part torture. The fun part was knowing I looked just adorable in my little velvet dress, white tights and black patent Mary Janes.

The torture was the endless photos of me being told to look adorable.

I’d really load up during Christmas – I got lots of cash in those little red envelopes as well as toys and of course the less favored clothing.

What I didn’t like was getting Barbie. She seemed very odd to me. So of course I bended her every whichway. I was more of a stuffed animal person, heavy on the stuffed rabbits.

I would count up the presents and I’d have over 20!! Nothing like having a gazillion relatives, doting grandparents and the adorable thing going on.

Don’t let kids fool you – they know dang well when they are adorable, especially the girls. I was a much better flirt then than I am now.

I was more of a kid during Christmas than at any time of year – I got more attention, I had more wonder and more hope that good things were coming. The aftermath of saving the wrapping paper and the tinsel and carefully storing everything wasn’t so much fun but wearing my Dr. Dentons and skidding around the hardwood floors in those footed PJs…total kidshtuff!

Christmas songs make me smile.

So my collection of Christmas music is out and you know what that means …

Podcast alert!!

Are you ready for a sing-along??  A little Christmas caroling?

It’s been a while since I’ve uh, sung so whaddya think?

Any requests?

Or maybe you’re thinking …

“Please…no singing…I promise I’ll be good…”

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I shy away from cooking Big Meat. Big Meat is intimidating.  Whole turkeys. Roast beef. Prime rib. Pot roast. Rack of lamb. Ham. Anything with a big bone sticking out of it.

I have done meatloaf. But that’s just forming lots of small meat into bigger meat.

That year I called up my mom to talk about what I was going to cook.  Mom has particular tastes – not spicy, not sour, not tart. She likes simple: sweet or salty, moist over dry.

She’s my food antithesis.

I’m describing what I plan to stuff the turkey with and she says, “I don’t like bread stuffing.”

“You don’t? I thought you did.”

“No. Nuh-uh. I like sticky rice.”

“Sticky rice?”

“Yeah. I loooove sticky rice.”

At the time I had no idea how to cook sticky rice or more specifically, Chinese Sticky rice, a very tasty dish with dried Chinese sausage, slivers of mushrooms, tiny dried shrimp, maybe some onions.

Most Chinese do this sticky rice instead of bread stuffing. So I searched for recipes and emailed friends and relatives who I thought may know how to cook this.

“And I don’t like pumpkin pie.”

“You don’t? But I’ve seen you eat it.”

“Only if there’s nothing else and there’s whipped cream.”

“Oh.”

“And turkey…it’s okay. Just that it’s kinda dry. Needs gravy.”

When I call up her brother he says, “Don’t really care all that much for pumpkin pie.”

Turkey was nice, my sticky rice was not too bad and my uncle and mom left with lots of leftovers.

Last year I skipped the whole turkey thing and went straight for the favored sticky rice paired with my no-fail Bourbon chicken dish.

This year I’ve decided to skip the whole bird thing and go straight for my Traditional Thanksgiving Spaghetti.

As my uncle said when I invited him, “It’s all about the family.”

So this Thanksgiving, mom, my uncle and I will be passing the Parmesan.

How about you?

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She has a scattering of pillows, a tangle of cords for the electric blanket and heating pad, flung clothes and some papers.

She suffers from OCD and ADHD with an additional burden of hoarding and cluttering.

As she says, “I have an alphabet soup of stuff!”

She has so much clutter that what happens is that stuff goes on the bed during the day and then has to be put somewhere else when she goes to sleep.

She’s on one side of the bed and I’m on the other.

As I’m tracing various cords and moving things aside, I see that the papers have some line drawings of figures.

I’m viewing a part of a drawing and it’s upside down but I can see that it’s a person on its back with its knees drawn up.

Both of our hands are busy with the blankets and I thrust my chin out at the papers.

I say, “Hey, Ma -you learning new positions or something?”

Mom looks at where my chin is indicating.

She laughs, “No! Those are exercises for my arthritis!”

Pause.

“It’s TROCHANTERIC not TANTRIC!”

We both bust up.

.

Gotta love her.

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