Falling Behind

My butt hates me.  How do I know this?  Because it's trying to rebel against me in every way it possibly can.  It doesn't want to stay in place anymore.  It's resistant to exercise, and it doesn't want to follow me around like it used to.  It drags around like a sack of potatoes tied to my ankles.  In fact, I think it wants to BE with my ankles because it's always reaching for them.  Gravity is a b*#%$. 

I feel like I fight the battle against the sag every stinkin' day.  Even things that aren't heavy start to sag after a certain age.  I carry no excess weight in my arms and yet the skin between my armpit and my elbow jiggles like hospital Jello.  We all have our body issues, but sister mercy, they get harder and harder to fight after age forty.  I battle it as best as I can, but it takes so much more effort as you get older.  The techniques that used to work don't.  I have put on and taken off the same five pounds for several years now, and while running several miles a week and cutting out junk food used to be enough to shed those pounds, it just isn't anymore.  My metabolism left town about six months ago.  Packed up and left in the middle of the night with no note and no forwarding address.  Just.  Gone.  Cue the country music.  And everything I've read lately tells me that I'm going to have to step it up if I want to combat that issue.  I've got to run farther, longer and harder.  Snap.   By the way, did you know that running a brisk three miles is the best way to learn that your bladder isn't as taut as it used to be?  Kind of puts a whole new meaning to that phrase, "There she blows!"

It's recommended that I work on strength training, which I used to do but then fell out of the habit of doing.  I've gone back to working with weights, and boy, do they make them heavier now than they used to.  Tip:  Working out around power lifting men can be a real blow to your self esteem when you can bench press only fifty pounds.  So can partially wetting your pants when you're running down the street. 

The other thing about working out when you get older is the grooming skills that come into play.  I used to be able to throw on any old pair of shorts and some running shoes and take off.  Now, I have to make sure there's a really good sports bra in my gym bag, otherwise the girls are joining my butt down there at the ankle party.  And since body hair now grows at an unbelievable rate due to lower estrogen levels, I have to shave my armpits every time I turn around.  To add insult to injury, I have to put on my reading glasses in order to see if they need shaving.  Without my glasses, my armpit is as blurry as a blowing snowstorm.  Yet another betrayal of this vessel I walk around in every day. 

Mama was right.  It's just one thing after another as you get older.  The body has free will and it wills itself to do something, anything other than what you want it to.  I look at young perky 20 something's these days and just laugh.  I want to run up and tell them to enjoy that perkiness while it lasts because one of these days someone on Bourbon Street will yell at them to show their ta-ta's, and they'll have to lift up their skirt to do it.  Gravity gets us all at some point, and it doesn't stop until we quit breathing.  Any day now, I expect the skin under my chin to start drooping.  Right around that spot where I keep having to pluck that stray hair that grows in every month.      

Maybe It's A Tumah

I woke up Sunday morning to a text from a good friend of mine from grade school (and yes, I know I date myself when I use the term “grade school”) telling me he had suffered a heart attack the day before. He was about to undergo a heart cath to find out the extent of his problems. For a split second, the irrational part of me thought he had taken up smoking crack and was in some crack house sending wild, drug induced texts. Then the rational part of me kicked in and absorbed the truth and realized the magnitude of the situation. Fortunately, he had no heart damage and no heart disease, so they didn’t have to crack open his chest and do surgery. He had what is known as a cardiac artery spasm that brought on a medium heart attack. The cause of the spasm is unknown, but he is home and expected to do well. Whew! What a relief. He scared the patootie out of me. And that’s the part that won’t quit bugging me.

I’m so very glad that he’s going to be okay, but for the past two days my brain has randomly and frequently screamed, “He had a FREAKIN’ heart attack at 46 years old! Just 46 years old!!” Sudden and unexpected. The picture of health and then, bam! A comin’ to join you Elizabeth moment in the master bathroom and an ambulance ride to the hospital. There’s reality smacking me in the face, and reality can be a beetch. It’s a sign that we are not spring chickens any more, and it’s scares me.

It has nothing to do with vanity. Sure, I try to ignore those little crow’s feet and brown spots, but I know they’re there, and I accept those grudgingly. It’s the fact that we’re a little closer to the end of our life than the beginning now, even if we live to a ripe old age. It’s the reality that disease and wear and tear are starting to show up on me and my generation, and I must accept the fact that gosh darn it, I will get old. And that is distressing news.

For the last couple of years, I’ve lived in denial about this. I’ve joked about it and laughed about it, but I’ve truly pretended that time was not etching away at my being. That everyone but me was growing older. That I was immune to getting old. I mean, have you read the title of my blog? I like to think that if I eat enough fiber, drink enough water and run enough miles, I’ll make time stand still. While it may help keep some health issues at bay for a while, it won’t stop the clock, and there are signs that my body is changing.

There’s the menopause thing, but I’m all, “Woo hoo, no more periods!” about that. Sorry male readers, but you have no idea how great of a thing THAT is. For you, it’s like ice cold beer, unlimited sex and a John Wayne movie all rolled together. The downside to no estrogen is I now have a regular schedule for waxing my upper lip.

The gray hair is coming in faster than I can color it. I’m on a regular schedule for that, and as God is my witness I’ll go blond before I go gray. Not that blond is a bad thing. It’s just that I’m a terrible looking blond.

I’m wearing down my front teeth faster than my dentist can bond them. I was referred to an orthodontist at my last dental appointment to see if braces will help. Braces!

I have an eye doctor appointment tomorrow because the vision in my right eye is not as good as it should be. That just popped up recently. Reading glasses are probably in my future.

I catch myself saying, “Huh?” more often so I think the AC/DC is starting to catch up with me. AND the bone in my left hip is thinning so I had to start taking Boniva this year. I’m on the Sally Field train at 46 years old. Chugga chugga.

Now, none of these is really serious, and I have no obvious serious health issues. The only medication I take is the Boniva. Other than an annual sinus infection and the sinuses from hell, I seem to be fine. I’ve never had a broken bone and never been hospitalized for anything other than childbirth. I’ve had stitches only once. By all accounts, I’m healthy as a horse, but I know that something’s going to get me. It always does, so I’m afraid mine will be a surprise, too. My imagination is on overtime worrying about what it will be. Heart attack? Brain tumor? Or maybe cancer. I was frantically checking for lumps last night. A headache makes me worry if I’m working up a stroke. It’s just silly. I know I should quit worrying about it, but I can’t seem to put it out of my mind. I read the obituaries in this morning’s newspaper and took great comfort in the fact that all but one dead person was old. How sad is that? I think I need a vacation. A cruise to Alaska maybe? Isn’t that what older folks do?

Aunt Flow Has Left The Building

And I don’t care if she never comes back. It is official. My doctor confirmed today what I’ve suspected for a while. I am in menopause. And that thud you heard was my pride hitting the floor. Or my sagging butt. For a decade I’ve labored under the delusion that everyone but me was getting older. I’d see a childhood classmate and think, “Wow, he’s really been living hard,” or “What happened to her?” never seeing in the mirror what they see when they look at me. Heck, I’m no spring chicken either. I have my fair share of wrinkles and rubbery skin. Today’s diagnosis, delivered with a comforting smile and a discussion about hormones, smacked me in the forehead. I can no longer deny the truth. I AM going to get old. In fact, on the ladder of aging, I’ve climbed more than half the rungs. As my Aunt Annabelle once said during a disappointing moment, “S**t, s**t, s**t!

Oh, I could pretend I don’t mind aging and throw out all kinds of pearls about how age brings wisdom and wrinkles only go where the smiles have been, but the truth is I’m just vain enough to mourn the loss of my youth and my perky boobs. I do NOT mourn the loss of my period. (And THAT sound was the male readers clicking away to another site, any site that doesn’t talk about menstruation. Sorry guys.) I’m actually pretty excited about Aunt Flow’s disappearance. She’s been a pain in my backside (snort) for years. That news didn’t bother me because of the obvious perk. The news that did was that because of my hormonal changes I need a bone density test. Bone density test?! Isn’t that for women my mother’s age? Why no, Hula. Now’s the time for you to do this because you are a prime candidate for osteoporosis, bony girl. I got the calcium talk, too. Oh, and I need another mammogram. I made an appointment for both tests later this month, so I’ll get squeezed and radiated all on the same day. Can you see the sunbeams of happiness radiating out of my butt?

It was actually my second smack on the forehead in the last week. I went to the dentist last week because of a hot cold sensitivity thing going on in the back on my mouth, and he handed me this.“Noooo, not the Sensodyne,” I groaned. “That’s for people who are getting older.” My dentist, who is my age, thought it was quite funny and suggested we compare knee and foot problems. Which brings me this.
If the foot doctor recommends these on my next visit, I’m outa there. I’ll be off to some breezy Caribbean island where I can go barefoot and I won’t notice these hot flashes.

Fun Monday-Aging

This week's Fun Monday hostess is the lovely Sayre, and she wants us to peer into the future. She wants to know what kind of old person we think we'll be. Here is the assignment:

Using your imagination, project into the future and tell me what you will be like as an 80-year old. Will you be someone who doesn't accept the aging process, spending all your time in the gym and the bars, or will you be a rocking chair granny, or something in between?

Well, I don't expect to be in the bars because that will seem like a waste of rapidly dwindling time. And it can be bad for your health. I may be in the gym, but I kind of doubt it. I figure by age eighty, I'll throw in the towel on working out and decide to enjoy the cheesecake and stretchy pants. I'll probably be taking a brisk daily walk and enjoying the occasional margarita though. And hopefully, I'm living on a beach where the sun is warm and the breezes are soft.

This is a question I hadn't thought much about until Sayre posed it. I hope at eighty, I'm somewhat healthy, content with my life and surrounded by family and friends who don't mind putting up with my crotchety ways. I hope I've seen the world and its people and used to the best of my ability the gifts that God has given me. I also hope I've aged as gracefully as some folks I admire for the way they've grown older. Like my mother, and my grandmother. And some people you're more familiar with.

I hope I have the spirit and intelligence of Katharine Hepburn.The grit and style of Elizabeth Taylor.

The humor of Carol Burnett.I definitely hope I have the grace and independence of Jackie Onassis.The work ethic of Helen Thomas.And the spirituality and love of life of Dolly Parton.Most of all, I hope I haven't lost my mind. Ha!

Now, mosey on over with me to Sayre's and see what everybody else thinks about being eighty.

*Photos courtesy of: geocities.com, broadwayworld.com, neoneocon.com, martinbrownart.wordpress.com, huffingtonpost.com and celebrityroyale.com.

The One Where I Sound Like an Old Fart

Teen Angel has this rockin' hot car stereo that she and her dad bought a few weeks ago. It flips around and does all kinds of tricks.And bumps and thumps. Always with the bumping and thumping she is. And it has cool little pictures that wave across the front when it's playing, including these swimming dolphins who swam too fast for me to get a picture of them.It sounds great. Looks great. It even feels great when it's vibrating your ear lobes. The only problem is...I can't seem to operate it. It's too complicated for me. It doesn't like my iPod. I can't get it to play a CD, and I can't get it to switch modes with a flick of the button like Teen Angel can. And when I caught myself last week fussing with it and whining about how stereos used to not be so complicated, I had a slight panic attack. Because oy vey, what's next, comfortable shoes and a panty girdle from the Sears catalog???

A Time Out

Do you ever look at someone and think, “When did he get so old”? I walked into the den at Papa T.’s house last week and stopped in the doorway, suddenly taken aback. He was kicked back in his recliner wearing his headphones and sweatpants, listening to yet another book on tape. For some reason he seemed so much older on that Wednesday than he did the Wednesday before. Perhaps, it’s because I’ve been so busy keeping my head down and plowing through life recently that I hadn’t stopped long enough to take a good long look at him. Once I did, I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. Since he can’t see all the way across the room and doesn’t hear well, he didn’t know I was there. I just stood there for a minute and allowed myself to soak up the moment. I allowed myself to think about the fact that his time with us is growing shorter.

I don’t like to think about that. I’ve always known that Hubby and I would spend a great deal of time taking care of Papa T. and Mama J. in their old age. It was one of several life issues we discussed and agreed upon before we got married. And when their health began to decline we just starting jumping in and doing what needed to be done. At first it was extra groceries, an occasional trip to the doctor’s office and a pick up at the drug store. Then came the hand rails on the front porch steps. Then we started making their weekly trip to the grocery store. It takes a while, but eventually you get used to paying for large bottles of FiberCon and the occasional bottle of Fleet. You get used to waiting while the foot doctor noisily sands down their toe nails. You even work through seeing them partially naked or very exposed during medical tests or the passage of a kidney stone in the bathroom floor. And you get used to picking someone up from the floor in the middle of the night.

The weekly trips to restaurants as a family become once a month outings. We’re a well oiled machine when we pull up to Cracker Barrel. Hubby pops open the hatch to the van. I grab Mama J.’s walker out of the back, unfold it and wheel it to her. Teen Angel or Sissy unfolds Papa T.’s cane and helps him into the restaurant and I hold the door and make the table reservation while Hubby gets Mama J. safely inside. He usually carries her purse, too. No matter where we are at, he is never too proud to hold her big old pocketbook, and I am always amazed at how much that makes me love him.

Hubby does most of the day to day stuff that needs to be done for his parents. He mows their yard, drives them to all of their doctor’s appointments, picks up medicine, arranges for repairs to their house and car and does just about anything that needs to be done. He is retired but is a fulltime son. It keeps him plenty busy. It keeps us all busy. Teen Angel pitches in, too. She gets it. She understands that they need the help and that everything she does to help them will help her to feel better about their passing when that time comes. She does laundry for them, puts away groceries and makes at least three trips next door every week to find something in the floor that clumsy hands dropped and weak eyes can’t find. The three of us spend so much time going in and out of their back door that some days it’s hard to tell where our schedule begins and their’s ends. We are…assisted living. And that’s okay.

We are used to it. What we haven’t gotten used to is how fast this journey seems to be moving. It is picking up speed at an alarming rate, and it seemed much more noticeable, to me anyway, last week. Papa T. seemed more tired, slower and much less motivated to fight his battle with aches and pains. He is 74, but he’s an old 74. His body and spirit seem 85 years old. I hope I’m being overly concerned, that that feeling in my gut is misplaced. I hope that he’s been really been this way for a while, and I’ve just been too busy to notice, that nothing has really changed in the last few weeks. I’ve decided that I have allowed myself to think about it long enough, and now it’s time to get busy again. There is too much work to be done. I will get back to plowing through the day to day and getting ready for Papa T’s 75th birthday next week. I want to make sure it’s a good one.

Twinge? What Twinge?

I keep trying to ignore the fact that I AM getting older, but my body won’t let me forget. How annoying. I’m fine with denial. I don’t WANT to know how worn out parts of my body are getting. Ignorance is bliss I say. I’m fine with fantasizing that I’ll always look at least a decade younger than I really am. Oh, hush. A girl can dream. And I don’t need any lip out of you, Super Cop. As Barney Fife would say, nip it!

I am ignoring the fact that it took eleven consecutive hours of sleep to catch up from my road trip to St. Louis. Or that my right knee had a twinge when I was running Saturday. Or that I can barely stay awake past 9:30pm….on a Friday night. In fact, I’m ignoring a lot of things. Let’s start from the top.

-My hair: I used to have to color it about three times a year when the gray finally crept into my roots in noticeable amounts. Now I have a standing appointment every six weeks for a San Tropez cover up. Let’s not even discuss the coarse texture it’s developing.
-My skin: I used to moisturize only my forehead. Gradually, the need to moisturize has spread south to my cheeks, neck, chest, arms, legs and feet. It’s like taking a flea dip when I drag out the Oil of Olay. If my feet get any drier, I’ll have to wear shoes in the house to protect the hardwood floors. Moisturizer isn’t the only lotion I buy in bulk these days. Sunscreen has become my best friend. I remember a time about twenty years ago when I would have roasted myself in a tanning bed during the spring so I could have something resembling a tan by late May. Not anymore. I’m terrified of skin cancer. I’m even more terrified of age spots. I was sitting in a meeting the other day and noticed for the first time three new brown spots on my right hand. I almost gasped out loud. I can’t tell you a word that was said during the rest of that meeting because I was so shaken to realize I’m going to have my mother’s hands after all!
-My eyes: I don’t need reading glasses yet, but I’m overdue, so that’s likely to crop up sometime soon. In the meantime, the crow’s feet are keeping me entertained.
-My ears: In the last few weeks I’ve realized that I simply don’t hear as well as I used to. Too much loud rock n’ roll. I keep asking people to repeat things, and the drive through speaker at Arby’s isn’t the only thing garbling speech these days.
-My breasts: Dolly Parton has been quoted as saying that she got a breast lift because people kept asking to see her boobs and she got tired of lifting up her skirt to show them. I’m not there yet, but I certainly find “perky” gals annoying.
-My abdomen: I may be skinny, but the pregnancy stretch marks are still there, and the ab muscles are never going back the way they were. I could work out from now until the end of time and never get my midsection tight again. This is a source of eternal frustration for me since I’ve always wanted a six pack for just six months in my life. Shoot. Six seconds is out of the question. And frankly, I’m tired of working on this one.
-My legs: They are so banged up and scarred. My knees still bear the results of my big tumble on the pavement last summer. In fact, you can still see the footprint of every asphalt slash that bloodied my lower leg. Lovely. That’s on top of all the other scars I have collected throughout the years. Remind me sometime to show you the cinders under my skin from that ATV wreck.
-My feet. Oh, where do I start? I have tendonitis in my left heel. I pronate toward the outer part of my foot, and my toes are starting to lean inward like pine trees blowing in the Carolina winds. When I was a kid, I laughed at my mother’s feet. Now, I can look at mine and see the same thing, but it’s not so funny. The joke is on me.
-Hair growth in odd places: I won’t go into detail on this on. I’m just going to assume that you know exactly what I’m talking about and don’t say you don’t if you’re over forty. I’ll know you’re lying.

It’s not that I’m vain, and I don’t expect to compete with the young folks in the body department. I just thought I’d grow older a little more gracefully, that I wouldn’t suffer the droops and sags that my parents did. For some stupid reason, I thought I’d be different, that I would escape the more vicious parts of aging. I’m not old yet, but my body is giving me signs that it IS inevitable. Dadgumit! I’m not ready! Not yet. I want a few more years of energy, perkiness and tight skin. I don’t want to have to pick my backside up and carry it every time I get in a hurry. I don’t want hearing aids, reading glasses or orthopedic shoes. I refuse to give in..for a little longer. Hmph! I do not feel that pain in my knee, and I can stay out late if I want to. Just don’t call me early the next morning.

Remember When

In the last couple of weeks friends and family have emailed me some of those “Do You Remember These” emails that show all kinds of old fashioned things that make you go “oh yeah” and then make you feel kind of old because you remember them. Supercop sent me one that really made me laugh, and I couldn’t resist sharing with you my perspective on them.

Candy cigarettes-I remember pretending to smoke with these red tipped candies and that no adult around me was bothered by that. They still sell these at Dollar General, but they’re called candy sticks now. Teen Angel bought some yesterday. So did I.

Coke machines with bottles-I used to get bottled drinks at a little BBQ joint in town and at the gas station we stopped at all the time. It was called Bud’s Sunoco, and I got strawberry sodas out of his machine with the admonition from Baby Ruth “do not spill that all over the back seat”.

Party Line-When I was really young we lived in an old farm house with a party line. I used to listen in on the neighbors’ conversations. That was during my “Harriet The Spy” phase. Our neighbors weren't very interesting, but hey, when you live in the country, you take what you can get.

Wash tub wringer-We had one of these for a brief time when we first moved into that old farm house. Man, it was a bee-atch to use that thing. Besides, you could lose an arm if you weren’t careful. I’m guessing that’s why it didn’t take long for mom to get a new washer and dryer.

Metal ice cube trays-The refrigerator we had at that old farmhouse was older than Jack Lalane. It didn’t have an ice maker, and we had these old metal ice trays. I never could empty those things without flinging cubes onto the floor.

Timmy and Lassie-I remember these two. I loved Lassie but thought Timmy was a big fat whiner. So was that little boy from “Shane”. Don't you know Lassie got tired of dragging Timmy’s dumb butt out of the well. I watched part of an old Lassie rerun last week, and caught myself yelling to Timmy, "Suck it up. Put on your big boy pants and deal with it."

Chatty Cathy-I didn’t have one of these but Sissy did. No wait. She had a Tippy Toes. Oh well, this is still a good story. Hubby and his baby brother got in trouble for pulling the head off of Sissy’ s Tippy Toes. She’s still bitter about it. Ridden with Tippy Toes guilt Hubby bought her another one for Christmas a couple of years ago. She was pleased, but still bitter.

45 RPM records-My first 45 was Puff The Magic Dragon. I was too little to know what the lyrics meant. We were still using 45’s and turntables when I first started working in radio in 1982.

Lincoln Logs-These were the coolest. Way better than Tinker Toys. I always took the round blue lid off the canister, filled it with water and pretended it was a swimming pool for my ranch family.
Jiffy Pop-Loved it. Wanted it. Begged for it. Mama wouldn’t buy it because she preferred to pop her own. She just didn’t understand that all the popular kids got Jiffy Pop and that she was holding me back in my quest for popularity...again.

15 cent McDonald’s hamburgers-I don’t remember the 15 cent part. I remember when they were pretty new, though. In fact, my Brownie troop took a field trip to the local McDonalds. We all got hamburgers afterward, except for Elizabeth. She got a fish sandwich. She was always trying to be different. We toured the button factory too, but McDonald's was way better.

Gum wrapper chains-Are you kidding? I still make these things. I made one about a month ago. Juicy Fruit, baby.
And the bestest, most fabulosest, glorious one of all...the alumunum Christmas tree. My great aunt had one with the color wheel, and I thought she was rich, rich, rich. I loved that tree. I could stare at it for hours. I promised myself that when I grew up and had my own money and was rich, rich, rich, I would own one of these. Well, I'm not rich, these things are back and I don't want one of them anymore. Well, maybe just a little.

The Next Journey

All my peeps are home finally. Everything feels normal around here again. Those were some weary people I picked up at the airport yesterday evening. I thought I was going to have to get extra carts for their hind ends since their butts were dragging the ground. Hubby, Teen Angel, Sissy, Mama J. and Papa T. were all shuffling to the car with their last bit of energy. While Florida was nice, they were all glad to be home. And they came home with the knowlege that this was the last big trip we will take together.

Mama J. and Papa T. won't be going on any more vacations. It was just too hard on them this time. I think we all knew it by the second or third day of the trip, but no one mentioned it...then. It was the elephant in the room that no one wanted to talk about. When we took pictures at a cook-out Sunday night, we took them knowing it was the last vacation pictures we would probably take, but no one mentioned it...then. I had to brush away thoughts about those sick kids they take to Disney World before they die. Is this what those trips are like, I thought? Bittersweet because you know there won't be anymore?

It was exhausting just getting Mama J. and Papa T. to and from our destinations because of their medical problems. Mama J. is slow, really slow, even with her walker. And Papa T. can't see or hear his surroundings, so he has to have constant guidance, or we'll lose him in a crowd. We had to use wheelchairs and a golf cart at the airport to safely get them to their connecting flights in time. Neither one of them wants to use a wheelchair, especially Papa T., so we didn't even tell him we had one reserved until his fanny was six inches away from the darn thing. Otherwise, it would have been ugly, ugly, ugly much earlier in the day. We've been down that road once before. We felt bad about it but didn't know what else to do.

Papa T. had to have someone lead him around the rental house whenever he went to the bathroom or changed rooms because he couldn't see his way around the house. At home, he is familiar with his surroundings and knows how many steps are between rooms. In a different place, he is completely lost. Imagine living in a strange place for a week while wearing a blindfold and ear plugs. Just stop and think about what that must be like, relying on others to lead you around. It has to be very humbling. He stayed frustrated all week, and his frustrations exacerbated his dementia. The dementia is in such an early stage, though, he is cognizant of his confusion and sometimes jokes about it. On about day two, he told Sissy, "I don't know s**t from shinola". (Don't ask me what shinola is.) We all got a chuckle out of it because he was so sweetly funny, but unfortunately, he was right. About midway through the trip Papa T. turned the elephant loose and announced that this was his last vacation, that it was just too hard to travel, and he didn't want to do it anymore.

Mama J. stayed grouchy all week. Her legs were swollen, and she felt bad, but I think more than anything she was troubled by the realization that she can't travel long distances anymore either. She loves to go places and see new things. This is a hard pillow for her to choke down, and it was only at the end of the trip when she admitted that there would probably be no more big vacations for her.

I can't imagine how hard that must be to give up yet another freedom that comes with youth and/or good health. It's hard enough for the rest of us to accept that there will be no big trip out west in an RV so Papa T. can see the Grand Canyon. Or no more cruises with them in the Caribbean. A journey of another kind has begun, and it's not nearly as fun. As we have for the past nineteen years, we will make this journey together, experiencing new things, sharing some laughs and taking pictures...lots and lots of pictures.