It’s always good to hear from friends, especially those who conjure-up fond memories of a Rolling Stones concert 39 years ago (December 1, 1981). We took a group in the WMEE 97 FM van to the now non-existent Pontiac Silverdome to see the show, also featuring Santana and Iggy Pop. It was a gathering of co-workers and companions well worth trying to recreate. Her thought was to see their stop on this year’s tour through Nashville. Unfortunately, I’m in Bali, unless the Corona Virus disrupts our travel plans. The question always comes to mind: Will this be the last chance to see them together? As I learned after watching Tom Petty play at Seattle’s Safeco Field, you never know if there will be a next time? He died a month later. Mick (Michael Phillip) and Keith are both now 76, Charlie 78, and Ronnie 72, so for each of the last ten years I’ve expected a farewell tour or worse. Iggy Pop and Carlos Santana are also 72, as I look back to that unforgettable Detroit concert. These guys should all be retired like me. 

As I talked with my friend about possibilities to get together, I’m amazed that forty years have passed since we first met. Anymore, our friendship is limited to birthday conversations and an occasional meal. Two thousand miles separate us, but every time we talk it seems like only yesterday when we saw each other every day at the office and even traveled together. (See Post #1038). I would love to get together again in Nashville. After all, life can take unexpected shifts. I joked with her how pleased I was to read the recent Indiana University Magazine obituaries without finding another lost classmate.

My mood has been dark these past few weeks while trying to fight-off this nasty cough. Running has been a challenge every morning and sleep has been restless. I try to keep my writing and poetry humorous, but my words took a more serious twist this morning, as I contemplate my inevitable mortality. 

My Last Breath 

As I close my eyes,
Take a final blink.
I want it to be,
A playful wink.

Like I know something,
No one else does.
I don’t know why?
Just because!

I’ll have a last laugh,
Put a smile on my face.
Make every effort,
To go out with grace.

I’ll take my secret,
To the grave.
And with this last breath,
Pretend to act brave.

Like it’s no big deal,
To leave forever.
And all earthly ties,
To suddenly sever.

Into the unknown,
I’ll boldly venture.
And face the start,
Of this next adventure.

All I’ve accomplished,
The love I’ve felt.
I’m satisfied with,
The hand I’ve been dealt.

I have no regrets,
I’ll exit with style.
I take my first steps.
And leave you a smile.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

“Kidneys are the Coolest” is the slogan for everybodypees.org. OK, maybe it’s not a real website or lost funding, because the link no longer exists. The point is that it’s a natural thing and certainly worthy of a little toilet humor. I’ve gotten carried away with bladder poetry, but challenged myself to write just one more after the phrase “it’s a pisser” came up in recent conversation with my friends. An unfriendly bladder is undoubtedly my biggest hassle in retirement. As a result, here’s another entry in the “of questionable bad taste” category:

It’s A Pisser

My bladder’s heavy,
I need relief.
Just not AGAIN,
Oh, Good Grief!

Every two hours,
Nature calls.
A little dribble,
Not Niagara Falls.

The shut-off’s missing,
Inside my weenie.
I seem to be taking,
To perpetual pee.

It’s my aging,
Urinary tract.
Non-stop action,
Like a NASCAR track.

Seems more comes OUT,
Than what GOES IN.
Excuse me please,
Need to go AGAIN.

Perhaps a clothespin,
Might stop this leak?
Relief from relief,
Is all I seek.

It’s a Pisser,
Being like me.
To carry around,
This much pee.

It’s a Pisser,
But what to do?
At least it’s not,
Number TWO.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

I remain healthy in retirement, so it’s not worth complaining about some of the minor issues of old age. I prefer to be humorous when it comes to my weak bladder. Perhaps I’ve been a bit obsessive about writing regarding my frequent trips to the bathroom in the middle of the night with the thought “Not Again?” I know you’re also probably saying, “not another poem about pee? Not Again?” I can’t honestly promise this will be my last stab at toilet humor. The first reference to this “problem” was three years ago and has been mentioned in 18 different posts. What I’ve found is that many fellow seniors can relate to this subject so it’s important to make others feel that they’re not alone. It’s worth a chuckle or two.

Senior Curse

I could once sleep ‘til noon,
Without interruption.
But now my bladder,
Is a constant disruption.

What now is a dribble,
Was once a squirt.
Instead it’s a trickle.
No longer a spurt.

Every two hours,
I have to go.
I can feel the urge,
Starting to grow.

I never pass,
A place to pee.
I no longer drink,
Coffee or tea.

Caffeine’s my enemy,
Beer’s even worse.
I’m a sad victim,
Of the Senior Curse.

If I hold it too long,
It might spring a leak.
But despite any strain,
It still comes out weak.

The Force isn’t with me,
As I step to the plate.
Even those times,
When I just can’t wait.

My tank seems full,
But no Tiger’s in there.
Sometimes old age,
Just isn’t fair.

Copyright 2020 johnstonwrites.com

Last night, I cut-back on my evening fluid intake, hoping that I could reduce the number of overnight bathroom trips. The frustration of the night before fueled a drastic need for change in dealing with my overactive bladder (OAB). I got out of bed at least five times, after several late night cups of tea, two vodka tonics, and multiple Diet Cokes. First, I have to learn to manage or eliminate my caffeine, chocolate, and alcohol urges. Secondly, I’ll also strive to strengthen my pelvic floor through exercise and consciously restrict liquids. Simply cutting-back resulted in a last night’s good sleep, interrupted by only two bladder interruptions, so the goal now becomes a seamless seven hours. 

I once liked getting-up multiple times in the middle of the night. There was never any trouble getting back to sleeps, and it made me feel like I was stretching time before the alarm rang. However, now I’m not working and no longer at the mercy of a wake-up call. I like the idea of a friendlier bladder and less-disruptive sleep. To get there, I’m going to have to make changes without resorting to medication. As I contemplate this matter of the bladder, I leave you with this silly poem that will have to be filed under the category of “in questionable bad taste.”

Bladder Matter 2

Disturbing news,
It’s a bladder matter.
Urinary Incontinence,
There’s nothing sadder.

Toilet Talk,
And discharge jokes.
Uncomfortable jest,
For proper folks.

It’s a touchy topic,
Some shamed to speak.
But the last thing you want,
Is a tell-tale leak.

Input equals output,
No room for doubt.
What goes in,
Must come out.

It’s bladder-related,
Anatomy one-oh-one.
But when it fails,
It’s never fun.

If it’s overactive,
Without control.
You need something,
To plug that Hole.

It might get irritable,
Cause for panic.
Restroom closed?
Don’t get frantic.

In the Overnight hours
When you seek relief.
It can frequently be,
A sleep depriving thief.

And God forbid,
When there’s no stream.
It can make,
A grown man scream.

When the doctor asks,
For you to cough.
There’s no need,
To get pissed off.

What comes before pee,
In the alphabet?
Oooo, so soothing,
No better does it get.

When the bag gets full,
Before you need a mop.
With the urge to go,
You’re forced to stop.

Or Like a race horse,
You start to prance.
My mom called it,
“The Tinkle dance.”

When nature calls,
Don’t dare diddle.
Before you make,
A puddle of piddle.

Politely you ask,
To take care of biz.
But we all know,
You’re taking a whiz.

If you can’t hold it,
Be more than glad.
That you’re wearing,
A Maxi Pad.

As we get older,
Here’s the key:
Never pass,
A place to pee.

Copyright 2010 johnstonwrites.com

For more bladder humor see Post #941. Apparently, the topic has been top-of-mind before. 

I found a couple of internet references to the words “Angels On Your Body.” It’s a cute little love phrase that my wife and I often exchange, especially if we’re traveling separate ways. Today, we had it inscribed on a gold necklace charm that will be her Christmas this year. I hadn’t heard the reference before, so I thought it might be something original – is anything anymore? Nonetheless, it’s now forever part of our secret love code, along with LM, “carrots or karats,” and QDPie (or with symbol). Adding to the necklace will be part of several special occasions in the upcoming  year.

When I Googled “Angels On Your Body,” I discovered at least two sources, including the title of a Belgium music group called Fence collection, and an old episode of Louis Thoroux. where the receptionist at an evangelical fundie TV studio in Texas closes telephone calls with the heavenly inspired words. In both cases, I think we’re talking about a lot more serious religious significance than when we utter those four little words or letters A.O.Y.B. I’ve written a little poem to accompany the jewelry gift that comes with a pricey gold chain designed to hold many more. 

A.O.Y.B.

My angel has a body,
Not the topper of our tree,
Or a messenger from God,
She’s the only girl for me.

She’s clearly seen by others,
But not in the same light.
She doesn’t have a halo,
But is a heavenly sight.

When she’s at my side,
All in the world is right.
But when she’s far away,
Life is not so bright.

She doesn’t have wings,
Or always dress in white.
She can’t play the harp,
But keeps me warm at night.

She’s the very reason,
To see tomorrow come.
When I add it up,
She’s the Total Sum.

So when she’s not around,
I begin to wish she was.
I know that I am grateful,
For everything she does.

My angel is adorable,
And I love her so.
I try to write her poems,
So she will always know.

I count on other angels,
To protect her when I’m not.
And they know she’s special,
A sunbeam that I’ve caught.

Whenever we’re apart,
We use these words of love:
“Angels On Your body,”
Safeguard us from above.

If need to keep it short,
When you’re not next to me.
I quickly spell it out,
As simply A.O.Y.B.

Copyright 2019 johnstonwrites.com