If you visit me when I'm old, please remind me to smile.

I had the privilege this weekend to visit a seniors housing facility. I call it a privilege because observing people in their 60s, 70s, 80s and beyond is incredibly interesting.

People that age don't naturally look happy. I realize there is that whole elasticity thing where our skin sags and our eyes droop a little more with every passing year, so some of it you simply can't help. But while wisdom comes with age, so does the realization that we're falling apart.

One body part at a time, sometimes two.

I observe the elderly woman in a wheelchair with a white board up against her nose in order to read the instructions from her caregiver. Obviously her hearing and sight isn't what it used to be.

And even though the physical ailments grab my attention initially, it isn't long and I'm enthralled by the social activity.

Or the lack thereof.

Six women, all lined up side to side - some in wheelchairs, others with walkers and a few with just a cane. Their formation reminded me of the stereotypical cheerleading squad. Was this the old widow's version of a 'clique'? I was fascinated!

They didn't speak a word to one another. Even as I smiled at them, there wasn't a single movement of a facial muscle to acknowledge the pleasantry.

But they were lookin' fine. They were all dolled up - the way old people get when they finally have a chance to leave their room for something special.

They stand together like the front line of an army - piercing the room as if to say, "Watch out. Here we come."

I can't help but wonder if there are a handful of other women around the home coveting a spot within that band of babes. Do we revert back to junior high tendencies when we inch closer to the century mark?

My gaze drifts to a daughter who has come to spend the day with her aging mother. The resemblance is uncanny. Just fast forward 30 years and this daughter is easily peering at her own image. The mother takes the daughter's cell phone to make a call.

It's a sight to behold. It's odd, yet fun, to see someone that old holding a cell phone. I feel like I should run for a rotary dial plate.

But it's not long and she's connected...speaking so loudy it would be uncomfortable anywhere else. But not here.

Even with the amplified volume, very few people seem to notice.

But finally, the best picture of the day was smack dab in the middle of the entire party: an elderly couple snuggled together on a sofa.

They don't say a word to each other.

They, too, have stoic frowns stamped on their faces.

And yet they don't look unhappy. They look content.

And maybe that's the secret.

Let's face it. These people don't have their health. They no longer have the home they raised families in. Many no longer have their spouse.

But they seem more content than this frazzled mom of three, trying to keep on top of homework, art classes, housecleaning and my own work demands.

And for a moment, I'm a little envious.

There are no little kids tugging at their pant leg screaming for attention while they attempt to make a meal that is slightly healthier than chicken nuggets and a juice box.

There are no bosses or co-workers to put demands on their time.

A trip to the grocery store doesn't require Hercules strength and agility to push a mile-long cart with a race car attachment, a battle at the checkout for suckers and gum, or stuffing a parka-puffed child into a car seat.

They get to nap whenever they want.

And they have a chauffeur for every outing.

Sign me up.

NOT a good bedtime routine.

There are certain pains we incur that will debilitate us to the extent of utter paralysis.

For instance, a stubbed toe. Isn't it odd that we can walk, run, skip, kick and beat the living tar out of our feet, and yet clip that toe on a chair leg and we're cryin' for our mommas?

Or the infamous "funny bone" that is anything but funny when you smash it against a desk or door. Again, it takes us to a place where speech isn't even possible. We just writhe in pain.

And don't even get me started on a paper cut.

Last night I plopped down in front of my computer in hopes of cranking out some work to put myself at ease about looming deadlines. I admit, I was tense. But then I made a foolish mistake.

I got up from the computer and crawled directly into bed.

Remember, I was tense.

So I went to bed...tense.

But due to exhaustion, I slept anyway. But I slept...tense.

So when morning arrived, every muscle in my neck, shoulders and back was wound tighter than the belt of a Baptist minister at a church potluck.

I could not move. But nature was calling.

I enlisted help.

"Honey, I can't move and I really have to go to the bathroom. Please massage my neck for a minute so I can get out of bed."

My heroic, yet comatose husband asked no questions, just obliged. I am convinced he was not remotely coherent. The sweet soul just naturally defaulted to caring for me. Good thing, or he would have awakened in a pool of urine.

I managed to sling myself out of bed and whimpered to the bathroom.

I had become immobile overnight and I was starting to panic.

I shuffle to the cabinet for the muscle pain relieving cream and try not to scream like a banshee (yes, I just used the word banshee. I'm not myself when I hurt. Apparently, I'm my mother.) as I attempt to lift my arm to rub it into my neck and upper back.

Back pain, of any kind, is arguably worse than giving birth. And my last childbirth was a doozy, so I know of what I speak. It is the pain above all pain, because everything is connected. There's really no such thing as "just back pain" because eventually it creeps into everywhere else. Soon you can't move your arm, your head is throbbing, and the mere stubbing of a toe could quite possibly send you over the edge.

That edge is where I found myself this morning. I tried to be strong. I had kids to feed and send off to school, after all. I had responsibilites. There was no time for back pain.

But despite my best efforts, I was soon scrounging for the phone book to make a chiropractor appointment. I haven't been to one here yet, so the first office I try says, "I'm sorry, we don't have time for a new patient this morning."

Well, then guess what. I will never be your new patient.

My second option was successful. Hooray! They could get me in within a half hour. I was hopeful I'd be feeling better in no time.

But the diagnosis was not good. I was misaligned, my joints were surrounded by swelling, and I had massive muscle spasms. Sadly, I couldn't even get on and off the exam table without significant help.

It is a dreadful feeling to be so crippled.

Two treatments later and I'm not experiencing any greater mobility. I want to pluck the muscles out of my back and drive over them.

Years ago, I remember being prescribed muscle relaxers. I have been dreaming about them all day. I may find myself at the walk-in clinic by morning begging for a prescription.

But just watch, I'll finally have those relaxers within reach and in my excitement, I'll snatch the bag from the pharmacist...and get a paper cut.

Confessions of a Black Friday Shopper

"This has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever done," he said.

Hundreds of us stand outside in gusty winter wind at wee hours of the morning. Our line snakes through the enormous parking lot of a local home improvement store.

Because we want one thing:

To prove we are the dumbest among mankind.

Oops. No, I mean...a good deal. Yeah, we want a good deal.

But as the gentleman behind me in line uttered, "This has got to be the dumbest thing I've ever done," I just had to laugh.

Here we are, dressed like eskimos trying to stay warm in gale force winds on one of the coldest days of November anticipating the opportunity to grab a coveted item at a rock-bottom price.

I had never taken part in Black Friday festivities before. I was a newbie to the game.

I spent Thanksgiving afternoon combing through all the ads, making my list - my plan of attack.

Though I crawled into bed by 9pm in hopes of catching some brief shut-eye, I was much too excited to sleep. After tossing and turning for hours, I got up at 1:30, pulled on layer after layer of clothing and headed for the door. I would arrive at my first shopping stop by 2am to wait in line for an hour.

I was officially a Doorbuster. Awesome.

The line wasn't too long yet, so I was feeling pretty good about nabbing the three items I would scamper for when the doors flew open.

Oddly, people don't have much of a sense of humor at 2am. I find that shocking.

Seriously, look at us. We're standing in line, freezing to the point of numbness, just to say we got something for 60% off. That in itself is hilarious.

But no one seemed to find my jokes funny. There was, however, a guy who showed up around 2:30 and spouted a great joke. I laughed heartily.

I was the only one.

Come on, people. Maybe their faces were frozen?

I was taken a bit aback when some 4th or 5th grade boys came along peddling hot cocoa for a buck to weary shoppers. Truth is, their parents were doing the peddling. The boys were just holding the cups.

Sad.

Honestly, you're going to get your kids up at 2am to try to make a few bucks? And I mean a few. I only saw two people even take them up on their offer for that toasty beverage.

Black Friday shoppers take their job very seriously. No laughing at jokes. No unplanned purchases. Keep it on the straight and narrow. I was learning a lot about my new position.

As the hour we eagerly anticipated draws near, the crowd becomes restless. Soon there is squishing, shoving, and suddenly I am nearly hugging a perfect stranger.

The doors open. The crowd forges ahead.

I'm appalled as a woman behind me grabs my coat to stay within the fray. If my jacket gets ripped because of this nonsense, my sense of humor will be gone, too.

As last-minute cheaters attempt to squeeze in along the sides, they break the department store door. Yes, actually break it.

It's mayhem.

And sadly, I'm a part of it.

Whew, we're in. I go dashing off to find my deals. I am fortunate enough to snatch the last pair of boots in my size (yes!), and there are a plethora of the other items I came for, so I gather my wares and head for the checkout line.

Wow, these people move fast. The checkout line winds so far back, most people are muttering expletives under their breath as they walk endlessly along in search for the end of the line. As I wait in line, I get to listen to various conversations. It is wildly fun.

"How much are those things?" she asks.

"Five dollars each."

"Five dollars?! I would never pay that much for that."

Ooh, never mess with a shopper who thought they were getting a great deal. I can see the fury in her eyes.

Fortunately, a husband to one of them interjects to change the subject. Whew! Good move, man. That's why you came along, isn't it?

But kudos to this department store. Service is fast and plentiful. The line moves along quickly and soon I'm out the door to my next destination.

But this store is at the mall. My biggest challenge: parking.

Since newly-fallen snow has blurred the lines, cars are parked every which way. As I'm tempted to join in with that technique, I spot a patrol car.

Rats. Because I just know I'd be the one to get a ticket, guaranteed.

So I drive around and around and around and around until finally at the far end of the lot, I find a spot.

Again, I find my items swiftly, checkout is painless, and I'm ready for what's next.

Ugh, next store isn't open yet. So now I'll be doorbusting again. This one is significantly less violent, though. And these people had a sense of humor. Note to self: apparently nothing is funny until 4am. Or maybe it had to do with the fact that they were still drunk from the night before.

Fine with me, I'm just grateful for a responsive audience.

I should have appreciated the simplicity of this store. Because the next door I would bust through would be my greatest challenge.

It is here where I meet "This is the dumbest thing..." man. I appreciated the gentleman next to him, too. "People just go nuts. I don't get it. It's just stuff," he said.

Truth is, I feel the same way. But then why were we both standing in line at 4:30am for "stuff?" Because we all have an element of "crazy" in us. That's why.

Mayhem and chaos abounds. I get what I came for, but the multitude of people was overwhelming. If I hadn't needed a cart in order to haul the heavy item I was purchasing, the experience would have been much less daunting, I suppose. It's hard enough to maneuver you're own body through a crowd, let alone a huge shopping cart too. I don't think I've said "I'm sorry" that many times within an hour in my life. It was impossible not to smack into someone at every turn.

It's incredible to me how not 12 hours earlier it is likely that most of us were sitting around a table overflowing with food, giving thanks for all that we had in life.

And now? People are cussing, they're frustrated, they're cold, they're hot, they're frantic.

What a difference a day makes.

It gives the "Black" in Black Friday a whole new meaning.

But even with all the grumblers, there are the girlfriends, the mothers and daughters, and college buddies enjoying the chaos - er, fun - together.

In fact, my only regret of the morning was not having someone with me to experience the craziness. That would have made it more fun. And whoever it was would probably have laughed at my jokes at 2am.

You can't put a price tag on that.

I'm no Madonna, but I may get her face.

I had the privilege of discovering how "the other half" lives today.

I was treated to four hours at a luxury spa. To say I was looking forward to it this morning at 7am is a big understatement.

Because my 8-year-old daughter actually said, "Mom, why are you acting so happy?"

If you came to my house on any other day at 7am you would understand her confusion. I am NOT a morning person and trying to get everyone dressed, throw breakfast on the table, pack lunches and snacks, and fly out the door to the bus stop in less than an hour is not a mood-enhancer in my book.

But today definitely was different.

I was going to be pampered.

Of course plenty of guilt pours over me at the thought of actually taking time to do something for myself.

Fortunately the price was right and I wasn't about to let an opportunity like this slip on by - guilt or no guilt.

On one hand, I like to think I'm not all that different from the typical clientele at a spa. I use my manners. I'm courteous. I like to drink water with fruit in it.

But on the other hand, I'm a complete idiot when it comes to actually knowing how to utilize the place.

You see, I'm one of those people that needs to read a book called "Spas for Dummies." No really. I'm quite unaccustomed to the ins and outs of a spa experience. And the people working there are so used to the environment they forget to mention the details.

Like how you won't be able to see your hand in front of your face when you enter your private steam/shower room. So you'll turn on the shower just so you can break through the steam, only to discover a soft - now sopping wet - towel lay folded on a bench for you to sit on and a drowned cup of water with - yes, fruit in it. If I would have been able to even see seating in there I could have enjoyed that whole experience a lot more.

Or it'd be nice if they'd tell you that you may burn your leg on a steam jet because you are, well, an idiot. Or that you simply stepped into a poorly designed corner of the shower. Either way, ouch.

Not exactly relaxing.

But I like massages. Generally. Only they should ask you if you're ticklish. The tension in my body obviously elevated as my massage therapist began to rub my upper arm just gliding near my armpit. He kept massaging with deeper motions and I was doing all I could to avoid laughing out loud! When you're sighing with relief when the guy finally puts your arm down and moves on, the massage probably isn't reaching its fullest potential.

My problem is I can't stop thinking about what the massage therapist is thinking. I imagine it to be, "What a strange place for a mole." or " "Wow, her fingernails need clipping." or "I've never experienced such tense upper arms!" Or I lie there and wonder if his hands are getting tired. Did he want to come to work today? Is he daydreaming about his lunch plans?

It kinda ruins the whole "it's all about you" concept of a spa.

But overall, it was a good massage and I would recommend it. Just be sure to tell him if you're ticklish.

Next it was time to hit the facial room....

Where a sophisticated woman rubbed crushed diamonds all over my face until I was red as a beet....but on my way to looking five years younger!

I even underwent the "Madonna treatment" (as it has been touted) - an oxygen infusion. Basically pumping oxygen into my pores and forcing the serum of my choice into various layers of skin. But it sounds and feels like someone is passing gas on your face.

Seriously. The technician even said, "It's going to sound really strange."

Translation from sophistication to simplicity: "It's going to sound like a fart."

Who knew Madonna would be so in love with flatulence. Nevertheless, I don't look like Madonna. At least not yet.

So far, just red, blotchy "wind-burned" cheeks. But I'm told in a few days I'll look so young I'm sure I'll be grabbing a wooden spoon belting out "Material Girl."

After a catered cuisine, my final stop was the pedicure chair. Ah, a place I at least recognize. (Not that I frequent them, but I see them at the mall!)

As crazy as it sounds, my favorite part of the day was probably seeing my sparkly purple toenails as I put my magazine down to grab my keys and head home.

I am grateful for the experience, but honestly I wouldn't pay money to do it again. But that's why it was a gift, and I'm appreciative of it.

But I'm also appreciative of the fact that I can spend a couple bucks on sparkly purple polish, throw a strawberry in my water glass, and be just as happy.

As for those diamonds? I still treasure the ones on my finger more than the effects of those on my face.

And let's face it, I'm the mother of two boys. I can get that gas-in-the-face thing on a daily basis.

Because you can be "too" healthy.

Life Insurance companies crack me up.

Or, I should say, their attempt to determine the date of your demise cracks me up.

My husband and I applied for some additional life insurance recently. Our financial advisor told us this company has several different levels of coverage - the highest one is for the "least risk" and thus your premium is the lowest. So we're shooting for the sky, of course.

They send over a nurse to do all the vital testing - poke me with a needle, make me pee in cup, take my measurements, ask me if I've ever done drugs.

I was feeling pretty good about my overall health. After all, I've started running with some girlfriends - even getting up at 5am to get 5 to 7 miles in some days. So adding this additional running to my normal workouts should be keeping my heart pumping appropriately, I suspect.

I know, you either think I'm crazy or you envy me. Either way is cool with me.

But then I get a phone call from our financial advisor's office.

"Hi, Maxine. Your application has been put on hold due to low cholesterol. It came back at 124, and they are saying that's too low unless you're anorexic or a vegetarian. Are you either of those?"

I try not to burst into laughter into the phone as I pinch an inch and recall the big, juicy burger I ate the night before.

"Uh, certainly not."

Turns out the lovely life insurance people will not open my file again until I have a written explanation from my doctor as to why my cholesterol is "so low."

Honestly, I never thought this could be a problem. Has our unhealthy and obese nation now determined if your cholesterol isn't high there is something wrong with you?

Anyway...it's time to call the doctor. Ugh. I cannot tell you how much I despise going to doctors.

But I make the appointment. And the receptionist asks why I'm coming in.

I tell her the story.

She pauses, then adds that she's never heard of "too low of cholesterol" either.

The next week I'm sitting in the exam room with Doogie Howser (seriously, he couldn't have been more than a couple months out of school). Side note: Since I avoid doctors like the plague, I do not technically have a "primary care physician" so I just took whoever had an opening. Figures I would get the 5th string QB.

At any rate, the good doctor needs to examine me since I'm there. He asks me questions regarding children, family, lifestyle. Then he shrugs his shoulders and picks up the scope. Ears, nose, throat - all good. He has me lie down and he starts pushing on my stomach. Apparently fine. Albeit I'm wishing it was a little less squishy! But I'm ravenous since I had to fast for the blood test and as he pushes on my gut I'm struck with the realization of how long it's been since I last had food. I tell him nothing hurts, I'm just hungry. He tells me to go home and eat some fat. Yes, people. Direct from the doctor's mouth. Don't worry. I'll get you his phone number.

He asks me if I have any complaints, any concerns about my health.

"No. I could use more sleep though!" I say half-jokingly.

He looks at me and says, "Sleep? You said you work from home. You should get plenty of sleep."

Dear Reader: Let me reconnect you with a previous paragraph where we establish this doctor's very young age. And the other paragraph where I tell him about my children.

"I have three small children," I remind him.

"Oh, yeah," he says, rather cluelessly.

So after a clean bill of health, and another 124 cholesterol score, Doogie sits dumbfounded.

He shows me the chart showing 124 is in the 'normal' range.

He scratches his head. "I don't get it. It's normal. I'm supposed to write a letter explaining that you're normal?"

Then Doogie continues, "Just wait here. I'll find someone that will know what to do."

I'm assuming he's running to find a doctor whose white coat isn't quite so fresh from its package. A few minutes later he returns and says, "I'm going to write a letter that says 124 is normal and they can call me with any questions."

So that's exactly what he did.

And a week later I gained access to the top level of the life insurance.

Sounds like they were fishing for anything to bump me out of that level. I guess they figured if I was going to get the best insurance rate I had better pay for it one way or another. In this case, with a medical exam fee I didn't need to incur.

So my life insurance company decided I'm bound to live another 20 years. Or is at least willing to take that risk.

Personally, it sounds like a good time to eat potato chips and ice cream. After all, I can spare a few cholesterol points.

I'm still here, just trying to stay afloat!

Wow! I haven't blogged since August? Time sure has a way of slipping past, doesn't it.

To say I've been busy is probably the world's biggest understatement. But I can tell when I've gotten too busy when it takes weeks to get to my DVR'd TV shows! I keep telling myself, "Oh, one of these days I'll get to watching that." I'll be watching the season premieres sometime in March, probably. But hey, when everyone's tired of re-runs in the summer, I'll just be nearing the suspense of the finales.

But my busyness has been good. I've stepped up my freelance work a bit, so that's keeping me hopping. And once I plop my kids into bed, I've got a to-do list a mile long waiting for me in my office.

Seems there's always something to research, write or review.

Thus, my blog...well, it takes a back seat.

But I'll be back. I promise. But right now I think I'm going to settle into bed with a good book. Or even a half-decent one. When your reading repertoire typically consists of Dr. Suess or Amelia Bedelia, it doesn't take much to stimulate this mind.

Selling Loot or Securing Literacy?

The PTO should be renamed MMM. For Money-Making Machines.

Have parent-teacher organizations always been fixated on fundraisers and frivolous activities? I have attended a couple PTO meetings in the short time I've had school-aged children, and I'm in awe of how the officers are dumbfounded as to why there isn't greater parent participation.

Uh, maybe because all you talk about is where to beg for money next? Who wants to conclude their Tuesday night in a meeting like that when reruns of The Office are calling?

I think PTO volunteers are getting lost in their own fundraising fervor. If they stop and look at what they're actually raising money for, perhaps things could change.

For instance, money raised pays for Pastries for Parents.

Really? We need another lame excuse to get kids out of the classroom so they can fall even farther behind in their literacy? And our society is obese as it is - why are we inviting everyone to consume more fat and sugar? Great lessons we're teaching our kids, huh?

Frankly, I think inviting parents or grandparents into school for "special" events like that is simply a bad idea. And here's why.

I attended an elementary school that did the "Donuts for Dad" and "Muffins for Mom" and "God-knows-what for Grandma," and it left me feeling sad and foolish.

Because my Dad had to work, Mom didn't always consider it a good use of time to make a 17-mile trip into town to eat a muffin for 6 minutes (I don't blame her one bit! Besides, my most vivid memory of "Muffins for Mom" was getting poisoned by the pointless pastry and being home sick the next day!!), and well, to be blunt - Grandma was dead.

So I spent those "special" events sitting by the other orphaned kids wallowing in self-pity. Or worse yet - I remember not even being included in the festivities one year if a family member didn't come. Sheesh, let's just stamp "NO ONE LOVES ME" on our foreheads and call it a day.

Ugh. I just don't see the point in the torment. Save the money you'd spend on those doughnuts and ask those parents to come to the classroom to volunteer - you know, actually contribute to a child's education instead of their risk for diabetes.

Because that's what I don't get. Parents are given a mile-long list of activities with a plea to check the box of whichever ones they'd be willing to volunteer for (Cake-walking Carnival, Bingo Bliss, Store Day for Six Graders)...but it doesn't put any emphasis on say, coming in once or twice a month, taking a mere half hour of the day to review spelling words. Listen to kids read. Or - gasp! - hear them count to 100.

No, let's send catalogs home so that kids can beg family and friends to buy worthless junk so the PTO can claim only a percentage of the profits to buy flowers for the secretary on Secretary's Day.

Is this really the best way to go about these things? I'd rather have someone simply ask me for a donation than to turn my kids into wrapping paper salesmen.

And don't even get me started on how they use our kids as pawns.

"Mommy, you have to fill this out so I can get a duck!" my daughter pleads as she rips the fundraising packet from her backpack.

A duck?! Huh?

Upon further inspection, I see that if I fill out these forms, the school will mail them to all of our out-of-town family and friends to beg for their support of their precious little niece or grandson.

Now, come on. If my family hasn't heard from me in over a month and the first correspondence they get is solicitation from my child, that just seems wrong.

And all this so my kid can earn a little rubber duck.

Are you kidding me?!

But those desperate little faces beam at the thought of earning a duck, so they grab a pen, shove the forms in my face, and wait for my response.

I wasn't the most popular parent that afternoon, but they'll get over it. It wasn't days earlier when my son was insistent upon ordering IronMan's Friends and Foes from the book order form sent home that day. Newsflash: the library is full of books. And I can get them for free!

Honestly, if I got as many A+ papers sent home as I do "buy me and sell me" packets, I'd feel much better about the educational institution I'm sending my children to on a daily basis.

Instead, my kid is supposed to sell six ounces of gummy bears for $8 so they can host a book fair. Which will then cost me even more money as my child begs me to buy the entire Junie B. Jones series.

Hey, I understand funds go toward legitimate tools for the classrooms, too. The ActiveBoards are helpful. Computer labs are important. Teachers needs supplies. I get it. But I also know there are grants for many of those things, and when I find out all the box tops I've been feverishly clipping are only going into the treasury of the Boy Scouts, I get a bit miffed.

I don't consider it wise stewardship to give money to some kid so he can learn how to fly-fish. I'd much rather give to a teacher to utilize in a classroom so children learn the three R's instead of the three P's. (Parties, Pastries and Peddling.)

I completely understand why participation in these PTOs is poor. Until there's a good reason to show up (ie. the betterment of my child's education), I'll be helping my kid with his homework at 7pm instead of discussing the significant number of "insufficient funds" checks received with the latest fundraiser.

And I'll gladly hand my child's teacher money out of my own pocket so she can breathe a little easier when it's time to replace that broken headset or buy new supplies. And I won't even demand a bag of gummy bears in return!

Because I'd love for my kids to race home from school and shove their well-earned test grade in my face instead of an order form.

Who knows? I may be so proud I'll spring for a duck.