SPRING CLEANING

The best way for me to get my house sparkling gleaming clean is to plan a party. It's not that I don't keep things in order, but underneath the neat façade lurks some nasty stuff. I am not admitting I have little or no self-discipline or that I am lazy, but I put off scrubbing corners and straightening cabinets until dirt and grime reach a critical point. It should be shameful enough to know my family’s health might be compromised by the dreaded e-coli germs advertised on the Lysol commercials, but without outside influence I am not motivated to scrub, scour and polish. Martha Stewart would be horrified at my lack of interest in house cleaning.

When I see that cobwebs have become friendly spider hotels looking like Halloween decorations scattered with whole communities of creepy crawly families, I know it’s time to invite a few people over. When the stairs are piled high with stuff needing to be transported upwards or downwards creating an obstacle course as dangerous as climbing rocky mountains, it’s time to be thinking about menus. When opening closet doors is as hazardous as an earthquake, I pick a date for the event.

In my party invitation guest list I always include my feared picky neat-nick friend. She is the super motivator. I know her eyesight is 20/20 and mouth the size of CNN News. It may seem like backward organization but my process is to invite everyone first, then begin the arduous task of cleaning. In the past I tried cleaning first and then inviting, but it produced disastrous results. It was a year and a half before I completed the cleaning project, the guest list was obsolete and the spiders had moved back in.

So, while I don’t want to offend any friends that are invited to my next dinner party thinking they are only an excuse for house cleaning, I do want to extend a big “thank you” in advance for their help.

GOLDEN YEAR CHALLENGE....approaching 65

ANOTHER DAY IN THE LIFE…..approaching 65.......

Today I received another large packet of Medicare Insurance information. My knee-jerk impulse was to make a quick call to the 800 number telling these well-meaning folks that I know I’m going to be 65 in a couple of months and I don’t need a reminder. Leave me alone while I pretend I’m still 40. I think the whole Medicare paperwork nightmare is really one gigantic test designed to punish baby boomers for using up the nation’s wealth.

It takes the nerves and patience of a brain surgeon to sort through the stacks of insurance information arriving daily in my mailbox. There are pamphlets from companies like Blue Cross, Blue Shield and AARP which I keep in one stack. The envelopes from companies I’ve never heard of, like Northwest National Heritage Association and Homeland Health, land in the garbage. I have to wonder how this many companies found out I have “the big birthday” looming in my immediate future.

The myriad of letters and booklets offer information designed to tell us seniors (that’s the nice word for old folks) how to prepare for the onslaught of medical expenses on the horizon. These complicated insurance plan catalogues are designed to prove we are no longer functioning adults. They are full of undecipherable charts, graphs, and statistics reminding that now is the time for me to spend all my savings; not on the trips I had imagined, but on bedpans and pills.

Thinking of the old codgers up in Congress who want to add even more government regulations, makes me shutter. I worried about having early Alzheimer’s, and after reading through a few pages of the government’s plan, I am sure I have symptoms. Did plan J include a hospital stay deductible or was that Plan I? If my ears go out would a hearing aid be covered on Part A or was that Part B; or, would supplement C kick-in if surgery is necessary? I double checked on the mental health coverage. I suspect I’ll need to be committed soon, due to the stress of working through the mass of forms.

As I take a break for my lunch of salad greens and chopped veggies dotted with vinegar and a touch of olive oil, I reminisce about the hamburger, fries and malt days. I remembered the times my mailbox was full of fashion catalogues and Reader’s Digest Sweepstakes, not promotions for preplanned funeral arrangements.