Linda Cooper's Open Salon Blog

Turn Turn Turn

Sun, 1 Jan 2012 15:01:12 -0500

It was the first day of November 2011.

‘I’m an orphan,’ I joked half-heartedly to my son.

‘But Mum, you’re sixty-one,’ he replied, a distinct tone of sadness noticeable in his voice.

I needed no reminder of that fact. I’ve not taken to being a pensioner and facing my seventh decade very graciously. But within his simple statement I understood a multitude of things and think he understands them too.

Losing our parents is something I imagine most of us dread and think about far too often. I know the thought has haunted my waking hours and restless nights for an awful long time and far too frequently. But the truth of the matter is it’s no good surmising, for as with most things in life it never happens as we may envisage.

Whatever happens it’s definitely a no win situation. In the past most people were without a mother and father by the time they reached forty, but longevity is becoming more the norm in these times. True, I have friends who lost their parents decades ago and feel they were cheated by not having them long enough, but for many nowadays looking after aged parents is a way of life. It’s been that way for me for almost twenty years and I admit there have been times I’ve wanted to throw the towel in and escape the painful responsibilities.

I read we will be christened the sandwich generation. For many like myself, approaching the autumn of our own lives, it’s a time when the stress of caring for elderly parents while attempting to remain involved in the lives of young grandchildren becomes almost overwhelming and allows so little opportunity to enjoy the years we have left after finishing work.

My Mum passed away in 2008 after suffering the slings and indignity of dementia. It had been a difficult and painful road, yet thankfully her passing was swift, even if totally unexpected. The three years since her death have been harrowing to say the least as my father became frailer, prone to falls, yet insistent he didn’t want outside help. I think I have spent more time visiting hospitals and dealing with traumas in the three years since I lost my Mum than ever before.

At ninety my Dad underwent an operation for a broken hip after a particularly dramatic fall. Last February he was miraculously rescued from a house fire and eventually admitted he could no longer cope on his own. Sadly the place we secured for him at a lovely local care home was to be short lived. After surviving so many terrible ordeals it seemed he’d simply had enough and slipped away peacefully on October 31^stof 2011.

So now it’s all over. The day I dreaded, yet over time thought might allow me some life of my own has finally arrived and I don’t think there are the words to express the turmoil of emotions I’m living with. Either that or I don’t possess the capacity to put it all into words. I do know I will carry the scars from long-time caring for the rest of my days, yet at the same time will greatly miss my parents and think of them every single day.

Life is all about change. New phases, new seasons, new pastures and inevitably new years. 2012 will be the first year of my life I’m without a parent and if I’m lucky I’ll be sixty-two in August. That’s an awful long time to have your parents and I do appreciate in many ways I've been lucky. We all have our crosses to bear and I realise the simple fact of having two parents live to a ripe old age is something many are deprived of.

I know how strange it will be to not have to think of their needs any longer, yet am painfully aware it’s rather late to make any dramatic changes to my own life. Things will be different this year for sure, but I won’t be making any resolutions or predictions. Rather taking one day at a time and quietly hoping the wheels will turn more in my favour than in the last few years.

I wish any readers a happy and healthy New Year and look forward to reading many more inspiring entries from the many talented writers at Open Salon.

To everything, turn, turn, turn

There is a season, turn, turn, turn

And a time to every purpose under heaven.

Turn, Turn, Turn. – The Byrds.

Fat Bottomed Girls

Mon, 3 Oct 2011 13:10:21 -0400

I’m not a newspaper or magazine reader. Neither do I watch or listen to the news religiously, although it’s very difficult to avoid all the tragedy, conflict, despair and heartache when we are bombarded by it from all angles. Some may accuse me of suffering from ostrich syndrome and I won’t argue with that. Being a sensitive soul I find much of what’s going on in our world almost too painful to bear and I have enough problems of my own to fill my sleep with nightmares thank you.

Nor am I concerned, fascinated or impressed by the stories, scandal, photos or confessions of the rich and famous. Royalty, models, football players, pop singers and film stars are just people as far as I’m concerned, albeit people who are more talented and ambitious than myself. What they do in their daily lives, their work, their bedrooms or their relationships isn’t my concern and on the whole I’m not remotely interested.

I’m no fan of celebrity magazines and the newspapers selling sensationalism. I realise there are many who cannot live without a daily dose of superstar scandal and love to drool over the latest stars of stage and screen. Each to their own and as long as it’s harmless and doesn’t hurt anyone else, then who am I to criticise or judge? It would be a sad world if we all held the same opinions or were passionate about the same things.

Worshipping the rich and famous and dreaming of being like them is something we’ve all done at some stage. Whether it’s talent, luck, sheer force of personality, determination or destiny that brings success and wealth to a select few is a matter for debate. But if they bring pleasure, inspiration, positivity and do some good work into the bargain, then I’ll leave well alone and restrain criticism.

However, when people who have done nothing to be proud of or advocate harmful ideas hit the headlines, then it really does make my blood boil. We live in an era where good health is considered our own responsibility much of the time and I’m the first to admit the constant stream of advice about what we should and shouldn’t be doing frequently irritates me.

Life is short for everyone so I support freedom of choice and condemn the constant rigid advice regarding our health and image. What we eat, drink, smoke or inject is our own decision and what happens to us as a result is not the fault of anyone else but ourselves. I tire of the continuous and ever-changing health warnings regarding our lifestyles and believe we all know enough by now to make our own choices.

But when people receive notoriety for their unhealthy habits and start making a fortune from it I do strongly object and wonder what sort of a sick society we live in. Weight, body mass index and eating healthily are topics forever thrust in our faces and although it horrifies me to witness the amount of grossly overweight people around, I still believe in freedom of choice and facing the consequences. Flaunting it for profit is a different matter.

My friend and I frequently bemoan the fact we’re considered slightly overweight and when shopping rely on each other to answer truthfully that age old question of whether our bums look big in this or that. She recently passed on a newspaper article to me regarding a woman who claims to have the largest backside in the world. Complete with photographs this thirty-five-year-old, five-foot-four woman is proud of a butt that measures five-foot-three inches across, has a circumference of fourteen-feet-nine inches and weighs in at twenty-two stone. The visual of three men lifting it onto the scales to verify that fact is not one I wish to dwell on.

Boasting about the nine thousand calorie a day, full fat diet she needs to maintain her gigantic arse is annoying enough, but when she confesses she makes ninety thousand pounds a year from her personal monstrosity it fuels my anger. Apparently she has a website with fifteen thousand fans who have the honour of paying twenty pounds a month to view photographs and video clips of her ever-growing rear end.

Claiming she’s tried endless diets that don’t work and requesting the need for bigger seats on planes, wider aisles in shops, more choice of clothing in larger sizes, she is portrayed as proud of her massive achievement. She has a few health problems she admits, but is of the opinion her body makes the necessary adjustments to help her cope. Although she maintains she has no confidence due to her size, she informs the reporter there is no shortage of male admirers, but she wants a guy who admires her for her brains. No comment.

The article is now in the recycling bin where it belongs. It leaves me pondering what sort of people will pay to gorge their eyes on such an obscene sight and what message this woman is putting across to any vulnerable youngsters who may come across the double page spread. As for me, I’ll continue to avoid sensation seeking magazines and newspapers as much as I can. On the whole they’re just a load of bum.

Ah, you gonna take me home tonight
Ah, down beside that red firelight
Are you gonna let it all hang out
Fat bottomed girls, you make the rockin' world go round

Fat Bottomed Girls – Queen

Birthday Party

Tue, 30 Aug 2011 14:08:52 -0400

I remember the day I was born. Okay, that’s not strictly true, but the number of times I’ve heard the painful story of my birth has left me feeling as if I recall every moment, along with a lifetime of guilt for the agony I caused.

My sister was born five years before me; a simple home birth arriving just in time for tea and biscuits. Unfortunately, my mother was not so lucky second time round. Pacing the floors for almost forty-eight hours in severe pain finally resulted in my appearance into the world, arse first, which I sometimes believe was an omen regarding the life which lay ahead. The icing on the cake arrived in the form of my father who walked into the hospital and announced:-

‘I’ve brought your toothbrush.’

There were no more children after me and no one ever dared mention toothbrushes in our household ever again.

Acknowledging birthdays is a common tradition throughout most of the world, though why we celebrate the day we caused so much pain to our mothers and came into the world screaming is a debatable issue. I guess the fact we survive from one to the next and are grateful for each passing year is a good enough explanation.

I have grainy black and white photos of my childhood birthdays and a few vague memories of pass the parcel, musical chairs, jelly and ice cream and birthday cakes. I recall my sister resenting the fact I received stockings and suspenders for my birthday when I’d turned a mere thirteen. I remember sitting at home with my morose boyfriend listening to Neil Sedaka crooning Happy Birthday Sweet Sixteen and feeling anything but sweet or happy.

Eighteen wasn’t recognised as important in my era, so I have little recollection of how I spent that birthday. Twenty-one was the key of the door, but sadly I was seriously ill at the time and had little reason to celebrate. My mother thought it a good idea to buy me a puppy as a present, then proceeded to go out for the evening leaving me to clear up poop and entertain a lively, young canine.

Years pass, birthdays come and go. Can I say with honesty I remember any? Not really. I know I got married shortly after my thirtieth and gave birth to my only son a month or so after my thirty-first, which was when his birthdays became far more important than mine.

I vaguely remember being on a family holiday when I turned forty and the kind hotel proprietors bringing a cake with lighted candles to our dining table. I can recall the party I held at home when I turned fifty, guests I no longer see and the proposed, optimistic future life I find difficult to relate to now.

We have little control over what life dishes out to us and it’s a damned good job we know not what the future holds. We can’t stop those birthdays rolling round and none of us can avoid growing old, if we get that far. But there in lies the rub.

It’s true time passes at a faster rate the older we become and I know how tempting it is to suffer from ostrich syndrome when it comes to birthdays. When we reach an age where we know there is far less ahead than behind, it’s understandable to want to ignore those birthdays and disappear under the duvet as another one arrives.

But I enjoy being perverse. These days, the birthdays of my friends and myself are occasions to look forward to and days when all other cares and worries are placed firmly on the shelf. Each birthday now is a bonus, something to be thankful for and celebrate in style, plus a unique and smile- inducing memory in the making. Choosing to ignore them or drift quietly through each one may be the preference for some, but I have no intention of growing old gracefully.

It all started seven years ago when one of my friends turned fifty-five and decided to make up for the fact she’d not done anything special for her fiftieth birthday. She booked a stretched limo and eight of us thoroughly enjoyed dressing in our finery for a fun day out. It may have only involved a meal in a restaurant, a few drinks, a walk by the river and a ride around the city, but it was special because it allowed us all to be exactly who we are, free from responsibilities and inhibitions for a short time. A tradition was born.

Since that first outing we all try to do something different for each of our birthdays, which involves a lot of pleasant planning, shopping and brainwork. Things have snowballed and become more frivolous and some would say silly as the years have rolled by. From the early years of simple colour-themed birthdays, we’ve gone on to laugh our way through days spent as Goths, insects, medieval wenches, flower power sixties girls and fluorescent clashing idiots, to name but a few.

We’ve been on fabulous boat trips, visited theme parks and stately homes, won a few bets at dog races, eaten at fancy and not so fancy restaurants and travelled by bus, train, hummer, limo and Shanks’s pony to familiar and unknown territory with the same carefree intention of simply enjoying ourselves. Some may think it’s rather extravagant, irresponsible, immature and ridiculous for mature ladies to act in such a way, but not only do we have some great memories of fun days no-one can take away from us, we are also proud of the smiles we bring to the faces of strangers of all ages and nationalities. I can’t count up how many times we’ve been approached for photo shoots or how many light-hearted conversations we’ve been involved in with passers-by.

So, these past few years I DO remember what I did for my birthday. My last was earlier in August when we decided on a fruit theme. Searching for cheap and cheerful items on eBay, recording suitable music, making jewellery and accessories, organising appropriate party food and drinks are all part of these special days and when they’re done we may be tired and hung-over, but the effort and suffering are always worth it.

Act your age? Never.

And the beauty of it all is despite the tinge of sadness when each birthday is at its close, we know it won’t be long before it’s someone else’s and we can start all the fun planning all over again. Of course, at our age we’re never sure there’ll be another, but while we can do it we’re determined we will. And don’t worry, if I don’t make my next I’ve ensured all instructions are in place for a light-hearted, themed funeral to celebrate a life which may not have been a bed of roses, but at least in later years provided some memorable and fun days for others.

I hope you're doing fine

because any time is a happy time for

a birthday party.

Birthday Party – Grandmaster Flash

Behind Closed Doors

Mon, 1 Aug 2011 13:08:35 -0400

I’ve mentioned previously how impressed I’ve been with the standards of efficiency, cleanliness and courtesy while travelling around the States. Visitors to any country are bound to do comparison acts and without a doubt, there are many things I believe England could emulate which would improve standards here a great deal. Of course there were things I missed and prefer at home, plus a few niggles and conditions I didn’t like about America, but on the whole my complaints are few.

It would take forever to compare all the differences in standards between my country and the U.S.A, so I hope by undertaking a comparative study of a small area it will enable readers to imagine the bigger picture. It may not be the most tasteful of topics, but as we all at some stage have to use them, I consider it appropriate to focus on the diversity of restrooms. After two trips to America I’ve visited many and even though I can only vouch for the female of the species, I believe I’ve spent enough time waiting outside the men’s to observe the facts.

Here we refer to them as the toilet, loo, ladies, little room or bog, but never, ever as a restroom. Understandable as it’s probably the last place in England, you’d ever have a chance to rest. Making sure you go before leaving home is a foregone conclusion in a country where you’re never sure where there’ll be one or what state it will be in once you’re out and about. Uttering a silent prayer your bladder and bowels will restrain themselves until you return home is also a given, as no one relishes the idea of using our public conveniences outside of a five star hotel.

America, God bless her, seems to have got it right. In England, it’s essential to perfect the art of leg-crossing while jiggling about in the queue which snakes out of every Ladies toilet door. Our public toilets are few and far between as a way of discouraging crime and drug users to abuse the premises. That generally means a long walk to an area you hadn’t planned on visiting until nature called, where there will always be a queue no matter what time of the day or night. The ones bathed in luminous blue lights so drug addicts can’t find a vein to inject their next fix are becoming more the norm here.

Not so in the U.S.A. in my experience. Restrooms are available everywhere; spacious, airy, clean, attractive and never a queue. There’s no need to check for feet beneath a cubicle either, as all toilet locks are in working order and it’s obvious which toilets are occupied. Here you can get attacked or a mouth full of abuse after tentatively opening a toilet door you think may be vacant, only to discover some twenty-stone goth in tattered black clothing with panda eyes glaring threateningly into yours.

So, no waiting or nerves in America as you confidently enter a loo and hang your bag on the hook that is always present on the back of the door. That’s a treat in England and being taught never to put anything on the floor of a toilet for fear of germs, you generally end up hanging your bag round your neck. Not that you’d risk the floor anyway; puddles, paper, discarded crisp packets and other things I’d rather not describe are generally floating around down there, ensuring it essential to make as little contact with the floor as possible. In past times, there used to be attendants working on the premises, but nowadays the loo frequently closes down at the busiest times of the day, while a cleaner, usually male, dashes in and flicks a mop around. Most toilets in the U.S. are immaculately clean by comparison and many complete with friendly, female attendants.

I sampled many different restrooms in many different places, but not once did I discover one without toilet paper. It’s so common in England women automatically go out with packets of tissues in their bags, but it’s not much fun scrabbling in it when it’s hanging round your neck and woe betide anyone who has a cold and no tissues left, or just a crumpled one already used for nose-blowing. Of course, we’re a friendly nation on the whole, so providing the adjacent cubicles are occupied there’s always the option to yell for any paper available to be rolled under or thrown over the cubicle divides. Not an action that helps in the art of appearing sophisticated however.

Now we move onto flushing. In England there are several scenarios. The first is a broken handle or one that despite contortions refuses to release a drop of water. The second is an overactive flusher that continues to pump out water at an alarming rate, forcing you to dash from the toilet in fear, particularly if you can’t swim too well. Then there’s the old-fashioned ones with long metal chains attached to a cistern near the ceiling. Frequently, no matter how many attempts or how hard you yank them there’s never a positive result. This explains why many of them have broken off, making it impossible for an average-sized woman to reach the tiny piece of chain dangling seven feet above the floor without standing on the toilet seat. That is if there is one. I reckon the three little words ‘It won’t flush,’ are spoken between strangers in England more than any others.

All American toilets have efficient flushing systems; hell, the majority of them even flush themselves without even being asked or touched. I had several panic attacks at the start of our first trip when this happened, but as I got used to it, I much appreciated not having to perform muscle-developing exercises attempting to force handles to move, or wondering what was on my hands after attempting to flush while in contact with something sticky.

Then there are the hand-washing facilities. In England you sometimes need a degree to work out how the tap turns on. No amount of twisting, pulling, pushing or kicking will result in water flowing and if it does, it will either be freezing cold or so hot you come away with third degree burns. Of course there’s rarely any soap or the dispenser is empty, leaking, broken or pumps out a huge glob of something that looks and smells foul and refuses to lather. If you’re lucky enough to find a tap that works efficiently, you can bet you’ll have a problem getting it to turn off or finding how to empty the sink. There won’t be any paper towels except on the floor and the hand driers are either out of order or as efficient as a mouse fart. Drip drying or scrabbling for those tissues is the general solution.

The taps, soap dispensers, hand dryers and towel dispensers are all in good working order in America. Recycled paper slides effortlessly from wall machines just by sensing a hand underneath them and the hot air from the dryers actually only takes a few seconds to allow you to leave with perfectly dry hands and a pleasant expression on your face. Oh, we could learn so much about efficiency, hygiene and avoiding frustration from the restrooms of America.

God bless them and all who ~~pee/shit~~ relieve themselves in them.

Behind closed doors

You can’t imagine.

Behind closed doors

Is where it happens.

Behind closed doors

That’s where the truth is.

Behind Closed Doors – Peter Andre.

Size Matters

Mon, 18 Jul 2011 13:07:30 -0400

One of the first things I read in my bulky travel guide to the U.S.A was the suggestion the best way to see this country is by car. I think it has taken me two trips to the States to realise the truth of this statement, but sadly it has not been a possibility. Getting around the country via planes and public transport isn’t as easy as one might imagine, limiting options and potential experiences.

I also believe it has taken two trips to absorb the enormity of almost everything in this vast continent. I realise I only have a snapshot of various places and there surely must be sleepy, small towns and cosy places with close knit communities, but for a visitor from a comparatively tiny island, the size of almost everything witnessed in the U.S.A. can become almost overwhelming. I know I’ve only scratched the surface, but am assured by American friends I’ve actually visited more places than many citizens living there.

The U.K. has more Counties than the USA has States, yet the whole of our country would fit easily inside the state of Tennessee with room to spare. Population-wise England is far more cramped, but there are still wide open spaces, farmland, lush countryside and beautiful shorelines given the right weather. I can well understand why so many Americans long to visit England, not only for its history, but to witness our picturesque, little villages and comparatively tiny, quaint towns.

Contra wise, I’ve always longed to visit the USA, and now after two trips can still admit to wanting to see more. There are so many enormous States and such diversity it’s difficult to form an overall impression, but size has certainly made an impact this time round, particularly travelling around without a car. Being on foot and reliant on public transport means taking on board the differences between the US and the UK in a unique way.

Here, I can walk to a supermarket, a post-box, a bus stop or train station without giving it much thought. When someone in the US informs you a post office is a couple of blocks away, you learn a block can actually be up to a few miles in distance. Crossing a road in England can be frustrating waiting for lights to change when the distance between pavements is only a few yards. Crossings in America are far more efficient and user friendly, but it’s a little disconcerting watching the seconds count down as you trek over five lanes of freeway.

Torrance, South Beach, Los Angeles.

Roads in England have no more than three lanes and some of the cars, vans and trucks you’ll see on them are almost toy-like by comparison to the vehicles in America. I was quite gobsmacked to witness the arrival of these juggernauts for the festival in Nashville, though I’d have been quite happy to drown in the contents.

Nashville, Tennessee.

Our fuel is twice the price of that in the US, yet I can well understand the uproar at rising prices of gas when vehicles travel so few miles to the gallon and distances to be travelled are so vast. I gasp in awe when I hear and read of Americans spending days driving to different states. If you drove in a straight line across England for more than a few hours you’d drop off.

Then there are the buildings. Sure, we have skyscrapers, multi-storey car parks and tall blocks of flats and offices, but I estimate our tallest is only half the size of some in the USA. The highest building in my town is three storeys and you’d probably have to travel to England’s largest cities to see anything higher, but in America they seem to be everywhere, in their thousands. Trying to photograph these buildings means a permanent crick in the neck.

Flat Iron Building - New York.

We stayed in hotels so huge, the views were amazing, but suffering from claustrophobia meant those trips in the lifts were a bit of a nightmare. A preferable alternative to a heart attack after taking the stairs up to the tenth floor however.

Our hotel in New Jersey.

The rooms in American hotels are equivalent to apartments here. Giant televisions, massive bathrooms, plentiful seating and beds big enough to sleep a whole family seem the norm over there. Very comfortable indeed, but not too convenient for locating and poking the snorer in the middle of the night.

When I catch a train to my nearest city of Nottingham, I can visit every shop and mall quite comfortably in one afternoon. In the US I could spend a whole day and get lost several times in a Macy’s store alone. I left the shopping malls exhausted, yet frustrated knowing I’d not been able to peruse every tempting shop, despite knowing my bank balance is far too small to indulge in all the delights available.

Macy's - Houston, Texas.

My local airport has one runway and is considered busy if a flight leaves every fifteen minutes. We stroll in, stand in a queue to collect tickets and deposit luggage, then stand in another queue to go through security before boarding a plane, which will most likely be delayed, to some obscure European destination. US airports in my experience are so much more efficient, organised and surprisingly calm, yet the size of some I swear are bigger than the town I live in here.

Likewise, US trains appear to be far more competent, reliable and comfortable. It’s amazing how smart and proficient the ticket collectors are on these huge vehicles. I can travel on our two-carriage local train, often late or cancelled for various pathetic reasons and frequently fail to see a member of staff at all.

Admittedly, not all the plentiful and varied restaurants in the US are massive, but almost everything they serve in them is. Water isn’t offered free here in England, but the complimentary glasses there I could probably take a swim in. I’ve learned a starter is enough to fill me for hours and add unwanted inches to my waistline. How anyone can manage a starter, followed by a full meal and a dessert I really don’t know. I know there are large people on both sides of the pond who probably eat more than they should, but does that account for the staggering height of some US citizens too?

Nature has provided the USA with some spectacular and huge places to visit, like the Grand Canyon, Niagara Falls and Yellowstone Park, but the manmade structures are almost equally as breathtaking when it comes to size. From the Empire State Building in New York to the selection of flavours in the massive M&M shop in Las Vegas, there seems nothing this country doesn’t do on a large scale.

The amazing Arch - St Louis.

One thing I do believe however is that despite all this, no one makes you feel small or unimportant as you travel around. From the humble airport cleaners to the wealthy restaurant owners, the level of politeness, helpfulness, friendliness and competence makes for a pleasant and memorable trip. It certainly appears to be a system where every cog in the workforce, no matter how small the task, results in a level of efficiency England could certainly learn a lot from.

Size matters, size matters

But not how you think.

I’m talking about your heart and what you do with it.

The more seeds you plant the more flowers will grow.

Size Matters – Natasha Bedingfield.