Rainy Day Writing

Writing, Reading, Inspirations and Aspirations

Aging: The Incredible Lameness of Being Old

A Life after Sixty Series Post

From September to June, on most Tuesdays, I attend Jewelry workshops at the nearby college.

It’s mostly a bunch of old broads and a couple of token guys, almost all of us senior citizens.

The college gives the over 50 “Lifelong Learners” in the community a nice discount on continuing ed classes. I guess they think we need special incentives to get off our tired old butts and do stuff. 

It works for me. It primes my creative juices and gets me out of the house and around people. 

Because of our age group, at any given time, small talk between students might revolve around such exciting topics as:

Urinary tract infections

Gall Bladder surgery

Heel spurs


Joint Replacement

What to do about chafing thighs–Is baby powder even safe?


I never thought I would get here.

I’m at that age. You know. The one you made fun of when your parents were that age.

The age where you talk about your aches and pains and medical issues with your peers.

UGH! How incredibly boring I hear the young-uns groan.

But wait, I disagree. It’s actually quite fascinating. Think of all the topics represented by the above mentioned maladies:

* Fluid dynamics

* Advanced laparoscopic surgical techniques

*The effects of gravitational forces on the human body 

*Advanced medical therapies

*Tort law jurisprudence. (Is a baby powder claim in your future?)

 Boring!? HUH! At least we’re not sitting around discussing how to reduce the echo effect in our bathrooms while phone filming our newest hair styling video for YouTube.

But to be honest, I have to admit that sometimes getting old does kind of wallow around in lameness.

Imagine actually stopping the remote on Larry Kings Prostate Report, even for a moment.

Or getting into bed every night wondering: Should I really try to go to sleep? I’ll be up again in fifteen minutes having to pee! Maybe I should just lie here repeatedly torturing myself over embarrassing high school moments again until it’s time to pee.

And you may think I’m being hyperbolic when I say this, but it’s true:

Aging. Changes. Everything.

From the brightness of your teeth to the un-moleyness of your skin to the luster and texture of your toe nails.

It’s unrelentingly lame. And kinda gross.

But as lame as aging is, its even lamer to give in to it and give up.

Because believe me, it would be easy to do some days, when everything from your teeth to your toes aches at some point in that twenty four hour span.

The temptation to just sit down and stay there is real.

Until you see an old man bent over double with arthritis being dragged around the park by a strapping young black lab.

Or a frail looking old lady clutching onto her walker for dear life as she negotiates her way down the sidewalk to the grocery store.

Or an elderly couple hiking in the hills with their walking sticks, their flexible knee braces and their day packs stuffed with CLIF bars and Advil. 

These folks are my new heroes. They remind me that I am still relatively young and able bodied, and that my body still functions better than some peoples’ ever did. 

They inspire me and remind me that the lamest thing about aging isn’t funky toe nails, or teeth that don’t sparkle, or moles and skin tags, it’s how our society views the elderly.

Washed up…weak…lame.

Instead of wise…strong in the face of adversity…resilient.

But we know. We know we have all taken a beating or two or three, and we still keep going. We know what we’ve learned along the way.

We really don’t need the world’s recognition.

But we wouldn’t mind a little of it’s respect.

And so, like Ma Joad , at the end of the movie The Grapes of Wrath, we know what we’re made of. The world may not see it, but we see it and we recognize it and respect it in one another.

It’s a beautiful thing.

Moles and all.


Me and Cosmo

The Author (on the right)

©2020 by Ilona Elliott














Fifty Shades of Rain

Rain hangs about the place, like a friendly ghost. If it’s not coming down in delicate droplets, then it’s in buckets; and if neither, then it tends to lurk suspiciously about in the atmosphere.

Barbara Acton-Bond

It’s the twenty third of January, and I swear we haven’t had a day without rain since the New Year.

Worms are literally drowning in the streets. I’m not shitting you.

Here in the Pacific Northwest we have many ways to describe rain, and our Meteorologists seem to go out of their way to use various descriptive terms for the same damn process.

As someone who appreciates a good turn of a phrase, I can’t help but notice, while reading any long range forecast for this time of year, how prolific the descriptive terms for drops of water falling from the sky can be.

Tell me dear weather person, what is the difference between showery, clouds with showers, intermittent showers and occasional rain? Are rain squalls the same as periods of rain? Are rain showers the same as sun showers just without the sun? How long did you devote yourself to the study of the language of rain?

How does one differentiate between the terms showers likely, a possibility of showers, and a chance of showers? Are there subtle differences in the meanings of these terms or are you just trying to avoid being repetitive? Do you guys have some kind of code book you use to decide which phrase is most indicative of what will actually take place on the ground or are you just padding your paychecks with overtime hours coming up with this stuff?… Instead of just typing RAIN.

If I had to choose my favorite PNW term for rainy weather, it would be “atmospheric river”. Basically, this is a big ass rain storm swirling around off the west coast lapping up water, that, when it hits land, will feel like a big ass river being poured over your head should you find it necessary to step outside at any time during this “rain event”, which is another great term.

If you ask me, this all sounds rather theatrical, maybe even biblical, don’t you think? Considering we are still only talking about RAIN.

Photo by Clem Onojeghuo on Pexels.com

And speaking of rain, the long range forecast I just checked showed RAIN every day out until next Tuesday, at which time, there is an icon with a little round yellow orb bookended by gray clouds.


I think that means there may be a chance of sunshine on Tuesday! Or perhaps I should say cloudy with some sun? But it might also be best described as cloudy with periods of sunshine, or perhaps it will be a partly sunny day. Then again it might end up being partly cloudy, or with sun giving way to clouds or clouds giving way to sun. Sun with periods of clouds? Clouds with partial clearing?

No matter.

We’ll take it.

There is a yellow disc in the forecast. I prefer to think of it as an atmospheric river of light. And after the month we’ve had here, it will definitely feel biblical.

From Healthy to Extinct in 350 Years — Hakai Magazine

In 1844, six men set out from Iceland in a small rowboat. They were headed for Eldey, a low-lying bare rock about 15 kilometers off the southwest coast. Rare great auks—large, black-and-white, flightless seabirds—nested there and the men had been commissioned by a specimen dealer to get hold of any birds they could find. Jumping…

From Healthy to Extinct in 350 Years — Hakai Magazine

Sharing this sobering post from Hakai Magazine.

A New Years Toast to the True Grit of DIY Dreamers

So the holidays are over…

Somehow we managed not to have any drywall dust flying around during Christmas dinner, just a little grit from the sanded grout we applied to the newly tiled kitchen wall. SOMEONE managed to get grout in the kitchen sponge so that the plates made little scratchy sounds on the island counter top as we ate, the one we had buffed out last Spring because it was scratched…the irony!

Kitchen tile and paint selection

We did fit the tiling project in between Thanksgiving and Christmas, and we postponed the mud room project until after the New Year so it was nice to have a clean house and even some guests over during the holidays. But I can feel the next project breathing down my neck as I write. It’s promising to be a bear.

We have a lot of wet here, and five acres worth of mud. So we need this mudroom. But we’ve got to replace glued down wood flooring with tile, bust out drywall, reconfigure plumbing and possibly electrical, install new drywall, paint, cabinets, fixtures and backsplash tile, and build a dedicated space for wet jackets and shoes.

Piece of cake…NOT. But after forty years of projects, we’ve got real DIY chops. We can handle it.

Of course I say “we” a lot but truth be told the old man does most of the heavy lifting.

I’m the designer. Kind of like the wedding planner. I’m there to plan, to direct, and to place flowers in vases.

And to spend his money.

I am, of course, exaggerating. I’ve been known to install insulation, drywall and tile. I’ve painted more rooms than I can count and have the blown out right shoulder to show for it.

And I do a lot of clean up. I keep the sponges organized.

One DIY skill I excel at is making suggestions. The old man knows this and generally ignores me, which is something he excels at. This tends to make me pouty, like that wedding planner when you ignore her suggestion to purchase several hundred books of personalized matches for all your non-smoking, mostly vegan wedding guests.

But every now and then I make a suggestion that he actually agrees to. I can’t think of any examples right now because it happens so rarely, but when he does implement something I suggested, especially if he was scratching his head trying to figure out what to do, you know I have to strut around like a rooster and say things like “See, I DO have some good ideas now and then. I DO help you figure things out sometimes.”

Which he ignores. So much so that he forgets that the person who figured out how to make that transition in the siding where the contractor screwed up the foundation tie-in look intentional and not like a mistake, was me.

The Old Man Killing it with the DIY.

So I think I know how that wedding planner feels the day of the wedding, when everyone is complementing the bride on what a beautiful wedding she pulled off.

She just stands in the shadows, glittery wedding clipboard in hand, smiling demurely as she downs her fifth cocktail and third piece of cake.

But does she give up? Does she quit planning weddings and start driving for LYFT? Of course not. She keeps going. She keeps planning, directing, and making inane suggestions on ways to spend money her clients don’t have.

So I’m not gonna quit planning, puttering and making suggestions just because I’ve been largely ignored for the last forty years. Somehow, my projects have taken shape and come to life. Maybe it’s all the drawings I’ve made, all the heaps of fixtures, cans of paint, carloads of cabinets and piles of tiles I’ve picked out over the years, or the hundreds of suggestions I’ve dangled out in front of the old man to get him to buy into my vision.

Something worked.

Because we do have the lightest, brightest, loveliest little home now. It reflects who we are and the way that we live, and that, is reason enough to go on.

So, onward into the New Year, into the next plan, the next project, the next brain numbing conundrum that gets your critical thinking faculties moving in over drive. This DIY stuff is not for the faint of heart.

So here’s a toast to all the DIY’ers out there, who design and draw, demolish and re-build, who make things work and make it their own and make it fabulous!

The world is a better place because of you!

Copywright 2020 by Ilona Elliott

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Life After Sixty: Idle Threats

If we ever run out of food due to nuclear holocaust, at least I will know where to forage for bits of protein and fiber.

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Life is a Trip and Then You Die

…I feel things just as deeply, I experience life just as fiercely…

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A Van Named “Christine?”

…I haven’t heard him cooing the name Christine yet as he’s buffing the back bumper…

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Charades Anyone?

Life after Sixty Series

The old man and I play a lot of charades lately.

And no, we aren’t particularly keen on party games. Nor are we attempting to relive our summer camp experiences (because we never had any.)

Well, maybe the old man did a couple of boy scout camps but they didn’t play charades. I’m sure they were too busy cutting down fragile tree saplings and killing tiny little forest creatures with their sling shots to bother.

Rug rats.

We play charades because we have to. Without charades we would be lost.

Because we can’t remember words. So we are reduced to a kind of sign language, of our own design, and we cheat because we use sound effects.

Generally, I’m the one doing the charading and he is the one doing the guessing. Meaning he is looking at me with the same disdain usually reserved for street mimes while I gesture and make stupid noises and stuff.

But because he is good natured he plays along or maybe he just knows that the sooner he guesses what I’m saying the sooner I will leave him alone and he can go back to looking at car stuff on his android.

Personally I kind of enjoy the process. Words are boring.

Especially words like “drill”.

One syllable. Sounds like pill. Such a mindless mime.

But when I ask “Do you know where the…is ” as I gesture with my right hand like I’m holding a tool with a trigger and make little ghirr ghirr ghirring noises, it’s kinda fun.

And since I married a super genius he answers almost immediately:

“Last time I saw it it was over on the kitchen counter by the stove”, (because who doesn’t keep a cordless drill on the kitchen counter next to the stove and the glass jars waiting for recycling?)

It’s in my immediate field of vision, which makes me feel like a dumb ass.

“Oh, thanks” I say lamely, and move in that general vicinity, trying so hard to remember what I wanted the drill for in the first place.

The old man says nothing, just goes back to phone scrolling.

Life after sixty. Such fun.

So if you ever need a partner for charades, I’m becoming quite the expert.

I do cheat though.

Ghirr, ghirr, ghirr.

copyright 2019 by Ilona Elliott

The Author (on the right)

*Because getting old is such a hoot, I am going to be addressing the subject in a new series of essays, the Life After Sixty Series.

Unless I forget.

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Life is a surgeon. With a random hand. It’s impossible to get through it without going under the knife from time to time.

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