I cracked the ol' whip and got Edgerton moving on revamping the Old Biddy Rambling blog. It wasn't too difficult - I only had to make reference to Captain Jean-Luc Picard by saying "Make it so" and so it was. In warp time velocity speed the Old Biddy had a facelift! (Edgie loves it when I talk Trekkie to him.)

So what do you think of the new look? Is it as fetching as a freshly coiffed blue rinse hairdo or as disappointing as a run in your dark beige control top pantyhose? The Old Biddy wants to know.

(Although Edgerton didn't create the graphics he hooked me up using a funky blogger template - see link at bottom of page).

It's not what you think. I don't hate old people because they drive too slow or because I got swarmed by a pack of mall walkers as I tried to make my way to the Gap. It's worse than that.

Twice in one week, I witnessed something horrible. On two separate occasions I saw an elderly person struggle to do the zipper up on their coats.

Ugh. I hate that. As they fumbled again and again and again, I just wanted to run over and do it for them. But that would have just made things worse.

If I was a more clever person I would invent the "old fogey coat". It would look like a regular coat but would have a voice activated zipper. On command, the insertion pin of the zipper would automatically connect to the retainer box (technical terms - I wiki-ed it). The zipper would then magically zip itself up, the old geezer/biddy holding the pull tab confidently as if they were the ones in control. The voice command could be one that they program in themselves. For example, when they are about to zip up they could casually say (to a friend or to themselves) "I better pick up some Geritol today". Then Bam! On the word Geritol, the zipper's interlocking teeth would glide together effortlessly and easily.

Once, many years ago, I saw an old person running (well shuffling very quickly) to catch a bus. They just about made it to the stop when the bus pulled away. The driver, too concerned with schedules, didn't care. I was on that bus. It was a "kill me now" moment, one that has been etched in my memory ever since.

I find heartbreaking moments like these really, really hard to shake off. They stick to me like Poligrip to dentures.

Perhaps I should channel this angst and go volunteer in a nursing home or something. Maybe someday. But maybe it would be too much to handle.

My very first post ever was about embracing old age and becoming an umbrella wielding old biddy with a penchant for curse words. I still aspire to this. But I worry. What if I can't tie up my plastic rain bonnet?

The following list of helpful hints will help you keep up appearances in the housekeeping department with little or no effort. Enjoy.

1. Have you just received a telephone call from a friend saying they're popping over in 15 minutes? Two words: Lysol wipes. Not very 'green' I know, but in about 30 seconds you can give your bathroom a once over and your friends will never suspect the slovenly conditions in which you normally live.
2. Employ the "interrupted vacuuming" ruse. To do this, simply plug in the vacuum cleaner and place it in the middle of the living room. Then go about your usual daily business - watching television, eating bonbons, writing the next best thing in young adult literature, etc. If someone drops by, or if a family member returns home, greet them slightly out of breath and declare, "Oh, you just caught me in the middle of my housecleaning." This works a treat. Trust me.
3. Never, ever, have glass kitchen cupboards. Not only is it just another thing to Windex but no longer will you be able to stock your cupboards in a quick and easy nilly-willy fashion.
4. Ya know how some people have a junk drawer? Get yourself a junk closet, or even better, a junk room. This is the spot where you throw all miscellaneous items. Why spend time sorting things when you could be writing the next Giller Prize winner or watching Coronation Street? It's all about prioritizing.
   
5. Hand your significant other a pair of rubber gloves and declare a sensitivity to chemical cleaners. Tell him/her that you've tried your best but the Windex spray is deep in your lungs and you feel breathless and lightheaded. While lamenting your environmental allergies, squint, cough, sniff, gag and, most of all, look disappointed in yourself, as if there was nothing you wanted more than to be able to provide a squeaky clean environment for your family. Then, while your partner is scrubbing away, you can go lie down to recover from the so-called Mr. Clean induced dizziness.
6. To give the illusion of being a good housekeeper, frequently update your Facebook status with the following: (your name) is cleaning, (your name) is scrubbing, (your name) has a lemony fresh house, (your name) loves the new Lysol outdoor fresh scent, (your name) broke the vacuum again from overuse. (You name) has dishpan hands. You get the idea. Something to note: It is very satisfying to write these status updates on days when your house is particularly untidy.
7. Have a child in your house under the age of five? Hand them a duster. Looking industrious, they'll wave it over the surfaces and then, at the end of the day, you can update your Facebook status to say: (your name) is happy to say that the duster was in full use today.
8. Speaking of children, get yourself some. A messy house is always easily blamed on them. If you can't get your hands on any little runts at the very least befriend someone who has a few. Then, when visitors come, you can say "Oh, Mary, was here earlier with her six children, and let me tell you those children are busy. Just look what they've done to the house!"

When all else fails, say screw it. Post these quotes around your house and be done with it:

"A clean house is the sign of a boring person." ~author unknown.

"At worst, a house unkept cannot be so distressing as a life unlived." ~Rose Macaulay

"Housework, if it's done right, can kill you." ~John Skow

and my personal favourite:

"Our house is clean enough to be healthy and dirty enough to be happy." ~author unknown

This last quote sums up my house. I refuse to spend my time ragging on my kids to keep things "just so". They should be free to be comfortable in their own house.

So while my house is kept sanitary, it is not perfectly in order ... and that's fitting, 'cause neither am I.

I love old biddies, especially eccentric ones, so it’s no surprise that many old biddy characters show up in my writing. Writing an old biddy, or an old geezer, for that matter, into a story makes writing just plain fun. Their unpredictability and wackiness make for humorous moments and, in young adult writing, the old biddy/geezer can be a great source of understated wisdom for the younger character.

I have just recently added a new character to Ballycatters and Bugs. Although Great Aunt Edna spends a lot of time in the background in this book, she always adds greatly to the scene.
In this excerpt, teenager Alistair Stephenson faces his parents after being beaten up the night before by his “best friend”, Jumbo McBain. (BTW, constructive criticism on my writing is always welcome!)

*****************************************************************************

I go to the kitchen to make a cup of tea. My parents read the Saturday morning papers, a carafe of coffee between them. Sitting in the corner, sending vibrations through the floorboards as she sways rhythmically in her rocker, is Great Aunt Ivy. As soon as my mother lays eyes on me she jumps up from the kitchen table and comes to examine my face. “Oh my God! Alistair!”
“I’m fine, Mom.”
My mother runs to the refrigerator and throws open the freezer door.
“Just look at you, Ally. What a state,” Dad says.
My mother rummages through the freezer, frantic.
“What’s all the commotion?” croaks Great Aunt Ivy.
“When will ever you learn, Ally?” Dad says.
My mother grabs Tom Smallwood’s giant frozen codfish from the freezer, the one he gave my parents as a thank you for helping him pull up his turnips when his arthritis was acting up.
“Are they dropping bombs?” yells Great Aunt Ivy.
“I have a good mind to call that boy’s father,” Dad says.
My mother puts Tom Smallwood’s fish on my face.
“Most people use a bag of peas,” I say.
“Why? Ally? Why?” my mother asks.
“Because it molds to the shape of your face better than a codfish,” I reply.
“Quick to the shelter!” yells Great Aunt Ivy.
“I lose sleep over this. I really do. I can’t stand it,” Mom cries.
She moves the fish from my fat lip to my swollen eye and I’m thankful not to have to look at her directly.
“For the love of God, Beth, get that goddamn thing out of his face,” my father snaps. “It will do no good ten hours after the fact.”
“The Germans are coming, aren’t they?” asks Ivy. “That’s what this is all about isn’t it?”
“I’m getting frostbite,” I say.
“For God’s sake, Beth, take the fish off his face,” says Dad.
“It’ll reduce the swelling,” says Mom.
“Not now it won’t,” says Dad.
Great Aunt Ivy starts singing one of those old war tunes of hers. I start to laugh. Dad slams his fist on the table.
“This is not funny, Alistair! We’ll leave MacEvoy’s Cove, you know. If you can’t stay away from him, we’ll move, I mean it! He’ll kill you one of these days.”
I don’t yell because what I want to say to my father is too important. So I keep my voice steady and even. “No,” I say “No. You’re wrong. Jumbo would never hurt me.”
My father jumps up from the table and grabs me by the arm. I try not to flinch as he presses on the bruises hiding underneath my shirt. He pulls me away from my mother and pushes me into the front hall.
“Look at your face, Ally,” he yells as he stands me before the hall mirror.
I look down.
My father puts his hand under my chin and gently, but firmly, pulls my head up.
“Look at your face, Ally,” he says, softer now. “How can you say James McBain will never hurt you?”
Great Aunt Ivy’s voice floats out from the kitchen.
“Keep the homes fires burning, while your hearts are yearning.”
I reach up and touch my eye. “This means nothing, Dad. Jumbo is more than this.”
I look at my father in the mirror. He’s no longer staring at me but at his own reflection.
“Though your lads are far away, they dream of home.”
The telephone rings. Ivy jumps up from her rocker and assumes a tae kwon do fighting stance. “Is that’s an air raid siren I hear?” she yells.
No one makes a move to answer the phone. Neglected, my father’s answering machine message kicks in. Jumbo McBain’s voice follows: “Bugboy? It’s me. Meet me at my place. ASAP. We have some exploring to do. You’ve got about ten minutes to get your arse here or I’m going without you. Oh, and by the way, your dad sounds like a homo on that answering machine message.”
I cringe.
“Please, Alistair,” pleads my mother. “Stay home. Look at the state of you. Your father’s right – he’ll kill you one of these days.”
“No!” I shout. “He won’t. He protects me. I’d be toast right now if it weren’t for Jumbo McBain.”
Ivy’s singing resumes. “There's a silver lining through the dark clouds shining.”
My father speaks without looking at me.
“Don’t go, Alistair. Make a clean break right now. You don’t need him.”
But I do need Jumbo McBain. And he needs me. So I walk out the front door and leave my father in the hallway, his head hung.
“Turn the dark clouds inside out till the boys come home.”
As I head down the hill to McBain’s, I look back and see my mother in the doorway, hugging Tom Smallwood’s codfish.

So I just turned forty. It’s awesome. That bit o’ pudge around the middle? What about it? I’m forty - whadaya expect? It’s very freeing being forty. I think I’ll give myself a break from the Pilates.

I expect it only gets better from here on in … I can’t wait to smack a young hoodlum upside the head with my umbrella and get nothing more than a “Stupid old biddy” yelled in return. I’ll croak back as loud as my aged vocal cords will allow “Oh Yeah? Sing it loud – I’m an old bat and I’m proud.”

I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ll rock a plastic rain bonnet. Sensible shoes? Bring ‘em on. You can keep your silver haired sophisticated old lady from the Centrum Silver Vitamins commercials with her classy hairdo and pearls – I want a slight stoop and a cane, one made from a dense wood (all the better for whacking).

I can’t wait to be known as The Curtain Twitcher. I can’t wait to wear lipstick way outside the outline of my lips. I can’t wait to shock people with a curse word … or two.

These are my thoughts on aging. Don’t like them? Then get the hell off my lawn!