Sharon's Blurb

 So I took the Blue Zone test the other day. When I punched in my year of birth, it estimated I would live to my late 70's. After I did the quiz, and, touch wood, all goes well, it postulated that I could survive until I am in my mid-90's, and to my mid-80's at the very least. It seems I am doing some things right that may garner me a few more years, according to the quiz:  getting my two servings per day of both fruits and veggies, dairy, whole grain, and protein; getting lots of sleep without sleep aids; not smoking; getting daily exercise (just yoga and walking these days); having regular weekly social interactions with people outside the household; having a purpose to get out of bed every day (caring for the cats, the house, my various jobs and volunteer duties, depending on the day); and having a positive attitude. I was even truthful about my meat intake (daily, but less would be better), and alcohol consumption (1 - 2 happy hour drinks per day), and it still

  He scurried out from under a bush to the edge of the road. I beeped my horn, not wanting to witness both a rat, and a rat becoming road kill, and he scurried back. Then, more determined than ever, he ran back to the edge of the road, knowing that's where he needed to be, and ran across. Four lanes of traffic. He ran as if his life depended upon it. He was flatlined as he raced across the asphalt, knowing, it seemed, that his life could end then and there. I was mortified. Firstly, that I had seen a rat, in Barrie. And secondly, that he had seemed to know exactly when to cross the street and not get hit by a car. It was broad daylight. Around 3:30 in the afternoon. Close to a strip mall plaza that included a drug store and restaurant, dollar store and others. What was a rat doing in Barrie? I thought that was a big city problem. Like Toronto. But no. It appears that Barrie has its own rodent problems too. According to a pest control company, O

First you have mystery Then you have history Then the mystery is history.

 There are some things that get better with age. Fine wines, and old cheese, which are two of my most favourite things. But this morning, I noticed my ankle felt like it was being stabbed as I was doing my daily yoga routine. I have also recently noticed that my right hip feels like it is being testy with me; offering me slight pangs of pain at the slightest adverse position. My vision seems to be lessening with each passing day; hence the increase to 2.0 in reading glasses today. Sharon 2.0. I guess that seems appropriate. A newer, more recent version of my original self. Not that that is a good thing. At this age, anyways. At the ripe young age of 61, I have a bit of an understanding of what may be ahead. Today while at a seniors home visiting a friend, there was a notice on the door for a two bedroom apartment that had become available - to anyone 60+! For a mere $2700 approx., one would have the privilege of living in such an establishment with "assista

 To cut or not to cut. That is the question. As of right now, the miniature horse wee Winston is coming up to his second birthday:  April 22, which is also Earth Day. He still has his baby teeth! He is considered a colt. However his testicles have descended. The pressure is on from many sides and people to have him gelded. That is the technical term for castrating a male horse. Just like neutering a male dog or cat. But there are problems afoot with Winston. A first gelding attempt, last April when he turned one, went awry. A bad reaction to the general anaesthetic saw him stop breathing. A quick reaction from the vets on hand administered a dose of epinephrine which restarted him breathing. The gelding attempt was ceased. He remains intact. He did not go into the light that day. He came back down to earth. And so now, there is a worry, a concern, that it may happen again. There is talk of a breathing tube being put down his airway so that he can bre

 "Off with your HEAD!" I mutter under my breath, cursing at the happy, little yellow weed as I behead it into infinity. It happens every time I see a dandelion. It can't be helped. They make my blood boil. I don't know what it is about them. They are a jubilant, sunny colour.   The first food for bees in the spring season. Looking so chirpy and "I'm here" and all that. But I hate them. And every time I pull one out of the garden, struggling to get the root, having to settle for just the stems and leaves, I swear. It is a deep seated hatred. I don't know where it come from. Perhaps it's because I came from an era when toxic chemicals were allowed to eradicate them. Everything was so green back then. Parks, playgrounds, public buildings. Unlike now, when the dandelions spread rampantly in a sunny sea since said chemicals were banned for everyone but golf courses. The yellow carpeting now jubilantly covering those p