Single Socks and Prison Buses

Welcome to the Queen's Meme #62 ~ 

Sometimes silly. Sometimes serious.

It's called The Crazy Question Meme

I would be ever so appreciative if you could supply me with the answers to these questions. I've pondered them my whole life!! They represent some of the most important quandaries of the human condition! The burning and ridiculous questions are....

1. Why doesn't McDonald's sell hotdogs?
For the same reason they don't sell lasagna, Godiva or Gucci bags - They're too rich and fattening.


2. How far east can you go before heading west?
I tried this once. I ended up at the equator. And you thought I didn't have a sense of direction.


3. What happens to the missing socks?
Until they appear on a milk carton they won't get the respect they deserve. I feel sorry for all the lonely little single socks out there.

4. Does love = sex or does sex = love?
Yes and yes. But only on the equator.


5. How much wood did the woodchuck chuck?

He chucked as much as a woodchuck could without moving into a higher tax bracket.


6.  Why do prison buses have emergency exits?
It gives the prisoners just enough temptation to keep things interesting.

7.  Do you believe that an alien ship stole question #7? 
I believe that aliens stole Mimi who was last seen trying to come up with question #7. 

Monday Mimisms ~ I Am Quite Sure It's Not My Birthday. Quite Sure.

I am but a mere child. Still.

Never mind that the Queen's Parade was called off due to some hillbilly tradition in this godforsaken place...something about a watermelon seed spitting contest, I forget....It's bad enough that even Homer forgot my birthday. And after all the fame and fortune I've brought him. Is there no loyalty in this world?

I know it is not my birthday because Queen Elizabeth did not send me a card.
Nor did Prince William or Kate The Middleton invite me to sing at the Royal Nuptials in the Spring. Yet.
I know it is NOT my birthday because my mother hasn't called - and she should know. It has been so long since my birth that even SHE has forgotten.
I know it is not my birthday because I have yet to use hair coloring on my natural brunetteness. Not YET! I refuse to see believe that there are a few odd colored strands of unbrunetteness in my royal head.
The minute I do I will believe it is my birthday.

I know it is not my birthday because my ex- husband HAS called me apparently in a an unsuccessful effort to make up for all the years he didn't. I accepted his happy happy with a smile and a skip down happy divorce lane. Seriously. I tease him constantly about how if he doesn't shape up I'm going to divorce him.

I know it is not my birthday because I have resisted the urge to smack anybody who dares speak my real age. I feel twenty-five years old and that's how it's going to stay thank you very much.
I know it is not my birthday because I can still climb this tree.

And most importantly, I know it is not my birthday because my doe-eyed look still works on police officers.  

Trust me on that one.

What was that, Homer? What did you say? Listen you big-mouth hound dog I am in no mood for your back-talking ways on this blog. Do you hear me?? If you don't have something nice to say don't say anything at all. You think I don't know it was you who left that package of Botox on the porch this morning? Huh?

"Excuse me, My old Queen, I have to get ready to go out."

Where are you going? You can't leave me. It's my birthday!!

 "I'm sorry, but the Grand Marshal in the Spit Parade can't be late."

That dog is such a traitor.

Time For A Short Journey (aka Vacay Time)

I am currently on self-imposed hiatus until Monday, November 29th.

If you need emergency blog assistance, Homer will take notes and solve all emergencies while I'm away. Just leave a comment. He is wearing a royal badge and everything.

Happy Holidays!

I shall return.

Mama's Jail ~ A Thanksgiving Story

It is tradition on this blog to re-post this story every Thanksgiving. I hope you and your family have a safe and wonderful holiday. ~ Mimi

When my son was fifteen he did something stupid. His dad, my ex-husband, gave him the usual “Atta boy don't do that again” talk, the school got their three days without his smart mouth and I was left with the what am I gonna do with this child? nightmare invading my dreams. In those days there was no dungeon, no chains, no rack – not that I would have used it ( I didn't even believe in spanking) – but you catch my drift.

What am I going to do with this child?

The conversation went something like this: “You know I love you so I'm not even going to preface this punishment with I love you because you've already gotten a slap on the wrist but OK OK I love you.”

“Yeah, I know Mom.”
He started to walk away.

“Well, I hope you'll still love me when I tell you what your punishment is going to be.”

Although I vowed never to give the think of all the starving children speech to my child (I broke that rule many times), this time I went for the jugular. Mine was bulging. “What were you THINKING?! Do you think you can just go through life handling things this way? Do you know how privileged you are? (yeah Mom) Do you understand that there are kids in this world who would love to have your life? (yeah Mom) Why are you choosing to mess things up for yourself? Do you know that you can't play sports now? (yeah Mom) Are you listening to me?! If you don't get your act together young man you're going to end up somewhere you don't want to be and I'm not bailing you out. Do you hear me? (yeah Mom) You have no idea how close you came to getting in serious trouble today, do you? Do you? Well, DO you?? (a surly yeah Mom....See, I told you, listen to the smart mouth.) What you do right now in school will determine your future. And now you have a bad mark on your academic record and a three-day suspension before high school. You are out of control!”

“So ground me,” said the smart mouth.

“No. I will not ground you.”

He halted.

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Just think of it as Mama's jail.”

The smart-aleck ceased for a moment and then....."Whatever, Mom.”

I was furious with him and at my wit's end. He needed to see how the real world works. I made arrangements. It took some doing but they finally saw it my way. "You want your son to do WHAT? But he's not a criminal (not YET I thought) and we're not a juvenile detention center." (well......) "Will you please allow us to do this? I asked the nun-like administrator of this facility. “I'm not trying to teach him a lesson here, that is not the point, but he needs to see and understand with his own eyes how lucky he is and how his actions now can affect the rest of his life.”


So for the next two months that summer we got up at five am, drove to another town and worked in a homeless shelter's soup kitchen. It was the worst of the worst neighborhoods. I had cleanup detail (you didn't think they'd let me near the food now, did you?) and he served the line.

“What are we doing here?” he asked.

I never told him why. He didn't need another lecture.
Think of all the starving children just got real.


After one week of losing his summer sleep to ride an hour in my car at the crack of dawn - with music blasting all the way - and mingle with very old people volunteers and stir canned creamed corn in a pot for an hour he said, “Why didn't you just send me to REAL jail?! I hate this!”




Uh huh, I thought. Just stir, buster.

In the middle of the second week he started to actually get up before I did. “Hurry up, Mom. We have to get going.” (Oh great, I thought. He's met a pretty girl at the homeless shelter. That's the only reason he would get up at five am. My plan has backfired. Drats!) And what was this grand revelation I expected him to learn? Heck if I knew. I was just a parent with an unruly fifteen- year -old with no respect for himself or his elders or his life. I didn't even know if it would make a difference.
All I knew was that somehow the corn and pintos and no-dessert-for-you rule would magically translate into a light-bulb moment for him. Osmosis maybe? I just knew this was the right thing to do but I didn't know how or why.

One early afternoon as I started to clean the lunch tables with a large wet rag and a bucket of soapy water, rearranging the napkins and utensils for the next meal, I looked up to see my sleepy-headed son talking with a man through the narrow serving window.

My boy had just served lunch. There was pie for dessert that day.
Pumpkin pie.The man had returned to the window for another slice.
He was dirty. Shaky.
No teeth. Scraggly. Scary. Smelly. And hungry.

The rules were clear. One serving per person. No seconds. Period.

No one was looking. And I'm thinking....We're going to get thrown out of the soup kitchen for not following the rules. Oh great! Suspended again. And this time I'm going down with him. Oh the shame. Until.....

The man who wanted more pie.

Up until this point he rarely made eye contact with anyone in the line. Especially not the kids. He plopped the food on the plate and reached for the next empty Styrofoam sadness shuffling through. People with their entire families in tow. Hungry folks down on their luck and needing not even a hot meal. Just a meal. Families living in cars through no fault of their own. On the street. Raggedy clothes crossing elbows with his Tommy Hilfiger jeans and watch.
Pork 'n beans, wax beans, any beans. Didn't matter. Please feed my child. My little girl is hungry. I saw it in their eyes. The sadness. And the shame.

I was so moved that summer. Apparently, I needed a reality check too. But that was not the point. Was it?

The man would not stop asking and he was forced to look him squarely in the eyes. I could see the wheels turning in baby boy's brown-eyed head..... “Will you shut up? I'm going to get in trouble if you don't go away.”

Silence.

And a hungry stare full of embarrassment that a life-giving gesture lay in the hands of this kid he did not know and would never know - someone young enough to be his grandchild - who held something he wanted.. something he had to beg for. And then I saw my son slip a plump piece of pumpkin delight (with whipped cream) onto the scraped clean empty plate. The man nodded appreciatively, lowered his head, and walked away.

By this time my wet rag had dropped to the table and the cleaning had stopped. My hair in a net, pretending to fold silverware sets, I watched what happened. He saw me sit down. I waited for someone to say something. I waited for him to get in trouble. No one saw his discretion that day but I'll tell you this - If I could have jumped through the tiny little window and wrapped my arms around that boy I would have done so.

He was shuffling his hundred dollar Nike-shod feet standing with a spatula and an empty pan, trying not to look at me. When our eyes finally met, the blur of tears between us said what no lecture ever could. We never talked again about the man, the pie, or his punishment.
But I was proud.

We finished our tour of shelter duty as promised and school started again in the fall.
That was fifteen years ago.

Did that summer stop him from forever being a knuckle-head? No.
Did he straighten-up-and-fly-right from that moment on? No.
Were there more nightmare dreams for me through the teenage years? Yes.

But I have to believe that it shaped his understanding of the world a bit and through all his troubles that most certainly came later, I did see – and continue to see – a great compassion develop in him for people in need.

And to this day, every time I'm offered a a slice of pumpkin pie.... I see a homeless man, a prized piece of dessert and brown-eyed humility.

Mine.

copyright Mimi Lenox

Wishbones and Whistles

We weren't the Waltons.

But for one day we thought we were.

Her food was legendary. Her cooking divine.
Deviled eggs sprinkled with paprika in a 1940s cut glass egg dish garnished with olives and cherry tomatoes that matched the red paprika. And parsley in the middle surrounding chunks of cheese. That was my grandmother's egg plate.
I have her dish from Thanksgivings past.

Let me tell you about the chicken. Do you know what "scald on the chicken" means?  It was something akin to cosmic perfection. Crust on the chicken that was heaven fried. Black pepper and salt to the nines and juicy chicken parts dripping with her grease-fried pan chicken smoldering in THIS pan - a black cast iron skillet.

Nothing else would fry chicken like that pan could.


And then she would scrape up the crackly pieces of fried skin that fell off the bird and leave them in a corner of the pan with the leftover Crisco grease. A handful of self-rising flour thrown in on top of that would start the tedious process of making the milk gravy. Stir stir stir the cracklings with the flour and grease....then came the water sloowwwwly poured over the leftover pieces that were now thickened and making a tasty country gravy as she stirred with a wooden spoon. The water made a big whoosh of steam in the kitchen when it hit the hot skillet. I watched her do it a million times. Sometimes even more salt and pepper. She would stir the fried pieces into the water and cook them a few minutes until the water turned brown...but not too fast and not too slow...the temperature had to be just right. Her touch was just right.  Then came the milk and more stirring. Bubbling. Thickening. Perfection. Sometimes she would add the chicken breasts back in and cook the gravy with the meat awhile longer but most often she poured the brown gravy into an oval white porcelain gravy bowl (mine now) and we would have it over biscuits. My Papa ate his with cheese on top of biscuits and then gravy on top of that. 

It's funny. As special as I knew that gravy was, it really wasn't anything new to my grandfather. At noon each day the whistle would blow at the furniture plant and a few minutes later he'd come home for lunch. Most often chicken and gravy and a set table at noon everyday everyday everyday. I don't remember him ever eating a sandwich or junk at lunch.  She set the table with a tablecloth, the oven timed perfectly to the sound of the whistle. That's when the biscuits would come out piping hot in the tiny kitchen with the crank-out windows and brown stone walls. He loved cucumbers drowning in vinegar and onions, tomato slices with sugar on top, homemade pickles , homemade banana pudding.

Pork chops or chicken pie or broccoli/cheese casseroles or fried chicken with her famous gravy and biscuits, hot and waiting for him at the sound of the whistle.
And then at five minutes til time to be back to work we'd hear the whistle blow again in that small small town. He'd finish his coffee and kiss us goodbye. Back to work for three more hours in those tight-laced painful boots of his and putting on his hat as he walked out the door. As wonderful as her Thanksgiving meals were for a very large extended family, it is not the fine china and linen memories I treasure the most. That was enormous noise and hustle and bustle and cousins from afar who I wouldn't see for another year, nice and cozy, but not the everyday magic I remember at the sound of whistles. Silver tea sets don't hold a candle you see to offerings of everyday love on a thick white tablecloth with blue and gold trim.


Regardless of the fact that he had exactly 30 minutes to get home, wash up, eat and get back to work before that sound...he took time to bow his head while one of them said grace before he touched a fork or a spoon. He took the time to share a wishbone with me and let me make a wish. I remember. Oh yes.  I do.

How did my mind go down that whistle road?

Oh because I smell her chicken

and I see her apron

and I feel the tablecloth in my fingers  

and I still hear the grace

Monday Mimisms ~ How To Pardon A Turkey (and other fun games!)

Ten Things to Do on Thanksgiving Besides Cook Turkey

1. Thank God for divorce (Just kidding!!) 

Let me start again....

1. Serve meals at a homeless shelter or try to save The Salvation Army

2. Go to a nursing home or jail and visit someone who never gets company. 
Bernie Madoff comes to mind.

3. Sing them a song (in my case, this would be my offering. Home baked goodies would be out of the question)

4. Time travel to 1910 and go Christmas shopping

5. Make your Christmas list 
(Homer gets NOTHING)

6.  Visit your mother. Bring this!

For yourself

7. Wish upon a wishbone

8. Look at this 1942 photograph and wonder why the little boy on the end

is face down in the dressing.

9. Gobble something

10. Pardon at least one turkey in your life.

I might need more than one bird.

Happy Birthday Baby Boy

He is seven. Super Mario is his hero. I am so hurt!! Who is Mario???  What happened to stuffed animals in his seat belt? WHO is Mario?

He'd better be a nice guy with no fightin'....that's all I'm saying.  I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

I shall report on the revelry.
 There will be cake.




*Photography Mimi Lenox

A Hat, A Mirror, and Me

It was just sitting there

My weakness woven in bold red

What was I to do?

I don't know how that happened.

Skin Cancer ~ Holy Moley!

So that's what the Lady Doctor said. We'll call her Dr. Derriere Derma.

This was not a routine check-up but a referral from not one, but two other physicians who said recently..."You know Ms. Pencil Skirt, I think you should have a dermatologist look at this place on your back."
Of course, I, in typical hypochondriac-swoon-dramatic fashion replied, "WHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAT??!" What does it LOOOOKK like??! Is it...is it....?"

And thus began the story of the 3 moles. 

We'll call them Molly (#1) Milly (#2) and Sully (#3)

Me?

I was just sulky.

Rewind 2 months ago: Doctor Death #1 and bearer of good news overall: "Miss Pencil Skirt, I think you should have this place on your lower back looked at by a dermatologist. Juuuuust in case." 
"WhhhhhhhhhhhhhAAAAAAAAAAAt??! What does it LOOOOOOK like?" Is is...is it...?
"Well, you never can be too sure. Just have it looked at it. Okay?"
Molly was born.

He sure knew how to raise a girl's blood pressure.
One week later: Enter Doctor Death of The Hypertension Variety #2:  Well, you're not so good on the BP today, Mimi, but I don't see what the fuss is about Molly. Looks fine to me. Don't worry about it."
"But Doctor D #1 insisted I have it looked at it."
"Don't know what he was seeing but I don't think it's necessary."
Exhale and exit. I went to get an ice cream cone before the cholesterol meds start. Why not?
Blood pressure lowered and beginning to feel like a see-saw.
Doctors! Can't they agree on annnnything?

I started to leave.
"Oh, wait, Miss PS....this one right here however. Ummm.....that one needs to go."
Meet Milly. 

"Whhhhhhhhhhhaaaaaaaaaaaaaatttttttttttttt? What does it LOOOOOOOKKK like?"
**checking blood pressure again**
"It's dark, it's sorta round and it should come off."
"There??! You mean thhheeerrrree??!
"There, Miss Pencil Skirt."
"Does it look baaaaaad?"
**doctor D #2 snickered**
"It should be removed."
"You mean right away?"
"I'll get you an appointment with Dr. Derma Derriere if you'd like."
"Okay. But ...but...but...
I'd say anytime in the next year will be fine."

"But that's the one we've been WATCHING. I KNEW I should have been watching. SOMEbody should have been watching and it certainly has not been me. I'm doomed!! All this time I've been watching the wrong thing, Doctor Death #1 has been watching the wrong thing and besides, I can't even see it unless I contort myself at an excruciating angle in the bathroom mirror. How am I supposed to watch something I can't see? What kind of convoluted medical advice is that??" You KNOW I'm a hypochondriac. I shouldn't be told to watch things I have no peripheral power over."

It's in the Constitution.

Doctor Doom #2 was not amused.

"Anytime in the next Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrr will be fine, Mimi."

He laughed out loud all the way down the hall.

It was so not necessary.

Sigh.

Heavy, heavy sigh.

Molly is a distant memory. Milly's days are numbered.

Exit Dr. Doom #2 of the Hypertensive kind. 

Enter Dr. Derriere Derma

At this point I am so wishing I hadn't spent quite so much time in the sun at the beach this summer. Give me a few months to play and look what happens. 
So by now I've been put on blood pressure pills (for real) and referred by 2 different physicians who can't agree on which affliction should be removed nor why the other one even has a medical license. I meant the mole, not the doctor. I think.
Off to the Dermatologist I go for the final verdict. I take Molly and Milly with me, dressed to the nines and ready to meet their Mole Maker.
Molly on the back, Milly on the never-mind and me. Just call me Silly.

I hate needles.

I hate pain.
I can't stand the thought of what is about to happen.

So I'm waiting in my blue and white checked ball gown, legs dangling off the edge of the table, feet and French manicured toes propped up on the doctor's white round stool when in waltzes Dr. Derriere Derma Darling Girl That She Is.  She is nice. She is even pretty.  I knew a nice pretty doctor with a soft voice and kind eyes would not hurt me.

Think again.

Do you see that picture on the wall behind my pencil head? That is a medical degree.

I hope. I am praying at this point that the mere child who just left my room of doom didn't mail order that diploma, cause Molly and Milly are really sweating it out in the blue checkered ball gown. Me?  

I'm just comatose.

And a tad blue

Waiting for the scalpel. Saying last rites for the twins.

After I take the appropriate blog pictures, totally ignoring the Turn Off Your Cellphone sign, she returns with a microscope, a flashlight, and a salami sandwich I just made that up ready to examine me from head to pencil toe.  After much ado about freckles and fair skin, she finds the soon-to-be-mutilated Molly. I'm sure I heard a rebellious whimper. 

"So, Doctor DD, what do you think?"

"It's fine."

"But...Doctor Doom #1 said..."

"It's fine."

"But..."
"Nothing to worry about."

YIPPEE!!

Molly is positively beaming with pride. Milly is looking nervous. 

"OK, doc. We've been watching Milly for 20 years (literally). Dr. Hypertension Man said she has to go to mole heaven now. Let's do the deed."
"She's fine."

"Reeeeaaaaaaaallllllly?"

"But Dr. Doom #2 said...."

"You need to chill, Mimi."

YIPPEE!!!

But wait. Can I trust her? Two doctors have already been dead wrong. Pun intended. 
This girl is wet-behind-the-ears.

So my head is spinning with the exuberant news that Molly and Milly are going to live on the shores of my bathing suit once again. Excellent!
Until I hear....
"Sit still, Miss Pencil Skirt. I think we may have a problem."

"Ouch! That hurt!"
"Hmmmm....said the Doctor, "this looks like a basal cell spot. Or it could be a squamous."
"CELL?? 
"WHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAT??!" What does it LOOOOKK like??! Is it...is it....? You mean c.a.n.c.e.r?"
"Yes," she calmly and emphatically replied.
 "Do you think it really is?"
"Yes," she calmly and emphatically replied.
"You think it's a cancer spot?"
"Yes," for the third time.
"But that's not even what I came IN here for!!!" 
"I'll be right back with the nurse. It'll be over in a flash. The biopsy and removal will only take......" 
"BIOPSY??!"

Meet Sully.

I call her the Surprise Mole.

Sort of like Haydn's Symphony

But sneakier

Suddenly Molly and Milly were a distant third cousin thrice removed memory and the deed was over in a flash and I wasn't such a baby about the needle MUCH and it was done.
Three different doctors. Three different findings. Three different opinions.
So confusing. She tried to reassure me but my mind went to the worst case scenario. It's a curse coping mechanism. And so typically me. I need knowledge. I need answers. I need to have a plan. I drive myself crazy. 
Then I had to wait six days to find if it was just superficial, if it really was basal cell or squamous or something else, how deep it was and to rule out melanoma...just in case.

The waiting. That was the hard part.

Of course I drove my friends nuts in the meantime, whined a lot, pouted a lot and been a general pain in the derma derriere. But seriously. It's the first time I've heard the definitive C word in my lifetime. It's an odd feeling, even if it's not potentially a serious malignancy. 
I've had suspicious findings before but never the definitive C word.

I had to say the word. I had to write the word. I wrote some friends. They bzzzzzed back advice and love and Akelamalu sent Reiki to me.  My mind took turns down roads of chemotherapy and how it would surely take the sass right out of my priss.  What a shallow thought. But real. So real.

I thought of all the people I'd known who had cancer. How brave they were. How they were going along in their lives and then one day BOOM something is found and their life changes. I thought of all those who live cancer free after treatment for years and years and it never comes back. That happens too. It's happening more and more these days. How they must value each precious day.  I thought of this incredible man who taught me the meaning of dignity in the face of dying. And how if things turned out for the worse, that I would try not to whine and carry on too much....and remember there but for the grace of God go I.  I thought of this one and that one who are facing treatment right now, sharing with us and keeping us informed, making us laugh and giving us insightful posts on peace and life in general - even when they and their families are in crisis and struggling.  And this one who recently lost her mother to the disease. How much fortitude it must take to carry on when they are bone tired and stressed. And I angrily thought of all the dollars wasted in this country on things that matter not when cancer research funding, stem cell research funding too, should be at the top of the list.  No one is immune from it, everyone has been affected by it, all fear a day when the word might be spoken to them.

But today, much to my surprise, I heard a most beautiful definitive B word.

How thankful I am. 
How exhausted I am just dealing with the possibility for a mere six days. It doesn't matter now that three doctors were wrong. I'm just glad one was.
I have a new appreciation for those who are battle worn and brave. 
For I do think they're brave.

So I'd like to encourage you to do 4 5 things:  
Get thee to a skin screening. Get an opinion. Get a second opinion. Get a third opinion. And then get an opinion on the third opinion. 
Don't go to Google and start researching the terms before you get back to the doctor or you WILL go crazy.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to break the news to Homer. 

There's a funny looking spot on his right paw.

He has an appointment with Dr. Derma Derriere.

Don't worry, Homer.

It won't hurt.

Much.

The Uh Oh File

Welcome to the Queen's Meme #60! 

Since we are having a meme birthday I thought I'd wax celebratory. Do you mind?

Let's walk in the footsteps of one Mark Twain, who said..."
"When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it happened or not."

So imagine you're 60 even if you're not and answer the questions. 

Please.

There will be cake.

I promise.

1. When I'm 60 I'd like to know more about men and their quirky ways (yes! I'm talking to you!!) and less about why I care to know in the first place. **excuse me, I had a moment**

2. At my 60th birthday party, I can only invite 3 people. They are....

Indira Ghandi, Jacqueline Kennedy and Baby Boy. 

The child will have a list of questions for the other 2 guests - and then we'll play Pin The Tail On The Donkey and eat cake.

3. "To me old age is always fifteen years older than I am" said Bernard Baruch.

What do you consider old age?

I hate the word "old"...it belongs on CHEESE, not people.

4. Tom Stoppard was overheard saying, "Age is a high price to pay for maturity."

What does "maturity" mean to you at any age? 

To me, maturity means the emotional stability that comes with life experience (not so much in years but the ability to process your experiences and learn from them)  and acting like an adult with some manners and class.  I've seen 12-year-olds who had more of that than some fifty+-year-olds I've known.

5.  Joan Rivers said "Looking fifty is great… if you're sixty."
Do you worry about age lines and wrinkles? 

Bwaahaaaaha......Everybody knows that if you "worry" you get more of them.

How do you plan to preserve your wonderful selves? 

The water in Bloggingham's castle moat is streaming in from the

Fountain of Youth. 

The architect planned well.

6.  Comment on this quote by Euripides
"If we could be twice young and twice old we could correct all our mistakes."

Guess I'll just have to live with those mistakes. Most of mine were made in the middle!

7.  Pablo Picasso said, "One starts to get young at the age of sixty and then it's too late."
What do you do now to stay young and enjoy your life?

Staying young is not the problem. It's a mental shift. Totally. From thinking "old" to thinking "young."  
All else follows.

I told you there would be cake.