Love is in the air……

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I promised myself to imbue a little light into my next post. This is me doing exactly that. I made it. I made it through Halloween, and not only made it through my birthday, but I pulled a rabbit out of the hat and probably enjoyed the most heart warming birthday day I’ve ever had. Who knew? Yesterday, I added another candle to the cake. Pretty soon, I’m going to need to add another cake to support the candles. At any rate, I had no expectations of anything special heading my way when I opened my eyes in the morning. I had plans for lunch and shopping, but the rest of the day I was to manage by myself. Keeping busy is my way of coping. However, you cannot keep too busy as to avoid being in touch with your feelings or go through the process of grieving, or you will not do your work and complete the process. The morning was filled with catching up on paperwork and pulling together some graphic designs for a local charity I’ve been working with for about eight years. The phone began ringing about 8:00 and I am here to tell you that device never stopped until my head hit the pillow last night. What lovely pops of bright sunny colors on a day destined to be filled with hues of purples and greys. Texts arrived with lovely warm messages of support and love, people posted on my social media pages, and as I said the phone earned it’s keep for the full time I was awake. You don’t know, unless you are the receiver of it, how very important that kind of contact is to a person feeling especially fragile and vulnerable. If they could bottle that, therapists would have to hang up their shingles.

My son and his family gifted me an hour and half massage at a local spa. I have never had a massage, or let me clarify, I have never paid to go to a facility to receive one. My first reaction when reading the gift certificate was “hmmmm”. This keeps coming up in my life of late. When Dale’s daughter and her husband were here they both made appointments to get some “body work done”, as they put it. When I said casually I had never been to a massage therapist they seemed shocked. What? I never had a pedicure until I was over forty. Apparently I am not a high maintenance girl. Once I did have a pedicure, I have routinely gotten them since. I think before the actual experience I hesitated because I felt sorry for people who were tasked with washing other people’s feet. I’ve seen mine, and even I don’t like to wash them. Recently I had to go to the podiatrist for what they call a planters wart. I apologized before removing my socks, to which after seeing my feet, the doctor replied “Your feet are great. You should see the feet that I do ever day.” “Really. My feet are great”? This is Rick’s fault. He liked to tease me. For some reason he targeted my feet early on in our relationship, referring to them as UGHS. He used to tell me to cover them up, I was scaring small children. Who’s the child, I ask you?

The big gun holidays are looming on the horizon. Not sure if my brain is wired at the moment for all the chaos associated with shopping, crowds, decorations, parties, etc. No matter what, I always put up my Christmas decorations the day after Thanksgiving. Was I confined to a hospital bed with tubes attached to 50% of my body, I would figure out how to do this remotely. As ritualistic as I am about the date they go up, they also have to come down the day after Christmas. Decorating is a happy and time consuming process I look forward to every holiday season. I love the first twinkle of lights on the tree, and watching as the pile of wrapped presents grows beneath it’s decorated boughs. I used to be somewhat of a fresh tree snob. I admit it. Never could understand why anyone would go artificial. Over the years, my stringent holding on to one view over another has eased considerably. These days I find myself a rather mellow being who puts less importance in having to do something my way or the highway, and am wide open to many points of view. That being said, my artificial tree is residing in a zippered plastic bag in my shed waiting to be gloriously adorned yet another year. Yay.

Today I am heading out for a walk and lunch with a friend. We’re going to walk downtown and browse through the shops. I am looking forward to getting out in the lovely fall weather and stretching my legs. I have been in the house quite a bit over the past year and feeling a little guilty pleasure at the thought of being outside in the fresh air. When you are the “survivor” there is a lot of guilt to go around. I try not to dip my ladle in that pot too often. It can can be habit forming. Though intellectually I know it is not my “fault” I am still here, there is part of me still feeling guilty for being so. When grieving it is hard not to feel guilty if you laugh at a joke, or enjoy the scenery, or sit down to a delicious meal without your partner, friend, spouse, parent, being there to enjoy it with you. I would consider this a very natural reaction. I had a lovely day with my friend yesterday, first at lunch and then dropping a dime or two at Home Goods. This does not mean I don’t miss Dale with all my heart, or am not feeling the tremendous loss of his presence. We go on, and that is the way we are structured. Those of us participating in this dimension are like flotsum caught up in the waves. We bob and weave with the currents and move along as the days move forward on the calendar. If you stop and do nothing but allow yourself to be consumed by grief and loss, there is always the danger you will remain firmly rooted in the spot where you are standing. That, is not healthy for anyone. I know when my time is here I hope my loved ones celebrate my passing with jokes and silly stories. That they sorely miss my presence in their lives, but go on to enjoy full and rich lives that I will always be a small part of. This does not mean I don’t allow the tears to flow when they brim at the ridges of my eyes, or feel the my stomach pinch when the memories begin to stream across my mind. There are times when the loneliness washes over me chilling me like a rush of cold frigid air and then recedes. This is all part of our life process, and death and change are right up there with living in what we have to deal with.

So for today I will take my melancholy mood for a walk in the crisp air and allow myself to be thankful for all I have, all I have had, and all I will have. Have a blessed and full day. Remember to tell those you love how important they are to you every chance you get. Dale used to tell me, “I will never apologize for telling you often how much I love you”, and he did tell me often. Those sweet words and all the lovely verbal gifts he gave me are tucked away in my mind to be pulled out as needed on my journey.

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Throwing a little shade…..

I’ve been dealing with the IRS this morning. You might want to approach me with caution. OMG. The most frustrating people to deal with. This interaction is on behalf of my mother, actually, not for myself. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, I don’t make enough income at this stage in my life to have them sniffing around trying to catch hold of my scent.

At any rate, about six years ago I took mother’s documents to a tax preparer who told me I really didn’t need to file. It had something to do with the estate and how it was set up. Okay, one thing to tick off my to-do list always feels like cause for celebration. It’s enough for me to try and figure out my financial situation, but having her accounts as well as mine can really be a bag of snakes at times. All went along smoothly until last year. Let’s face it in 2020, if it could go wrong, it seemed to go right ahead and do exactly that. An envelope arrived mid-year addressed to my mother at my address on official IRS stationery. Oh-oh. Somehow they had deduced she owed $12,000 for one year of unfiled forms, and God knows how much else for the other five. After consulting my current tax accountant, he said we would just file the missing years and this would iron out all the wrinkles. Good, I do enjoy a nice crisp, unmessy life on occasion, so sign me up for that. Not so fast, you say. Last week I got another letter from the IRS, (they must have an official letter writer over there with nothing much pending on their calendar). This one said I needed to verify my mother’s identity before they could process the tax returns. “Yup, she’s my mom”, I said out loud. Apparently that wasn’t sufficient. I was instructed to either go into her on-line account and verify her identity, or an 800 number was provided for those people who didn’t use, or have access to, a computer.

To do a little back story here, my mother has never owned a computer. Well, to be specific, she owned one but never learned how to use it. It was her husbands while he was alive, and when he was gone she kept it so visitors or family could use it when visiting. Once I tried to teach her how to use a PC, but after ten or so lessons each time reexplaining how to power it on and off, the difference between portrait and landscape configuration, and the basics of using the mouse, I realized there wasn’t enough vodka in the stores to cover that particular endeavor. I suggested she enroll in a beginning computer skills class at a local adult school. When that too was a total bust, we left it to the gods to sort out. After that, I became her go-to computer person. Truth is, I fill that void for several of my technology challenged friends as well. I don’t mind. Keeps me off the streets. That being said, my mother surely did not have an on-line account, so I began the process of creating one for her. They required a number of documents to complete this process. Seeing this was going to be an all morning affair, I thought since it was early in the day I might try the 800 number to speed things along. Not. I waded patiently through the myriad of road blocks designed to make you hang up early on in the call, and finally was dropped into a queue and told to wait there for a representative. About twenty minutes into listening to their music, a new message came on informing me they had a high volume of calls and they were disconnecting me. I was told to call back tomorrow, or possibly next year. Thanks so much. In the letter a time line was indicated to get this process done, so back to Plan A. I once again navigated my way through their website and began the process of setting up an account for my mom. When I got to the password and username section, it took me twenty minutes on that page alone just to somehow select a password and username that fit with the parameters they’d outlined. You know the type, “Password must be 18 letters long. Choose one letter from the Arabic dictionary, one Hieroglyphic symbol, and two latin verbs, every other letter in each word must be capitalized.” Once I was done and mission accomplished, I was about two hours into it. This all for something that is generally a lot of bureaucratic nonsense. My mom is an elderly woman with dementia who has paid religiously over the years and worked hard, and doesn’t owe them a nickel from all accounts. Sigh. Amazing to me they waste all this paper, sweat, and manpower on someone like her when there are billionaires out there raking in huge amounts of cash who don’t pay their fair share of anything. Thank you for allowing me to get that off my chest.

I set aside the entire day for catching up on paperwork and other chores I have uncharacteristically been putting off. As I’ve mentioned before one of the pearls of wisdom my grandmother passed on to me was to do the things you least like doing first, then tackle the ones you either enjoy doing or at the very least don’t mind. That plan has been a very successful one for me. If I leave something floating around out there I am really not looking forward to doing, it hangs over my head and bothers me. If I do it, and get it over with, the rest seems so much easier.

Another unpleasant chore I decided to cross of my list, is studying for my drivers license renewal which is looming on the horizon. Even though I have been behind the wheel of a car since I was sixteen years old, I still get intimidated by the DMV. When they hand me that scroll of a test, my mind immediately forgets everything I do every day as habit when driving, and the questions look suddenly like they’re written in a foreign language. This time I have gone on line and downloaded a huge batch of “practice tests”. Some of the questions appear to be written purposely to trip you up. For instance, one of the questions asked was what a driver should do when passing a bicyclist who is riding in the lane next to you. One of the answers was “honk your horn before passing”. This, as it turns out, is the correct answer. Now, is it just me? If I was riding along minding my own business in the bike lane and some car came up behind me and blew his horn I most probably would end up either jamming on the brakes and catapulting over the handlebars or swerving and ending up under his right front tire. That, however, is what you’re supposed to do. Write it down for future reference.

I think this general paranoia stems from my early interactions with the California Department of Motor Vehicles. Unlike a lot of young people I see today, I could not wait for the day I became eligible for my learners permit. The calendar hanging on the wall in my room had x’s leading up to the day of the big event with a huge star highlighting the day I was to turn exactly 15 1/2. My mother took half a day off from work to drive me down to the DMV. I passed my written test, and was handed my temporary license. Had it been made of 14 carat gold, it couldn’t have been more precious to me. It was the first ticket on the journey into adulthood. What a heady experience. Looking back I have to wonder what the big hurry was to get here, but at the time being 18 or 21 seemed fraught with adventure and filled with mystique. Little did I know it was more fraught with dishes, and filled with dirty diapers and long days at the office.

Where passing my written test had turned out to be a walk in the park, the behind the wheel test was more like a leisurely stroll through a minefield. It took it three tries. The first time I nearly took out a young mother in a crosswalk pushing a baby carriage. The next time when I was parallel parking I backed into a trash bin and knocked the entire contents into the middle of the street. I somehow managed to scrape by with one point above failing on my third attempt, even though I technically went through an intersection after the light had turned red. I’m pretty certain I only passed because the harried DMV examiner (got the same guy all three times) tasked with grading my test must have figured three times was the charm, and tempting fate a fourth time would definitely have put him in fear for his life. Truly I am a good driver nowadays. Dale, my partner in crime, always comments on it. I shall leave my opinion of his driving skills for another time.

Just as I was finishing up reviewing my tests, PG&E arrived to tell me yet another part of my shade tree has to be removed as it’s interfering with the power lines. When I moved in I had a lovely shaded backyard. These days there are two sparse trees left, with one having the back half almost entirely missing. It looks like a bald man with a bad hair piece. Had to buy extra patio umbrellas so we don’t bake in our own juices on hot days.

So, I am off to the DMV on Friday. Wish me luck.

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Misty, watercolor memories…..

I had a discussion with a young parent the other day I found interesting. She told me she asks her children what they would like to eat before preparing a meal. Things really are different then when I was growing up. I can honestly say I was never consulted about a meal really. What was put on my plate and served to me, I ate. If I chose not to eat it, my grandmother, at least to my recollection, never got up from the table and went in the kitchen and whipped me up something else more to my liking. Sometimes at breakfast, my grandmother did ask if I wanted my eggs poached, scrambled or fried, but other than that, what showed up on the plate was generally what I was expected to eat.

Now that I think more about it why shouldn’t children have some choice in their menu plan? They aren’t old enough always to make all the choices but I do think after they have tried a food several times and still have a strong distaste for it, perhaps they shouldn’t be made to eat it? This does not mean they can exclude every vegetable, fruit, or meat and substitute ice cream or candy bars, but within reason if there is a food they really do not like perhaps they need not be made to eat it? My son, for example, could not stand peas. His father, thought children should eat what was placed in front of them, and not waste food. The “starving children in China” script was pulled out often when food was left uneaten on their plates. This particular meal, the peas remained intact on my son’s plate and like the elephant in the room did not go unnoticed by my husband. “Eat your peas before leaving the table” was put out there. The gauntlet had been thrown. Dishes done, I came back to find my little one still staring at his plate. Stubbornness is definitely genetic. After a while the fork was lifted to his lips and he took a big bite of the dreaded little green bullets. The face was too much as the chewing commenced. Shortly, as quickly as they had gone down the chute they made a return visit all over my tablecloth. Having had enough of both men in my household, I scooped up my son and headed for the bathtub and handed his father the cleaning utensils to clean up the mess. Peas were no longer an issue at our house.

I never had to be forced to eat. I liked just about everything my grandmother put in front of me except for the dreaded liver and onions or the god forsaken beefsteak and kidney pie which were both my kryptonite. Ewwwww. Food was where she and I totally bonded. So many of my warmest memories of my younger years were created in my grandmother’s sunny kitchen. Sometimes, one of those memories will pop up in the most expected location. The other day while waiting for a doctor’s appointment, I had some time to kill. When driving into the complex parking lot I’d noticed a “Grand Opening” sign on a sandwich board in front of a new antiques and collectibles store. Antiques not really my decorating style, I decided it still might be interesting to take a look and see what they had to offer. On entering the store, it gave off that same musty, dusty smell most stores of that genre seem to have. Since the store (at least according to the sign out front) had only been open a couple of weeks, it got me to wondering if that scent actually came in a spray can, like new car smell at the car wash. Perhaps it’s the Moldy Oldie fragrance collection by Air Wick or the Granny’s Attic grouping by Fabreze. At any rate, while looking at the eclectic assortment of oldies but goodies for sale along the cluttered shelves, I came across four little china egg cups. Seeing them on the shelf took my mind immediately to childhood breakfasts in my grandmother’s family home on the hill in Halifax. The main focus of the room, was the lovely picture window looking out over Halifax harbor. Always I loved being in that kitchen with my grandmother. I can see her busy at the stove, apron in place, and if I inhale deeply I can almost smell all the delicious aromas wafting through the air. Our evening meals were usually taken in the formal dining room replete with all the bells and whistles. Breakfast, however, was served with far less fanfare at the little formica table by the window in the kitchen.

My grandmother woke up precisely at 6:00 every day. If asked why in later years why she still got up so early when she could have languished in bed, she said “you have plenty of time to sleep after you die”. Before coming out to greet her day, her nylons were in place neatly secured to her undergarments beneath one of her house dresses as she referred to them. These were cotton dresses all cut from the same pattern in varying fabrics, with short sleeves and a parade of buttons marching down the front. Specifically they were worn for working around the house to keep her good clothes from getting soiled. Up until she was in her eighties, when my mother finally convinced her pants on women were not the work of the devil, did I ever see my grandmother’s knees covered by anything other than a suit, skirt or dress.

The first order of business each morning was always to prepare my grandfather’s breakfast. A urologist, his days often began quite early. Breakfast was served to him on a tray each morning in bed, accompanied by his morning paper. Very health conscious, and dealing with some health concerns himself, the menu was shredded wheat with berries, a glass of juice, one half a grapefruit and a slice of whole grain toast. A small vase with one flower from the garden was added during the summer months next to a colorful little china pot filled with Gammy’s delicious homemade marmalade. Once my grandfather had opened his paper and begun to eat, she tended next to the needs of the smallest member of the family, namely myself. Eggs were often on the menu breakfast. They came dressed up in a variety of ways, my favorite to this day being Eggs Benedict, basically poached eggs perched atop a split English muffin then smothered with buttery Hollandaise sauce. Yum. These days no one has time to whip up homemade Hollandaise, or at least I don’t. Back then, there were no packages to buy at the store to add water to. If you wanted Hollandaise, you dragged out the double boiler and whipped up a batch yourself. Another way I loved eggs was soft boiled and served in an egg cup. The shell was left on with the top sliced through (it’s hat, as my grandmother would say) and you lifted it’s hat, and dipped your toast in the gooey yolk.

Funny how smells, tastes, sounds and pictures can trigger an immediate memory of perhaps an easier time or those you particularly enjoyed. Of course, these sensory reminders can also be of traumatic or unpleasant experiences, but I’m trying to look at the bright side of the moon at the moment so let’s stay there for a while. My memories are often associated with food it seems. Always I have loved to be in the kitchen. Although I have to admit these days I do find myself tiring of coming up with new dishes to tantalize my guests. As I’ve said before they need to introduce a new meat, or at least a new vegetable for those of us who love to cook to play with. Perhaps they’ll just create a new one. My granddaughter, a vegan through and through, says other than organic vegetables and not all of those, you don’t know anymore if the vegetable you’re eating is real or was created in a lab somewhere. I think we need a new blue something, something. At the moment blueberries are kind of holding down that fort all by themselves.

I bought the little egg cups as it turned out. Did I need them? Nope, not in the least, but want won that argument and they are sitting in my china cabinet waiting for a soft boiled egg to bring them back to a useful life.

This has been a rough year. I thought last year was full of potholes but that was just the preliminary match, and, unfortunately, this year seems to be the main event. I am working on my grateful self. I am grateful the virus seems to be getting under control. I am most grateful it got a hold of me and my partner Dale, and then threw us back relatively unharmed. I am grateful all my family and his, and my friends and his, are still here to talk about what a strange year it truly was. I am simply grateful for so many things.

On the downside of things, Dale, my partner and companion, has cancer. Being asked to be grateful about this is certainly an uphill climb. Rick, my partner in crime for nearly twenty years, as I’ve mentioned many times, passed away nearly three years ago from lung cancer. In a stroke of synchronicity even I find hard to grasp, Dale has been given the same dire diagnosis. The oxygen compressor is once again humming in my spare room and questions without answers are swirling and twirling about in my head.

So, I pull up some happy thoughts and fond, fond memories of being young and free and unaware of all the sadness that life insists on being peppered with. Memories, I always feel, are tucked away to be pulled out perhaps when you need a hug and don’t have one handy, or are feeling blue and want to remember the pure joy of laughing out loud. Memory really is such a gift, and probably one we take for granted. One of the hardest things for me is to watch my mum slowly loosing her grasp on all those wonderful mental highlights she has stored away over the years. I am her memory these days and I’m okay with that. Again, I lean to the side of gratefulness and remind myself she remembers my face and that alone is money in the bank.

Sorry if this post is a bit of a song with sad lyrics. Usually I am upbeat, but even a stand up comedienne has days when he or she can’t pull a joke out of the hat.

Have a good one. Remember to not put your “I love you’s” off until a better day, there is never a better day then today. Talk soon.

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For mom……

Last night we watched Nomadland. Though beautifully acted and directed, let me just say this is not a movie choice you want to make if you are having a particularly bad day. Steeping you quickly into the darker side of the human reality, Frances McDormand takes the viewer on a realistic and poignant journey of loss, homelessness, and isolation. Got to give it to her. She put forth her most unadorned self freely, with no apology, which for me, who has difficulty going to the grocery store without make up and hair in place, was so refreshing.

I understand full well the feeling of not having a roof overhead. Back in the early 1990’s I spent two weeks with no residence to call my own, no money in my pocket to rectify the situation, and only a case of Vienna sausage, two large bottles of water, and a bottle of Chardonnay with which to sustain myself. In my case, I knew there was light at the end of the tunnel, but still was it was a life lesson I shall never forget. The experience allowed me to appreciate even the smallest of creature comforts such as flushing a toilet, or slipping into a warm, comfortable bed each night.

I believe our time here on earth to be a series of connected lessons. Perhaps this is not true for others, but my life certainly has been. Often, when I did not take heed of the message the universe was trying to convey to me, the same lesson repeated itself until I fully understood the point of the information being transmitted. Sort of like Bill Murray in Groundhog Day. Hopefully, I have waded knee deep through most of the karma I created in my younger years at this point, and shed the bulk of it in the process. I try to be the best version of myself possible each and every day. This does not mean I always attain that goal, but that is my intention when waking up in the morning.

Many of the earliest lessons I learned from my grandmother and my mother. My grandmother, gone for many years now, left many life lessons behind for me to lean on. She was a steady, consistent force of nature and she taught me much in the nine years I lived under her roof. My mother, before the dementia claimed much of her memory, showed me both what to do with my life, as well as at times, what not to. Both paths helped me to find my way. Mother is getting along in years, there’s no denying. Sometimes, I don’t want to look at this, because when I do, I have to imagine my world without her in it. As she loves to say she is my biggest fan. No matter how badly I screwed up, my mom still insisted on digging around in the detritus, until she found the good in me. Together, we’ve shed tears, laughed until we cried, shared grief, helped raised my children, been a part of raising theirs, and never allowed miles, however many spread out between us, to break our bond. Always, I knew my mother to be a safe port in the storm. When lost, unhappy, sad or just in need of a hug, her door would be the one I would knock on, her number the one I called. In her eyes I was infinitely special. Though I have often viewed myself as a highly flawed being, somehow to her, I was perfect. No one, I am sure, will ever love me again quite the way she does. When I think of saying goodbye after traveling these many years together, I recognize the pain will be great. Along with the sadness, there will be such gratefulness for having been allowed to spend this time with her.

Certainly, it would be a fairy tale to say our relationship existed without bumps. My mother was a helicopter parent before the term was ever coined. I was her “only chick” and if I didn’t give her something to worry about, which I often did, she’d look around until she found something she could land on, and worried about that. Mothers and daughters, the eternal struggle. I know I feel this at times with my sweet daughter. I wonder on occasion if I should simply initiate our conversations with “I’m sorry for everything I’m going to say or do wrong before we hang up”, just to cover myself prior to opening my mouth. I hear this from many of my female friends with adult daughters. Perhaps it is that we still perceive these wonderful strong women as our little girls. I really don’t have the answers, but I do know it’s not without peril this mother and daughter dynamic from time to time.

So, this Mother’s Day means a lot to me. Sunday we are coming together as a family to honor our oldest member. Thankfully, the pandemic has begun to release it’s tight hold on us. With everyone freshly vaccinated, there will be opportunities for hugs and I’m sure a special time spent together. Life seems lately to move forward at a record breaking clip, with adjectives such as fast and furious setting the tone for how we barrel through our days. There is little time for quiet reflection, or being in the moment. Sometimes we forget to stop and actually see the people populating our world, to hear them, or touch them. The virus offered up a gift with all the pain, surprisingly, allowing a spotlight to shine on this missing connection, the forced isolation highlighting how very important those we love are to our well being and peace of mind.

Today I agreed to allow hospice to begin to share in the care of my dear mother. As the doctor explained, this is not a death sentence, simply an additional layer of personal attention to promote her well being. Uh-huh. I can feel her hand slipping out of mine. People will say about older people, “they lived a long life”, or “they had a good run”. No matter how many birthdays they’ve celebrated, I’m not sure if it ever feels like it’s time for us to them to go. I can see she’s beginning to get tired, so I will allow the universe to unfold the story in whatever way it must and simply be content to be a player on the stage.

If you have your mother still with you, give her a hug and remind her how much she means to you. If you do not, then lift a glass to her, I’m sure she’ll get your message. Have a good one. Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.

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Reflections for a Friday…..

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Before I go to bed, I make a habit of making sure my sink is empty and my house is picked up. Since I live alone, this ritual may seem unnecessary. Let’s face it Boo, the Queen of Cats, certainly doesn’t give a rats behind (a little cat humor) whether I’ve left a nasty old avocado dish to ferment on the counter or discarded a pair of pants on the floor by my bed. My daughter asked me why I’m so diligent about this ritual. “Who’s going to see it”, she asks? I explained, should I face a health challenge in the middle of the night and find myself in need of rescue, I don’t want one of those ridiculously attractive fireman looking around my house as he’s checking my blood pressure and labeling me a total slob. Have you seen the paramedics they send to your house if you dial 911? Perfect specimens of men standing over you when you look absolutely your worst. Hair hanging in your face, teeth in the jar, and vomit on your shirt. Even Christie Brinkley couldn’t carry that look off. The last time I had need of EMT’s, they sent six. Must have been a slow night. As they walked in the door, each one was (if possible) better looking than last. I wonder if there’s a section on the application for the fire department that says, Check here if you’re hot. If this box is not checked please return application to front desk. We’ll be in touch. Not.

Another reason to keep things tidy is in the event I might not make it, I wouldn’t want people rummaging through my belongings exchanging comments like “Wow, how ever did she live like this?”, or “my pygmy hog has better hygiene.” Nope, clean sinks and underwear all the way for me, just like my grandma told me.

I come to this line of thinking because the weather lately has turned almost springlike. Glorious balmy days have prompted me to get outside and walk every morning. Each day, I vary my route. One, because I get bored easily, and two to provide myself with a different level of cardio depending on the uphill climbs along the way. Yesterday, I opted for a route I had not taken before. Because my shin splints are acting up, I decided to take a less strenuous stroll along the ravine. The sidewalk wound me past a house situated on a cliff about a half a mile from where I live. As the years have passed, I’ve noticed this house sink into a state of shabby disrepair. It’s a shame really, because the lot itself is perched high on an overlook, most likely providing the occupants a panoramic view of the valley floor below stretching all the way to the Sierra Nevadas. The house, though not going to make the next cover of House Beautiful, is not too bad. What curb appeal it does possess, however, is completely eclipsed by the massive accumulation of “junk” in the side yard, creating an eyesore. Beyond the dilapidated fence, which looks as if someone may have backed over it, the filthy roofs of several well-used trailers are clearly visible alongside piles of plywood and debris. I’m surprised somebody hasn’t complained, as the neighborhood around it is composed of well manicured homes bordering on all sides. Something must have happened recently, because as I approached, I could see a crew of workers dressed in what looked like haz-mat gear moving in and out of the front door carrying household items. A rusted toilet and a beat up aluminum sink sat by the mailbox next to a sign reading “FREE”. Trust me, from the looks of them they were still overcharging. Walking towards the house I could see one of the crew members leaning on a broom obviously taking a break. Nodding in my direction, he said,”good morning”. I returned his, “good morning” and raised him a “looks like you’ve got your hands full”. He seemed to view this statement as opening the door for further conversation. I stopped for a moment, and “Ben”, as he’d introduced himself launched into a tirade about the project at hand. Before I knew it, he was sharing an outpouring of information about the residents. The people inside he told me had been elderly. The husband passed away, and the family had fast forwarded the matriarch of the family to an assisted living facility. Apparently, there hadn’t been much contact between family members over the past few years. Describing in great detail the mess they were dealing with, he said the inside of the house was in deplorable condition. Eager to not leave out a detail, and perhaps not looking forward to returning to his job, he went on to say there had been multiple animals inside who had left deposits all over the floor and carpeting. The smell, as one might imagine, was unbelievably rank. The kitchen, he said, was the worst, literally buried under mountains of dishes covered with rotting food and flies which probably meant maggots. Ewwww. As he plowed on he told me all the toilets were clogged. The look on his face indicated he found the whole situation totally disgusting. Already gleaning more WAY more information than I needed. Keeping up my end of the conversation by nodding my head at the appropriate pauses, and saying “huh” and “hmmmm” when called for, I hesitated before inquiring as to where the residents had been going to the bathroom in the absence of usable toilets. Some things are better left to the imagination. Another crew member emerged from the house telling Ben they had uncovered roaches in every cupboard, and every box of food in the cupboard as well as several carcusses of dead mice. Thanking them for all the information I really hadn’t needed, I said my goodbyes and continued on down the road. Suddenly, I felt sad for those two people, though I didn’t know them at all. Ben had somehow had opened a window into their lives and I felt like I had peeked in uninvited. Walking gives you time to cogitate and clear your head. Unfortunately, my brain was now preoccupied with roaches and clogged toilets. Got me to thinking though. What would people be saying about me after I’m gone? “That Susie, she surely had a clean sink and her banana bread,well, it was absolutely out of this world.” Not sure I want to be a fly on the wall for that program, and I surely don’t want old Ben leaning on broom in front of my house.

Lately, I’ve been taking a little inventory of my life. Perhaps it’s that I have more time alone, or could simply be I’ve reached a place in my life where I’ve climbed to the top of the mountain and am now looking at what is to be found on the downhill side of the slope. Whatever it is that motivates me to do an assessment, it’s allowed me to take a long look at where I’ve been, and give some serious thought as to where I’m going. I don’t linger long in the past. It is part of the whole of me and has contributed to who I am as a person today, but as my therapist likes to say, “Don’t look in the rear view mirror. That is not the direction you are going.”After Rick passed, hard to believe it’s going on three years, I had only enough energy to look at the day I was in with little reserve left for the tomorrows around the bend. Grief cores you out in a way, and allows you to rebuild from the foundation up. Life is so much different now then it was. Not worse, nor is it better, it is just different. Change always precipitates thoughtfulness, at least it does in me. Now that there is a new relationship in my life, something I didn’t expect nor was I looking for, this is something to be factored into my future plans as well. Possibilities remain once our masks are retired for new and exciting adventures. Always there will be new challenges, but also there will be new adventures, and new things to learn and new people to learn them from, no matter what stage you are entering in your life. Today, I will simply be thankful for the day I have, the flowers blooming beyond my window, the wind in the trees, the crazy Boo cat curled up at my feet, and my loved ones. Those are my riches.

When I look at just the last year and what has transpired, I can’t help but think you never really know what is coming around the next corner. You might win the lottery, fall in a sink hole, discover a cure for cancer, find yourself surviving (hopefully) a pandemic of epic proportions, be in the middle of a massive winter storm in Texas, welcome a new life into the world, or send one on its way. Perhaps the most intriguing part of living is the unknowing. I realize that is probably not the correct word, but I think it is the appropriate one. We don’t know, yet we have hope, and prayer, and wishful thinking, and believing in whatever we believe in. The indomitable human spirit shines bright even on the darkest of nights. I’ve seen it refuse to be extinguished so many times, when I had trouble still believing it existed.

We lost another member of our tribe this week. I attended my first virtual service, A Celebration of Life. Though not there in the person, it was lovely. At the end they released doves into the air, so spiritually moving. You are here then you are gone, and the cycle of life continues. Pieces and parts of you remain, though, in each and every person you touched. Perhaps words will be my legacy. God knows, if anyone is waiting to inherit my fortune, they will be sorely disappointed, and need not to quit their day job anytime soon. So goodbye, dear Janice. See you on the other side. Thank you for the beautiful grandchildren you have left behind. I promise I will cherish them.

Heavy thoughts for a Friday. Have a wonderful weekend. Remember each day is a precious gift, don’t waste it making bad karma or doing hurtful things. Trust me it takes years to erase the board once it is written on.

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I think, therefore I am…..

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People, I have noticed, seem comfortable to offer their opinions freely whether their input has been solicited or not. Sometimes, I think there should be a automatic five minute delay feature in our brains, allowing us to contemplate what’s about to exit our mouths prior to actually releasing the words from our lips. When I was pregnant with my daughter, my first pregnancy, I naturally had some apprehension about what the actual birth process would be like. Already nervous, other women already through their pregnancies stepped up to fill me in on what to expect. Women, at least I found, were very forthcoming when it came to sharing their birthing experiences, not leaving out even the most graphic of details. Ladies, there truly is such a thing as too much information. Less, as they say, definitely can be more. One lady, as I remember, shared a story about a young pregnant woman who believed she was pregnant but in the end gave birth to a large growth with hair on it and a full set of teeth. This, as you might imagine, was the story choosing to bounce around in my head right after my body registered the first labor pain.

When speaking to my daughter about this topic she said she calls this the “Four Second Rule”. Never heard of it. Looking it up, I discovered this four second rule applies to many situations. Broken down it’s basically, “think for four seconds before saying something you might regret”. Don’t feel you need to open your mouth and spill out whatever exactly is on your mind every minute of the day without filters. Sort of goes back to the old adage, “if you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all”. Mark Twain, said it so eloquently, “It is better to keep your mouth closed and let people think you are a fool than to open it and remove all doubt.” No kidding, I’m right there with you Mark.

Everybody has an opinion. I assume that is why the brain was included in the total package.Without the command center under our skull we wouldn’t be of much use to ourselves. In the absence of any innate logic to guide us,we would be running into walls, or getting up in the morning and not comprehending we needed to swing our feet over the side of the bed and sit up before we stood. We are supposed to think over and ponder on life’s options and quandaries, and then form opinions on them. All I’m saying is it isn’t always mandatory to express every single opinion you have developed. Believe it or not, everyone doesn’t want to hear each and every thought that might originate in your gray matter. Being given the incredible tool of the Internet, has allowed us to say what we feel 24/7 without any buffering. I’m not dissing the Internet. Actually, I love the Internet. It has opened up so many portals for me to learn new things and offers so many available sources of seemingly unlimited information. Also, I like social media, well, to an extent. I’m not tweeting every five minutes nor do I constantly record every minute of my day on Instagram, and I rarely have posted or taken a selfie. That being said, I often spend twenty minutes or so puttering around with friends and acquaintances on Facebook and, for the most part, enjoy my time there. There is little political action or derisive content among my groups. Mainly the groups I follow, post a lot of silly inane pictures of cats behaving badly, beautiful sunsets, pandas doing somersaults and delicious looking creations from cooks all around the globe. I like it that way. There is enough bad news to go around, I prefer to stir a little happy in the pot from time to time to even things out.

This train of thought comes up because I am going this morning to get my first Covid shot. As mentioned in my previous blog, it took me a couple of days to secure an appointment, so I was relieved to get my name on the books. Saturday, I celebrated my Valentine’s Day with my Mom. Suffering from dementia, her mind still functions for sure, but there are a lot of disconnects in her wiring. Always, though, when I walk through the door, she gets a big smile on her face and knows exactly who this face belongs to. I am so thankful for that. Her caregiver, Veronica, does a great job with the five charges she has under her wing. Taking care of one person with memory impairment issues is no walk in the park on the best of days, but taking care of five elderly people with comprehension problems I’m sure can be really taxing. Let me preface by saying she is a lovely woman, but not a woman short of opinions. Whether you have asked for her input, advice, guidance or whatever, she seems compelled to help you find your way down the road. As an aside, it did occur to me that when dealing with people who cannot really hold up their end of a stimulating conversation, it may lead to feeling the need to interject yourself in whatever conversation you find yourself privy to. When discussing my mother getting her vaccination with her, I mentioned I would be getting mine. This opened the floodgates, allowing her to bring me up to speed on the side effects everyone in her sphere of relationships was enjoying ranging in severity from being in bed to two to three days with flu-like symptoms to foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog (not really, but I believe there were locusts mentioned in there somewhere). Thanks, I’m sure I’ll be reliving that conversation as I’m getting jabbed in the arm. My bad, not hers, shouldn’t have mentioned it. Brings to mind what my ex-husband was fond of saying, “information is power”. His premise was, with each piece of personal information you offer up you open up a door to allow people to root around in your life. Now, he is a man. Men, I have to say, are not, at least in my experience, particularly strong in the information gathering area.

This lack of information gathering chops has been pretty consistent in the men I have had relationships with throughout the years. Women, when discussing a particular situation, will squeeze every bit of juice out of a conversation. When done, we will know every nuance and finite detail of what happened right down to the color of the drawers worn on the parties involved in the story. As an example of this lack of detail, Dale, my partner in crime, was telling me the other day about a very good friend of his who was giving up red meat. Hearing him out, and being an attentive listener, I asked why. “Why”, he replied?” “Yes, why did he stop eating red meat?” No clue. Really? I would have known why, when, what his new diet choices were, as well as having already looked up chicken and fish recipes to suggest to him if these were to be his new food choices. Sigh. A little while later he got off the phone once again and told me another close friend had been in a motorcycle accident. Both the man and his girlfriend were hurt. OMG, says I, what hospital are they in, are they seriously injured, what happened? Nothing. I’m surprised, frankly, he knew they were on a motorcycle when the crash ensued. Never mind. This to me is like publishing a book, a love story shall we say. When you open to the first page, it reads, “there was a man, who met a woman”. That’s it, brief and to the point. No fat in that story line. Also, no reason to explore beyond the first page.

Update from yesterday. So, I got in line and got shot in the arm yesterday with the Moderna Covid vaccine. Pictures of locusts swarming out both ears cruised through my mind (remind me send a thank you note to Veronica) when they asked me to pull up my sleeve. Because I have had a moderate reaction to flu shots in previous years, I had to cool my heels for thirty minutes to make sure I was okay. CVS was very organized. After checking in, I stood in a socially distanced line for about twenty minutes before my name was called. All in all, I am doing pretty well with the side effects. The main one is exhaustion. Unbelievably tired, but I’m told this passes in 3-4 days. Also my arm has swelled up. Other than that, I am one step closer to however much immunity this provides. Yay. I was given to understand the second shot is a bit harder on the body. I won’t mention either shot to Veronica as I don’t want any gory details before my follow up appointment.

So, I hope this information encourages others to step up and stick their arms out. Perhaps one day if we all do, we will be able to receive and give hugs again and go back to enjoying family and friends at gatherings. Have my fingers crossed. Stay safe, keep those masks on, I believe we will get there.

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Enter boyfriend…..stage left

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It is three a.m., which seems to have become my Covid norm time for waking up. Eyes wide open, I’m ready to commence with my day (which doesn’t officially start for three hours). The saddest part of this story, I finished my second cup of coffee before I sat down to begin this writing.

There has been a new male presence in my world over the last year or so. I’m having difficulty defining this relationship. What do you call a partner when you’re getting a bit gray about the temples? Boyfriend, sounds ridiculous at this age. We are not going steady, the prom is not in our future, and the likelihood of me wrapping dental floss around his class ring to make it slide on my finger is slim to none. To be honest, I don’t know what is in our future. We are exploring the possibilities, concentrating mainly on what is happening today.

Intrinsically, I am a nester. Having someone to “do” for is somewhat of a happy place for me. Cooking is an activity I greatly enjoy, and though I do cook nice meals when here by myself, it is not the same as having someone seated across from me at the table to appreciate them with me. In this pandemic enforced solitary confinement, I believe my landscape would have looked far more bleak without his silly sense of humor to cut through the fog on the darker days, and his companionship to help ease the encroaching loneliness forced isolation can breed.

Different questions have to be answered when you’re entering a relationship as an older adult then when you are a kid. Actually, I prefer “older person”. It’s a split hair, but one I enjoy splitting. Not sure I’m ready to be graduated to full adulthood yet. My inner child is currently a work in progress. In my minds eye, she is a young girl with an easy smile who loves to walk barefoot in the sand and sing along to her favorite song using a spatula for a mike. I think I’m keeping her around for a while. There’s plenty of time later to be grown up.

Obviously, as an older couple you don’t discuss if you want children in your future. That ship has sailed, docked, and been hauled off to the mothball fleet. At this time in your life, you either have children or you do not. If the answer is the affirmative, then that is another brick in the wall (to quote a little Pink Floyd). I’ve experienced a variety of scenarios when it comes to bringing children into a new relationship. Young children on my side, young children on my side and his side, adult children on my side and adult children on both sides. All of the above, tend to add a little zest to the stew. Now, I cannot speak to everyone’s experience, only mine. Some couples may have been able to combine their “tribes” with ease, traversing this minefield seamlessly. God bless them. I use the word tribes, because warriors in full battle dress carrying spears is an image created in my mind while discussing this particular subject. For me, it was no walk in the park. Perhaps the ones who made it work without issue should have published a manual for the rest of us idiots stumbling along in the dark to follow? There are pratfalls in all of the scenarios. Young, young children are perhaps more open to accepting a new person being introduced in their lives. This, of course, is if the new person is loving and generous of spirit. But, even if they are up there at the benevolent heights attained by Mother Teresa, they cannot, nor will they ever be able to be, the child’s birth parent. This, creates a natural fault line that can and probably will widen and diminish as situations come up. Older children, are more likely to step back and scrutinize the newcomer. Their keen searching eyes looking for financial stability, any obvious major health problems, and how the interloper treats their mother or father. In some cases they will embrace them, in others tolerate them, and in still others voice their displeasure with the new addition and banish them forever from the kingdom. In most cases, adult children want their parents to be happy. Another motivation to welcoming an aging parents new love interests into the fold, is not having to see their parent’s clothes hanging in their spare room closet or to have them taking up extended space in their mother-in-law quarters.

What a person is looking for in a companion as they age often changes considerably from when they first arrived on the dating scene. In my case, I have pretty much established through trial and error what I want and what I don’t want in a partner. My relationships looked much like my mothers and grandmothers when I was younger. Like the women before me, I cooked, cleaned, managed the laundry and bit off a healthy portion of tending to the kids needs, and as in my mother’s case, I also worked outside of the home.

These days work is something I do to make extra money as opposed to something I deal with on a daily basis. This does not mean I am financially free as a bird. I pinch a penny, and then squeeze the copper out of it. Since, according to my doctor, I’ve inherited my mom’s excellent genes, should I be lucky enough to live to be her ripe old age, I’d better have a tin cup and a cardboard sign at the ready to meet the occasion. That being said, anyone I take up with will have to be able to be able to stay afloat themselves when it comes to money matters, because my financial lifeboat is only equipped with seating for one. I’m an avid sharer, but can’t take on additional monetary responsibilities. As I start writing all this stuff down, I might in the end just consider getting another cat. Just kidding. She never appreciates anything I put in front of her.

Another thought is how I like to keep my house. By this, I mean I like it tidy. Some people simply don’t care if you can write your thesis in the dust on the coffee table. Let me say this, I am not one of them. Whatever anyone wants to do in their own space is first, last, and always up to them. Well, unless it’s a health issue or a danger to others. Let me rephrase, I accept everyone’s right to live as they please in their own surroundings. If a person wishes to eat fried chicken and throw the bones in a pile in the middle of the living room floor for the dog to yak up, I’m all about their right to do so. If eating soup out of the bathroom trash can when there are no clean dishes available suits your mood, I’m on board. I may not choose to do that, but accept fully it might be something that works for you and certainly your right to live and thrive in any way you want. There, that sounds more like me.

For years I have picked up, swept up, worked around, and generally managed other people’s clutter. Note here, I do not want to do this anymore. I am my children’s mother. That is all I signed up for. Anyone else is on their own if mothering is what they are in the market for. If I drop my clothes on the floor, they remain there until I pick them up. No one, at least in my experience, has ever gone by my clothes and on seeing them there either; a) hung them up neatly in my closet, or b) thrown them in the laundry and washed, dried, and pressed them for me. This, is because they are my clothes. However, during my marriages somewhere the lines got blurred where all the clothes in the house seemed to end up with my name on them. The dishes also, though I only ate off the ones placed at my seat, seemed all to be mine when it came time to load the dishes in the dishwasher. One of my husbands did the dishes during the week, while I took over on the weekends. This could have proved a great system, except he only did what I would call the “easy to clean” dishes (one swipe with a sponge, rinse, voila). That left me the following morning with a sink full of the stuck on pots and pans or heavy cleaning items like casserole dishes or deep fryers. These, apparently, were my pots. To give my husbands credit where it is due, for the most part, each of them took out the trash, mowed the lawn, and did whatever quick and simple repair jobs were deemed necessary around the house. Rick, bless him, always believed that having repairmen on the premises was doing a service for the community. Raised in an upper middle class neighborhood in Cairo, Egypt his family had servants. He told me as a teen he would take his clothes off before taking a shower and leave them where they fell. His wet towel joined the pile when he was done showering and when he went into his bedroom his clothes were laid out on his bed for him. I told him my union rep said I needed double time plus bonus pay for extras such as these and that, as they say, was that.

Another important piece of the puzzle for me would be how a potential love interest felt about animals. Boo, the queen of cats, is an intrinsic part of the fabric of my life. This silly old cat is a part of the family. Also, I have an innate distrust of humans who don’t bond with animals. You may be a cat person, or you may be a dog person, but if animals in general make your skin crawl, you will never be found in the cards for me. How people react to our furry friends, I believe, is indicative of how they will treat the people in their lives. Most likely I will always share space with an animal so that box needs to be checked for me before moving forward.

Before I move on, I have to put in a brief paragraph about the exes. Exes can be really touchy territory. Many couples I know, include their ex spouses at holidays and on special occasions. This is as it should be with children involved. I have sat at many wedding tables next to ex-wives. As long as too much champagne isn’t consumed loosening lips and allowing the horror stories of their relationships with your current squeeze don’t start, life can remain copasetic. I suggest an escape plan for such events be in place, in case you find yourself trapped in a corner and their lips begin moving. It can get ugly.

Love is a welcome gift at any age. I will not overthink the prospect for now, but rather allow things to open and unfold as they will and see what lovely surprises are to be discovered inside. Have a great day. Fill your cup with love, because you cannot have too much of it in reserve for times like now when it sometimes feels like a dangerous and cynical world. Stay safe.

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…..and breathe, and breathe

I hate to say this but I suspect my cat is tired of looking at my face. Since I’ve been sequestered at home, the loving gazes she used to welcome me with after a long day in the trenches have recently been replaced by toothy yawns. Aside from needing a definite attitude adjustment, the treat situation has gotten out of hand as well. Used to be PP (pre-pandemic) treats were given out once a day. The cat, a true creature of habit, showed up around 3:00 each afternoon on the little lemon carpet for her chicken snacks. Lately she seems to be appearing on the hour and has added meowing to her cutest cat ever routine she normally performs when expecting to be served.  I mentioned to her yesterday her girlish figure was beginning get a bit blurry around the edges but as usual she tuned in with only one eye open.

I went to the doctor Friday for a follow-up on an oxygen test I had several months ago. This was precipitated by the fact my asthma was not well managed and they wanted to monitor how I was oxygenating while asleep. To be honest, sleep is something that toys with me of late. Some nights I’ll manage to pack in a good 8-9 hours but more often than not I am enjoying my first cup of coffee around 3 a.m. and have put in half a days work by the time the sun comes up. Most annoying. I’m a little hesitant about taking a sleep aid. Being a rather small being, medication often overtakes me delivering a strong impact to my body. Since the cat has never mastered calling 9-1-1, I don’t like to introduce something new to my routine while here on my own.

When Rick was alive he slept with a C-Pap. Often it was like sleeping next to an extra from Star Wars but if it had helped his heart and kept him breathing properly, I wouldn’t have cared if he had a diving helmet on when I kissed him goodnight. Seriously hope this isn’t in my future as well, but if that’s the worst thing I have to look forward to I’ll say “thank you” ahead of time. The tech asked me if I snored. Again, I deferred to the cat but she’s not talking. I suggested I could stay awake and see if I hear any sounds emanating from my nostrils. She didn’t seem to find that as amusing as I did. Ah well, everyone’s a critic.

Yesterday was Saturday so visited my mother. The visits these days sometimes leave me feeling a bit sad. Our communication has become more limited, as I have mentioned, due to the dementia exacting a firmer grip on her thought processes and the window we must keep between us due to Covid-19. Always though when I arrive she says, “there’s my daughter”, and before I leave, “I love you, dear”. These two statements are more than enough for me. Most of friends call her Mom because I am the only member of my peer group who still has someone to send a Mother’s Day card to. For this I am immensely blessed and happy to share the wealth with those closest to me.

It says August on the calendar today. Where did the summer go? Not that I’m going to be sad when the air conditioner goes off and the windows are opened to allow in some natural ventilation. Having allergies, most of the hot months my windows remain closed and I must defer to my A/C unit for cooling. Being a fall person at heart, I won’t mourn the hot weather moving on to allow room for crisp autumn days to reveal themselves. Born in November, I am a fall baby and fall is without fail my favorite season of the year.  What a show off fall is with all it’s glorious colors and lovely sunsets. Already I am dusting off my pumpkins and primping my ghosts and goblins in anticipation of the golden months (for me at least) to make their arrival.

I sold my old dining room table yesterday as well. That turned out to be somewhat of a project. I listed it on Craigslist as well as a local marketplace on Facebook. Wasn’t prepared for the stampede of people who showed up. I try, when I sell something, to be as fair as possible. Whoever shows up first is the first person to see the item, and if they make a reasonable offer, the first offer considered. Today, however was kind of weird. The first person wanted pictures of the undercarriage of the table. Fine, done and done. Then she said she was shopping for a friend and would have to send her friend the pics. Okie. Then people started coming in on both sites asking for additional measurements, color of wood, age of set. I began to have to remember in what order people had come in after two or three exchanges of information. Whoa. This is why I would never have made a good cocktail waitress. The first time a customer said “another round” I would have thrown in my apron and gone home.

To add to the confusion people can be a bit flakey when dealing with you “unseen”. They say they are coming and don’t show up or contact you for a lot of additional information which you provide and they have moved on to something else and never reach out to you again. I’ve had enough experience selling on line (I sold on EBAY for several years) to have seen about everything. Then you get the scammers. Two came in this time. Usually you can identify them quickly because their command of the English language leaves something to be desired and always they are out of town but will send a check. Delete. Once my son-in-law was trying to rent a house on Craigslist. The ad read lovely house overlooking a lake (which it was) available for rent $1800/month and $2000 deposit. He drove by the house and loved it so contacted the supposed owner via email. The “owner” said he was living in Nigeria but would mail the key once he received the deposit. Hello? Anybody out there? Rick and I decided to drive by and see this place after dinner We found lights on and people could be seen sitting around a dinner table inside. Deciding to investigate we knocked on the door, apologized for interrupting their meal, and explained the situation. Turned out they owned the house and we were the fifth people to ask about renting it. Wonder how many deposits they got before pulling the ad? It is sad there are humans who pray on other humans but that seems always to be the case. Thankfully like everything in nature there are kind, generous, thoughtful people to keep the scale balanced.

Anyhow, the old table is gone and a large empty space is glaring at me in my dining room. Surprisingly, tears rolled down my cheeks as I took in the vacant space. Memories go with that table. Family dinners were held there and it holds the laughter enjoyed over holidays or when family and friends coming for dinner. Change isn’t always easy, but I think sometimes you have to fling open the doors and let the moths out of the closets to keep things from getting stagnant. Life, as I know very well, never stays the same forever. Always we are in a state of flux. I try to roll with the waves and not rail against them. The new table arrives next week. I will welcome it and make new memories for it to store for me.

While in the mood to rearrange, probably the pandemic blues, I also got rid of a huge dresser in my second bedroom which housed a lot of photos, and miscellaneous items like office supplies, linens, party supplies and some clothes. I ordered two wall units with doors to replace the needed storage area. The units were to arrive last night. I noticed there hadn’t been any forward progress on tracking so I called the number on the website and they contacted their supplier. Shortly I got an email from the supplier saying my items were on the truck but would be arriving late last night. Great. Got up this morning and there was nothing on my front porch other than two chairs and my neighbor’s cat. Fine. Once again I called the number on the website and the lady asked me what I wanted to do. I replied, “I want the truck to drive up and deliver my wall units but that doesn’t seem to be happening.” She emailed the supplier once again and this time I got no response which I’m assuming is because it is the weekend. I don’t know. Perhaps I have  bad customer service karma. Maybe in another life I was rude to shop keepers, put rotten peaches in the pies I sold at the marketplace, or stole pickles from the jar at the corner deli. Very frustrating. Sooooo, I have stuff all over my floor in the spare room and no where to put it.  I think I need a bag of Double Stuff Oreos. No, I know I need a bag of Double Stuff Oreos. Be back in an hour, maybe thirty minutes depending on how much milk is in the fridge. Ach.

Ahhhhh, much better. Chocolate really is the cure for almost everything. It is blessedly cooler out today so that will be a lovely break from the persistent heat of the last few weeks. Perhaps I can even get outside for a walk and look at something besides the inside which is my view of the day lately. This is a birthday month for both my son and several friends so I do have to spend some time on the computer finding an appropriate gift. I will hope, unlike my storage units, they will arrive on time or at the very least, arrive. I work on actually spending time researching gifts for my loved ones. The money tree in my back yard isn’t producing as well as it did when I was working full time so when I pick a few leaves I want to make sure it is well spent.

I hope your Sunday finds you well and engaged in something that brings you joy. Until later. Signing off to finish my Oreos.

 

 

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Moderation, Smoderation

Yesterday I spent my afternoon culling out the clothes from my wardrobe I haven’t given so much as a glance to in over a year.  This was prompted by a discussion I had with a friend visiting for a couple of days. She has been maintaining a storage unit for several years after downsizing from a house to an apartment. Along with yard tools the 10 x 8 space is used for housing surplus household goods she no longer has room for. It seems the storage unit is a bone of contention with her son who views it as a hefty monthly outlay for storing items she hasn’t looked at since the Ice Age. Additionally, she admitted when she needs something she has tucked away somewhere, rather than search through every box to locate it she has been repurchasing the item. So, now she has not only one but two of everything to find a place for. I suggested since she hasn’t missed or has replaced most of her possessions in storage why not donate them or toss them. What? Get rid of my precious belongings. Never!! Hello?

Rick and I had a long discussion about the importance of things prior to his passing away. None of it mattered at all to him at that point. He took nothing with him on his journey but all the love he had shared and his memories. Everything else was left behind on the physical plane. Sometimes I wonder why we feel the need to amass so much around us.  Comfort, certainly, but it’s more than that. You could be comfortable in a little two bedroom house with a cozy living room and a rather plump cat. I am as a matter of fact. Someone asked me the other day what I’d do if I found myself suddenly wealthy. Wake up, most likely, but in truth I have a pretty good idea of what I’d do. There is no part of me that needs or desires a huge palatial estate with twelve bathrooms and a bowling alley. Perhaps that is why I am sitting here at my modest table writing this blog. This is not coming from any feelings of jealously with regard to those who live that high priced existence but rather that I have little interest in doing so myself. If miraculously my bank account grew an extra six or seven zeroes on the end of it’s balance, I believe I would buy houses for my children, then purchase a small cottage for myself with lots of windows perched on a dune overlooking the sea. A large sunny kitchen and a fireplace would be fabulous and at least two bathrooms in case I have guests. Then I would travel every inch of the world I could fit into my schedule in between time spent with my children and their families. That would be the ideal way to spend the remaining years allotted to me if riches were in my future. Anyone with a crystal ball pointing in that direction please jump in here and let me know if I should begin to pack.

Serendipity being what it is while we were entertaining the storage unit discussion “Hoarders” showed up on the TV following whatever show we’d tuned in to. Mesmerized we watched out of control “collectors” have to face their reality once the houses they lived in became totally unmanageable or downright dangerous. One woman had a plethora of cats who had liberty to pee and poop wherever they found an open spot. Sadly two of them were discovered in mummified states as the clutter was unearthed and carted away.  If you have to create a pathway to navigate your house you might be hoarder. Had a friend in West Virginia who kept everything from the first spoon her little boy used to every report card, each picture he drew, various stages of clothing, and every single card he ever gave her. You can’t keep everything. Those memories can be stored in your heart always but perhaps not in your basement or crawl space. After watching the destruction on hoarders my friend vowed to go home and go through her storage unit and eliminate most of it.

I heard someone say once America is a country of extremes. That we swing widely from one side to the other. That being said on the opposite side of the coin from the collectors would be the minimalists. Some even qualify as compulsive declutterers. I have a friend married to a lady who gets rid of things the instant they arrive. Unable to abide any clutter at all even the mail has to be collected by him so anything of importance doesn’t end up in the trash can before it can be attended to. Their living room is so sparsely decorated it always gives the appearance they have either just moved in or are preparing to move out. It’s the middle ground for me. Not a clutterer by any means, I need a throw pillow or two, a little color here and there, a magazine or two in evidence and bare walls flat out depress me. My decorating schemes are earthy tones, with contrasting fabrics and designs. I like to sink into my environment and find comfort after a long day in the trenches.

Honestly I have let go of so much over the past ten years. Sometimes I see more of my things when I visit friends and family then I do when I’m in my own home. Many of my pictures, linens, dishes and decorative items were given away or sold during my transition from the house in the high country to the wee house I inhabit today. I don’t mind at all. When I visit I say a silent hello and am glad to see them but I have no place to put them now and like to think someone I love is enjoying them. A friend of mine has a motto I like, “keep the best and leave the rest”. She lives her life that way.  Her closet is composed of interchangeable outfits enhanced by clothes she rents on a monthly basis. Let me preface, I’m not there yet and haven’t even entered the neighborhood. My closet is full and these are just the winter clothes. My summer wardrobe is stored in plastic bins in my shed. I’m still a work in progress. I do believe the beginning of changing a behavior is first acknowledging you are doing it, and second be willing to either improve how much you do it or stop doing it all together. I am on step one. My mother’s love of clothes slopped right over onto me and stuck like tar on a hot day. Sigh.

We all have things we are working on.  I have friends who’s love of shoes leans toward needing a twelve step program. What was it I believe Aristotle said avoid extremes of all sorts and seek moderation in all things. I’m working on it, I’m working on it.

Have a great uncluttered day!

 

 

 

 

 

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To sleep perchance to dream

This past weekend was a busy one. Fitting everything in felt like trying to shove a size 10 foot into a size 8 shoe. Funny how some weekends can prove so uneventful I keep checking the phone to see if it’s charged and the highlight of my Saturday might be rearranging my sock drawer. Then, the following weekend I might offered up five options on how to spend my days with the cat complaining she’s not getting enough “mom time”. Last night I was sooooo tired my head hit the pillow at 10 and remained in the exact same position for the next eight hours. This is a good thing. Sleep has become as elusive for me as the truth flowing from a candidates mouth of late. So, when I actually do log eight hours of uninterrupted sleep it is cause for extreme celebration at my house. The cat, particularly excited when I remain in bed, usually carries the balloons because she sleeps at the end of the bed and gets up every time I do because she’s afraid she might miss something.

When I don’t get enough sleep I have noticed I begin to do stupid things. If you’ve read any of my previous blogs you would already know this is not out of character for me, but I mean particularly stupid things. This morning, for example, I spilled coffee on my new jeans. Normally I would use cold water to release a coffee stain, but this works only if you don’t use cream and sugar which I do. So, I grabbed the stain remover out of the closet above the washer and dryer and gave my pants a liberal dosing. Once the area was saturated I noticed the can I was holding read “Spray Starch”. My pants may still have the stain on them after I wash them, but they will have the capability to stand up in the closet without wasting a hanger.

Yesterday I was brushing my hair when the brush mysteriously flew out of my hand landing in the toilet.  Needing to sanitize it somehow my solution was putting it in the dishwasher. Note to self, “brushes with plastic points do not do well in extremely hot water”. When I retrieved it it was one solid unit with tiny plastic projectiles poking out here and there. Whatever. Next I opened a brand new lipstick. Somehow while applying it the base containing the lipstick also ended up in the toilet bowl. What is happening! Is there an unnamed entity living in the toilet willing all beauty products into it’s den? There was no recovery for the lipstick so, I deposited a brand new $16 lipstick in the trash bin alongside the molten remains of my brush and vowed to get some sleep. I also closed the lid on the toilet lest I accidentally deposit my purse in there by the the end of the day.

Maybe I’m just getting older. I try to eliminate labels, and attempt to keep the “O” word out of my conversations. How you view yourself is often the image you create. I do not feel old, even though certainly according to my birth certificate I am no longer young.  When I go to the movie theater these days my ticket says “senior” and this does not indicate I am graduating next year. To add to the mix I keep hearing from physician’s when asked about an ailment, “as you get older, blah, blah, blah”. As I said, I am aware I am not twenty any more. My house does have mirrors in both bathrooms, but is this fact the answer to every question? The original plan, or so it has been explained to me by medical professionals, was that we humans were not designed to use these bodies as long as we are doing now. Thus, our parts are wearing out before our minds do. I get that, really I do, but really?

When I took my mother in to get her hair done yesterday the stylist was commenting she has three ladies at 100+ who come in weekly to get their do’s done and a much larger number of ninety something ladies. Now I’m not saying that’s my mom’s age because she had me sign a non-disclosure agreement as soon as I was able to write my my name, but let’s just say we’re in the ball park and leave it at that. The fact is people are definitely living longer. As I’m on the downside of the middle of my life I vote for that as long as I am viable and contributing in some way I’d like to stick around to finish the game, so to speak.

When I do lame things such as those mentioned above I begin to wonder if my brain is starting to have a short or two preferring to think some sleep might solve the problem in this case. It’s not that I can’t fall asleep. Generally when my head hits the pillow lights are out upstairs nearly immediately but I can’t maintain that deep sleep level. Solutions must be sought or God only knows what I might do down the road. At any rate I shall put sleep to bed for a while if you don’t mind and go on to other things. Sorry for the pun.

As mentioned the coffers are getting low and it is time for Susie to begin looking for a part-time job. Every time I open a job search website and begin a search I end up either making  a sandwich or playing a game on my cell phone after about ten minutes. This is indicative, I believe, of my lack of interest in the available jobs that are posted. Caregiver comes up often on the search pages. After some years of first hand experience at this I would probably be qualified but for now I need a little respite from this type of work so I have crossed this off the possible list. My talents lie in graphics but there aren’t a lot of part-time jobs in this field at least in the area I live. Perhaps there is something to pursue as far as working from home in this venue but as yet I haven’t come across it. Thankfully I’ve kept my skills up by volunteering which at least makes me qualified even if my resume doesn’t reflect any recent work experience. My mind keeps chanting, “find a niche and fill it”. But what? The Internet gives everyone the opportunity to reach such a vast audience but you have to have a compelling message and a business plan and it seems at the moment I have neither A nor B. Sigh. Truth is I don’t really want to do what I have done but rather step outside of the lines drawn around my comfort zone and try something new. A therapist told me years ago when discussing a fear I had about trying something or other, “Ask yourself what is the worst that can happen?”. I like this thought and use it often. If I pursue something and don’t get it, am I any worse off then when I started out? The answer would be no. This I accept intellectually but sometimes my ego steps in and beats the heck out of intellect so the internal strife tends to get in the way of me putting this thought into action. I shall persist.

There are so many things beyond working I wish to accomplish with my life. Coming up with an excellent way to create revenue would open up the opportunity to pursue these as well. I have yet to see the Grand Canyon. I want to visit the Butterfly Wonderland in Scottsdale and would love to zip line in the Amazon. For Rick, who hails from Cairo, I would love to visit Egypt and while flitting about the area Italy and Greece are on my list of wonders to see as well. Truly if I had the wherewithal I would be writing these excerpts from exotic points all over the world.

For now, however, bereft of an amazing idea I am a work in progress. Hopeful and moving forward but still living in my little house in Northern California with my spoiled old puddy cat. This too will change and morph as all things do, but for today I shall be grateful for what I have not bemoan what I do not.

Have a great one.

 

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