The Laugh's on Me

Yesterday I went for a routine doctor’s visit. The nurse wore bright pink scrubs. Cheerful pink. She directed me to the scale. I put my purse and coat on a hook.

I said, “I could take my boots off.” 

She said, “Naa, I’ll just take off a pound off your weight.”

 

“I’ll take off my shirt and pants,” I said, going for a laugh. 

No response, just a look. Bored? Uninspired? I couldn’t quite assess the look.

 

So, I said, “I was joking.”

 

No response.

 

I think I’ve mentioned before that I like to make people laugh. At least a smile. It’s my job. The pay sucks, by the way.

 

When I saw the Doc, she did laugh about something I said, so the day wasn’t a complete failure. The colonoscopy and endoscopy are scheduled for May. Both ends of me on the same visit. As Biden would say, “No Joke.”

 

I wrangled to get out of the butt check using my elder creds with the Doc. But no deal. She said, “Don’t worry, It’ll probably be the last one you’ll need.”

Okay, so was she suggesting that I’ll croak before five years. They enjoy looking up “there” every five years? Or maybe you just don’t need it done after a CERTAIN age? Hmm.

 

Then driving home, it hit me…a conclusion (not a truck). That nurse who weighed me, she saw my wrinkled face, she knew I was old, and she probably figured I was a bit demented. She didn’t laugh. I bet she was tolerating an old lady. Or maybe she was terrified that I was actually going to strip right there. Then she’d have to see the awesome power gravity has on a person's body. Damn. 

 

And this—Am I wanting to have it both ways? Use my old age to avoid stuff (which didn’t work), but at the same time not wanting anyone to see me as old?

Okay, so now I’m going to weigh my boots.

 

Maybe I should use the kitchen scale?

Be Someone

I was a freshman at Ferndale High School in Michigan, when we (Mom, stepfather Tom, and four-year-old Kathy) drove across the country to Palo Alto, California in March of 1959. Our one bedroom furnished apartment there had a dropdown bed in the living room when Mom and Tom slept. Kathy and I shared the double bed in the bedroom. She kicked. I had no friends at the new school, and I was homesick. When summer came, I babysat every weekday for two diapered young  boys who lived in an apartment across the street. By the end of summer, I had saved enough money for small presents for everyone, and a plane ticket back to Michigan. Mom let me go.

 

I expected to move back to Ferndale where I’d be in the same school district I had been in before we moved. I thought I’d get to stay with my Aunt Katie and her gang, but no…my family had other ideas. I would be living with my grandparents, Nan and Papa in Beverly Hills.

 Here's my grandmother posing for a Christmas card.

So, for the 10^th and 11^th grades I was in my third high school––Birmingham Groves. I now lived in a house filled with my grandparents’ tasteful combination of antiques and 50s modern furniture, where I had my own bedroom full of heavy maple furniture with a double bed just for me.

One girl at the school was given a brand-new pink Cadillac convertible for her sixteenth birthday. A boy got a new black Thunderbird. Very different from the kids in Ferndale, who, if they had a car, it was a beater that they fixed up themselves with the help of a mechanic dad. Bonus! I did make great new friends...Pat Burke, 60 years later is still my friend.

 

During those years, what I heard most often from Nan was, “Be Someone.” 

 

I took it as an insult. Wasn’t I “someone” already? 

 

And where did this come from? 

 

I knew her story. She was the youngest of ten kids. They lived in a big house in a rich neighborhood in Bay City. They needed the big house for their big family. Her father and older brothers worked in the coal mines to support the family. Nan’s friends were wealthy girls. Her three older sisters sewed her fashionable outfits, so she’d fit in with her friends.

 

Then she met Ted Sexton, who had been raised (after his parents’ death) by his mother’s brother––George P. Codd. Nan couldn’t check Wikipedia, but this is what they say now:

George P. Codd, mayor of Detroit from 1905-1906, Regent of the University of Michigan from 1910-1911, circuit court judge of Wayne County from 1911-1921 and 1924-1927, and a member of the United States House of Representatives from 1921-1923.

He was SOMEONE.

 

My grandmother married a man who had been raised by “SOMEONE”. But, to her great disappointment, my grandfather wanted nothing to do with his uncle. He and his brother Brad were treated so cruelly that he always cried over TV shows with orphans, and never shared details of his boyhood.

 

But Nan wanted me to be someone. What did she mean? Should I be a star, a senator, heroic, notorious? 

 

Or did she mean I should marry “someone” important, famous, rich? Women of her generation didn’t have many other choices.

 

I still don’t know. I can’t ask her. But, irrelevant of what she meant…I am, and always have been someone.

 

I have six grandchildren. If I were to tell any of them to “be someone”, I’d add a word that my grandfather would applaud. 

 

Be Someone Kind.

 

For the Birds

My mother hated birds. Seriously. They pooped on her car. She believed that if a bird got in the house, someone would die. And she had proof. My stepfather found a dead bird in the fireplace, a few days later he died after trying to save her life.

Should I tell you that story now, or save it for another post?

Okay, if you insist—here goes.  

My mother had some repair work done on her car at a local garage. The next day she went out to the driveway and started the car. Whoof! It was engrossed in flames. My stepfather saw this and rushed out to her, opened the car door with flames shooting up, and pulled her out. In most cases that would be the happy ending of the story.

 

But Tom was recovering from esophageal cancer and had a hole in his neck from the surgery. The smoke entered his lungs.A couple days later he was the one who died from the fire. But, to my mother, it wasn’t about cancer or smoke, it was that damn dead bird in the fireplace.

 

I have a lot in common with my mother, except that I really like birds. 

Tiny hummingbirds who fly so fast, I hold my breathe watching them at the bird feeder. I keep a tomato cage near the feeder and sometimes they’ll sit a minute, probably thinking up a flight plan.

I have a nice video of hummingbirds in the garden...but it won't load. Drats.

Last summer I went into the guest bedroom and heard chirping. I looked all around and then discovered a robin’s nest on the windowsill. After that I’d check everyday on the egg progress. Ms. Robin got used to me talking to her and stayed seated. Dad wasn’t as comfortable with me. And then there were babies…mostly consisting of open beaks. Sad part is we were in Wisconsin when the babies flew off. We missed graduation.

And then there’s the big, big birds. Not as in Sesame Street, but as in Turkey Vultures (should that be all caps?). They’re very ugly in close-ups. But in the sky, floating on air, they are exhilarating. They have a wingspan of 68-72 inches.

 

Turkey Vultures are raptors. Carnivorous clean-up crews. My granddaughter, Kristen, told me that because they eat roadkill and already dead animals, when finished with their lunch they pee on their feet. It works as a disinfectant for bacteria.

A lone bird will appear overhead. Watch it. And then another will join, and another. On Christmas eve I counted 18. They don’t even have to think about Covid. On the ground they’re a ‘committee’. In flight a group is a ‘kettle’. 

I only see them in flight. They rarely flap, mainly they catch the airwaves and soar. I feel something inside me lift with them, entranced by the community of them. There is joy and wonder. 

 

Happy New Year, my friends. 

Let your heart take flight like a bird, but I wouldn't suggest peeing on your feet.

THE USE-BY-DATE

 

I’m getting close to my Use-By-Date…seventy-nine on my last birthday. And no need to be a math wiz, you know what comes next. Holy crap!

I reconnected with a dear friend from my youth on Facebook, and asked John if I looked that old. He said, “Yes.” Sometimes what I like about him is his honesty. Sometimes. 

Okay. So, I look my age. So What? I’m just gonna keep wearing a mask when I go out. Covid’s still around. Also, I like the no makeup part of mask wearing.

Jievani Weerasinghe on Unsplash

Tragically, I’m also acting my age. I talk (out loud) to TV commercials. I mock them. Occasionally they deserve a yelling at. Also, I think I’m very good at an English accent when I help the woman with the voice over on the Viking Tours commercials.

Photo by Steinar Engeland on Unsplash

My memory is getting a tad slippery. I went to lunch with my daughter Sue, and I told her if I could go to a live concert from the past, I’d want to see Queen. The lead singer, umm, what’s his name. She suggested Adam Lambert. No, I said, the original lead who died. She said, Freddy Mercury. Right! Freddy. I watched the movie about him three times during the pandemic lock down. To be in that massive crowd at the Live Aid Concert, waving your arms, singing along, now that would be amazing.

 

Okay, so I’m going to remember his name. Freddy Mercury. When I can’t remember something—think “Freddy Mercury.”

 

Mostly I attempt to hide my memory lapses. Yesterday, I asked John what he was going to do for the day? I answered for him: walk the mall, get a coffee and look at cat videos on_________ on his iPad. I wanted to use the word for the App with videos, but I couldn’t remember Instagram until I checked my own iPad. The technique is called, “Filling in the Blanks,” so no one catches you forgetting. Replacing a word you can't remember, quickly with another word (whether it fits or not). It's a skill.

 

Photo by Vishnu Mohanan on Unsplash

I once mentioned to my son, Jim, that sometimes I forget a word. He suggested I take Prevagen. “Okay, sorry, Jim. You get the tirade that I give the TV commercials. Google it, Prevagen DOES NOT WORK.”

 

Some of the people on those commercials say they’ve been taking Prevagen for ten years, at $40-$90 a month, do the math: $4800-$10,800 for a product that doesn’t work. It’s apoaequorin (jellyfish protein) and vitamin D. 

 

Quincy Bioscience is making a fortune. Ads cost big bucks; I know that because I was in advertising for most of my career. And how often do you see their ads? Inundate us, why don’t you?  The actors in the ads seem so genuine. I yell at them. I know some really bad words and use them. You don’t forget fuck.

 

So what can you do for memory? The Mediterranean diet is supposed to be good. But I really like ice cream, it’s not mentioned on the food list. And cheese. 

 

I have a good brain food recipe for you.

Photo by Brian McGowan on Unsplash

BRAIN SALAD

Ingredients

No quantities are given, feel free to do as you like.

Kale: Tear into bite size pieces, soak in water, drain, put in a salad spinner, spin, add a nice dressing (I like Brianna’s Lemon Tarrigon) massage the kale with the dressing. Using your bare hands also adds a nice moisturizing effect to your skin as you soften the kale.

Quinoa: Toss some quinoa into the slippery kale. It’ll stick.

Blueberries: Add some Super BLUE brain food

Walnuts: Then go nuts with another super brain food...even better toasted in a dry frying pan.

 

Eat this, it’s good for your brain. Then eat ice cream, it’s good for your, um, what’s the word?

 

Also, __________um, there was something else I wanted to mention. Um. Ahh, wait a minute. Let me think a sec. Um…

 

Oh yeah! Freddy Mercury!!!

https://youtu.be/TkFHYODzRTs

 

PS: John just read this over. He said, “It’s good except for the kale recipe.” His main problem with kale is that it’s green.

 

PPS: If you leave a comment, PLEASE include a hint of who you are, so if Google lists you as Anonymous, I’ll be able to guess your name.

 

 

 POWERLESS

 

6:30 AM

 

I am powerless. It has nothing to do with my age. It has nothing to do with being female. 

 

The storm that hit at dinner time last night has taken my power. Twisting and turning and pounding, knocking out powerlines, and kicking two granite stones off Stonehead, which has always been a balancing act.

Before

After

So, after a bad night’s sleep (two glasses of wine on the back porch last night didn’t help the snooze fairy), I got up in the dark not knowing what time it was—no red numbers lit up the old alarm clock. My usual good morning texts to Sue, Kristen and Joy, can’t happen today. My phone is dead. Cause of death: no juice. Starved. Powerless.

I come downstairs in the dark with my electric candle. Coffee first thing in the morning is always nice. The good thing is having gas stove burners, you can bypass the electric ignition by using a fire stick. I have one that works! Yay!

 

So, coffee filter over a cup, spoon of caffeine, and I’m thinking, I’m pretty fancy…like this is a Starbuck’s pour-over. However, in the vague candle glow, I over pour the cup. Wet coffee grounds have plopped in places outside the cup. Somehow, I do get a cup of coffee, and it’s okay. But tea sounds better and easier.

 

I open my iPad naively expecting to see mail, the New York Times “Morning” and all the puzzles that start my day, but our WIFI is out.

 

We have a gas water heater, and later when it’s light enough to see myself, I could possibly take a shower.

 

My main plan today was lunch in a park with Ann. She’s making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I was going to bring cookies. But my car is inside the garage with an electric door opener. I’m trapped. I can’t call her because my phone is dead. I can’t email because the WIFI is out.

 

I can’t check the weather, or what’s happening with the power company.

 

And now I’m getting hungry, I could cook an egg, one of those beauties my brother Tom and his new wife Lizzie brought us. They have chickens. I have eggs. But they’re in the frig and I don’t want to open the door and let the cold escape.

 

I could toast bread in a dry pan, but my bread is in the freezer. Do Not Open!

 

There are things in the cupboard to eat. Oatmeal—ugh. Instant mashed potatoes—maybe. But then…

 

8:30 am

 

John’s up. But wait! His car isn’t in the garage. He’s taking me to Panera for breakfast and WIFI plugins. It’s amazing how many places along our route still have power.

 

We sit in Panera with all our devices plugged in, and eat too much, and it takes too long for everything to get charged. A group of loud elder men are talking religion and politics next to me. I listen, eavesdrop, snope, but make no comments. I disagree with them on almost everything, but my powers out.

 

We stop at a grocery store and buy bread and a few other things that we already have, but are trapped in the shut tight refrigerator at home. Dinner: open a can of chili, or maybe have PBJs.

10:00 am

Back home I try to reach Ann to cancel our plans but her phone just rings, and so I write an email. I worry about her and call several more times. And then, hours later discover that she had answered my email. 

 

Exhausted I lay down to take a nap, and I think, “hmm, maybe I should do some quilting. But then I remember. My Singer is powerless.

 

3:20 pm

 

I’m lying on the couch reading Joan Didion and having nothing to do with her dated essays from the 60’s, my world lights up! 

 

All the lights we turned on last night in the dark are casting a gold glow.

 

I have POWER! 

I could flex an arm muscle, but you wouldn’t be impressed. 

The Best Part of the Day

Some months ago (maybe a year, I forget) John built a new headboard for our bed. It has a shelf that’s three inches deep (I measured it). I bought orange bamboo sheets in Wisconsin, and my daughter Sue gave us her orange electric candles. At night it glows. 

We have a new bedtime habit (this will not embarrass you, I promise). 

We get into all that orange-ness and talk. 

Question: What was the best part of your day?

• It could be as simple as the beauty of a single white cosmos with pink edges. 
• It could be a response from his client...finally. (Note: this can lead into a long discussion on door pulls.)
• It could be a friendly phone voice at a pharmacy.
• It could be pleasure in cooking (me).
• It could be a good dinner (him).

Sometimes we have the think on it a while. Hmmm? What was the best thing? Some days are so ordinary—flipping back though the file cards of our day takes an effort. But there is always something good. 

• Self-congratulations for filling a whole yard waste bag with weeds.
• Finishing a bunk bed ladder for the Wisconsin trailer.
• Fulfilling my self-promise to do one sketch everyday in my journal. 

Sometimes there’s an abundance of good, which keeps us awake longer.

Although we worry about things going on in the world: the latest political scandal, wild fires or raging floods or blistering heat, and especially innocent children separated from their parents. We don’t go to sleep haunted by them.

We go the sleep thinking about something good that happened in our day. And actually maybe the best part of our day is the happy ending.

So tell me, what was the best part of your day?

Spilling the Beans

Today I spilled the beans…brewed beans…coffee. I knocked a whole cup over and stained the perfectly nice gray carpet in my study. I have a study to write in—I’m so lucky.

And then I broke the garbage disposal by feeding it kale and eggshells and shrimp tails all at the same time. Yes, I ate shrimp—I’m so lucky.

We had to take John’s car to the dealership this morning for the fourth time, ($360 today for a new wiring harness) because his power steering kept going out, ever since mice ate the power cables two summers ago when we were at the farm.

We have a farmhouse and land and a beautiful lake in Wisconsin, that John and his two brothers inherited—we’re so lucky.



Yesterday my car was at the dealership ($180) to clean-out my clogged fuel injectors. We have two cars—we’re so lucky.

And yesterday I stuck a spoon in the silverware holder in the dishwasher and a fork tine stabbed me under my thumbnail. It still hurts. We have a dishwasher—we’re so lucky.

LUCKY.

Today I emailed my friend Pat. She and her husband are fleeing South Florida before IRMA hits. They’ve got the puppy with them. They’re preparing her to be a service dog for a soldier with PTSD. (PTSD—not lucky). What will home be like for them when they go back?

People in Houston and Louisiana, are going home—but to what? Mud and mold. Homes and cars gone.

Young people, who’ve made lives here, are unsure day by day, if and when they’ll be deported to a country they don’t know.

Fires are eating huge swathes of land and homes in Western states: California, Oregon, Washington, Utah, Colorado, Idaho, and Montana.

Our president is twittering war games with North Korea, and threatening a trade war with China.

Things are really mucked up/f'ed up/un-lucked up. Big things.

But for most of us, just in our day-to-day life, we are really lucky.

For those who aren’t so lucky—us lucky ones need to help.

DONATE!

Then VOTE for people who aren’t climate change deniers. Who will honor the value of diversity in this country. And who won’t bumble us into another war.



Note: I just banged my shin into the corner of the coffee table. I have a fresh cup of coffee and a coffee table—I’m so lucky.

I hope you are too.