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 |  A Baby-Boomer STILL alive and living in senior housing...
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The random thoughts of a Baby-Boomer STILL adjusting to life in senior housing (after five years)... Almost exactly nine months after World War II ended, one historian writes, “the cry of the baby was heard across the land.” More babies were born in 1946 than ever before: 3.4 million, 20 percent more than in 1945. This was the beginning of the so-called “baby boom.” In 1947, another 3.8 million babies were born; 3.9 million were born in 1952; and more than 4 million were born every year from 1954 until 1964, when the boom finally tapered off. By then, there were 76.4 million “baby boomers” in the United States. They made up almost 40 percent of the nation’s population. - www.history.com |
| Ugh! At the far end of my walk each day, I pass a site that is under construction; a new discount grocery store is being erected. Yesterday I saw a young woman with a little boy about five years old looking through the chain-link fence at the bulldozers, backhoes, earth movers and trucks inside the construction zone. The look on the little boy’s face was priceless. His eyes were wide, his mouth hung open, and his tongue darted in and out as he pointed here and there with his little hands. His eyebrows arched and his feet shuffled in place. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but it portrayed huge excitement. It was refreshing to see a youngster receiving so much joy from something that is not on a TV or computer screen, or a device in his hands – it was sheer entertainment. I wish I had had the time to stay and watch them a little longer, but I was afraid they might think it was creepy, so I hoofed it back to The Home. It gave me a good feeling and a little hope that perhaps all is not lost in this age of gadgetry and Ethernet and instant gratification. Then I came home and nuked dinner while surfing the Net. Life is good. |
| Ugh! [blush] I found my potholder. [double-blush] It was under the pillow on my bed. Don’t ask me how it got there. I’d like to think it had to do with the dream I had the other night: the one in which Julia Child chased me down a dark, deserted alleyway in rain-soaked New York City with a Panko-encrusted haddock in her hand…however, I didn’t have that dream. It was my recurring dream of appearing naked on Jeopardy with Alex Trebek laughing at me. Mercilessly. Both before and after the commercial breaks. The man has no shame. But I don’t recall a potholder in that dream. (I must stop eating coconut M&Ms before bed…) Needless to say I’m relieved it showed up; I stressed over the idea of having to shop for a new one(s). But now I’m concerned as to how it got there! Yikes. And how long had it been there without my discovering it? It must have happened when I did my laundry last – the day I surprised my neighbor and her incessant “Oh”ing almost got on my last nerve. Perhaps it got stuck to the pillowcase and I missed it when making my bed…so much for my attention to detail. No prizes there… Thank goodness *I* discovered it and not someone else (I don’t know who else would have discovered it, but the possibility of my shoddy housekeeping skills being uncovered is almost too much to bear…it’s been slow news days around here of late; what if it made the noon broadcast at our local Mickey Mouse TV station: “Our top story! An elderly, untidy resident at The Home was found with a potholder in his bed this morning. Let’s go live to Kimberly at the scene. Kimberly?” Oi! The embarrassment, the mortification… the date offers and/or marriage proposals…) Maybe I should call my doctor. Nahhh, I’ll wait until I go for my annual physical next month. Who knows, in the meantime I might find other things secreted around the place. This could be an adventure! Life is good. |
| Ugh! On my trip to the mailboxes yesterday here at The Home, I heard a flurry of excitement as I approached the bottom of the stairwell. Several voices mumbled and before I opened the door into the lobby the scent of Mrs. Roper’s patchouli reached my nose; I was refreshed to know she’s still around – I hadn’t seen or smelled her in a while. Larry and Doom-and-Gloom Earl were holding court surrounded by a bevy of grey heads. “It says she quit,” Larry voiced above the grumbles. He pointed to a sign on the manager’s door. DnG Earl added, “She probably got fed up with all the complaints from some of you here. I don’t blame her for leaving.” This coming from one of the main beef producers in The Home! I stifled a guffaw. I looked at the sign. It read “Pam has resigned her position as manager. If you need assistance, call 999-999-9999.” So this Titanic is now rudderless and the passengers are restless. Will the RMS Carpathia get here in time to save us? How long will we founder (or is it flounder - haha)? It’s not an encouraging sign when the captain jumps ship…some of the rats should have gone along. [humming “Nearer My God to Thee”] The long-range forecast calls for clearing skies and temps in the 80s. I can live with that. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I was bored yesterday afternoon here at The Home and found this little tidbit whilst browsing the Web: “The indentation in the middle of the area between the nose and the upper lip has a name. It is called the philtrum. Scientists have yet to figure out what purpose this indentation serves.” Mine has been covered for decades by a mustache – I started growing it (the mustache, not the philtrum) the day after graduating high school (back then facial hair was verboten in school), so it’s been a long time since I’ve seen my philtrum. I’m assuming it’s still there. The part about scientists not being able to figure out what purpose it serves got me thinking: it’s there to provide guidance when little kids have a runny nose – otherwise the snot (sorry) would just drip onto the ground or spread onto the cheeks. The philtrum provides a “track” of sorts to assist with the drainage until a tissue can be procured. I wonder if I can receive a Nobel Prize for my thoughts…wouldn’t that make my neighbors here at The Home envious? Maybe not… Let’s hope I don’t get bored today. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Tragedy here at The Home over the weekend! I lost one of my potholders...I had only two and I've had those for a looooong time – years. They're reliable, washable, and handy. For the past two decades or so, every place I've lived has had a range hood above the stove – metallic. So I have two magnetic hooks that I dangle the potholders from for easy access when I'm doing something on the stove (usually cooking, but there have been times – oh, wait, I shouldn't mention that - nevermind). I can't tell you the number of times I've accidentally bumped into one or both of them resulting in the potholders AND the hooks plopping into a vat of boiling water containing pasta. You'd think I would have learned after the first experience to remove them, but noooooo. So I made brown rice yesterday. Near the end of the cooking time, I grabbed for a potholder to remove the lid on the pot to check the progress, and my hand met empty air. Yikes! There was only ONE potholder hanging above my stove. I searched the countertop – nope. I opened drawers, thinking it might have fallen in somehow – nada. The cupboards yielded nothing. I even dug through the trash container thinking maybe in a senior moment (becoming more frequent with each sunrise) I tossed it in there; lots of vegetable/fruit peels and coffee grounds, but nary a potholder. I did all this in the last few minutes of the rice cooking; I was lucky I had set the timer or I would have ended up with a pot of cooked-on rice (I did that ONCE – that was enough to learn my lesson). I used the remaining sibling-less potholder to empty the rice pot. Where the heck could it have gone? I have only two rooms here – the big room and my bedroom (I don't count the bathroom as a room because it can't be used for anything but a bathroom; my other rooms are interchangeable if I so desired – which I don't) and it's not in either of them. Okay, I did check the bathroom, too. It wasn't there. I wonder if someone snuck into my place while I was out having a smoke and potholder-napped my hand saver. I wouldn't put it past some of my neighbors – they're mighty strange. I guess I'll have to start locking my door when I leave for a cigarette. Trust is evidently an issue even among the 55+ crowd. Has AARP commissioned any studies on thefts in senior housing? It's like I lost an old friend. Now I'll have to break in a new potholder over the next few weeks. I'm pretty confident I won't be able to find one that matches the remaining one dangling all alone. I liked them as a pair – it just won't be the same here at The Home. Sad. Even so, in my misery... Life is good. |
| Ugh! I should really stop saying that at the beginning of each post, but it’s become habit – so there! Another banner day weather-wise here at The Home yesterday… To celebrate, I took two extra-long walks to enjoy the bright sunshine and desert-like humidity. It’s not often we get to do that here in August. In the afternoon I watched “In the Good Old Summertime.” Nothing like a classic MGM musical to kill a few hours whilst munching on popcorn… Doom-and-Gloom Earl was on a rampage the other day. He moved from his apartment into another one in a different part of The Home; he was tired of the view from his old place and when this one became vacant he spoke to management about relocating. He got the go-ahead and made the move – but in his haste he forgot to notify the electric, phone and cable providers and post office of his new residence. As a result he had no power, phone service, TV, or mail the first three days (over this past weekend). He just couldn’t understand why he had to wait for those services to kick in. I mentioned that when I moved I made all the arrangements with utilities and mail weeks in advance to allow for scheduling. He didn’t want to hear that and stormed off, cursing up a storm. It’s always someone else’s fault with him. I think he still blames his mother for having him…and if he doesn’t, I do! I haven’t seen nor smelled Mrs. Roper in quite a while…I wonder what’s up with that? The weather folks say our good luck with the clear air is not to last too long, so we shouldn’t get comfortable with it. I knew it had to end too soon. But it certainly was glorious while we had it. I wish the whole country could have basked in this nice stuff we’ve had the past few days. Rain this weekend. We need it desperately, though, so… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Not really…after a long stretch of humid and hot weather, our Canadian friends sent us a refreshing gift in the form of a day of storms, which scrubbed the atmosphere resulting in yesterday’s splendidness. Thank you, Maple Leafers! Even the neighborhood squirrel got into the act: instead of crouching past The Home, he literally skipped down the hill. The birds were flying acrobatic cursive letters in the air and were chirpier than normal. I, at last, turned off the air conditioners and opened the windows. Sleeping with fresh air was a real treat after many nights of “fake processed” air. And the long-range forecast is filled with 8s! Yay! But I must remind myself: it is still August. Ugh! The only stinker yesterday was upon my return from my afternoon walk, I came into The Home using a not-normal entrance. Complaining Connie and Rascal and Angie were parked outside that door. I didn’t see them until it was too late to dodge around a corner to avoid them. Don’t know how I missed the plume of CC’s smoke rising from their location. “Hello.” (me) “What a gorgeous day, huh?” Smile. (CC) “It’s too breezy; I almost couldn’t light my cigarette. And it’s going down into the 50s tonight. We don’t have the heat turned on yet here.” Sigh. So much for my good mood. It’s pretty amazing how she can find something to complain about on the most perfect of days. She will most likely complain during The Rapture: “Not so high! Slow down!” I feel sorry for her dog, Rascal. (She did finally finish his haircut, though, I noticed.) And Angie is slowly getting more negative when I speak with her sans CC; it must be contagious. Sad. Some days it doesn’t pay to mingle with my neighbors. All in all… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday was Vera Day here at The Home (lame activity time - again). I didn’t go; in its stead I had an appointment with a thoracic surgeon to discuss the two nodules that showed up in my CT lung scan of a few weeks ago. Yikes, the doctor is young! I should expect that at my age, but it’s still jarring to see a kid enter the consultation suite; initially I thought he was a student, but he introduced himself as the doctor. I took his word for it. Perhaps I should have asked for some ID, but I figured he was telling the truth. The hospital is reputable after all. At least he didn’t write with crayons… He wasn’t that concerned with the nodules compared to a CT scan I had performed on me three years ago – they stayed in the same location and didn’t change in size. I took that as good news and said, “So that means I can continue smoking?” He assured me I could. HAHA. Not! I’m scheduled for a now-to-be yearly CT scan next July on my birthday – I figured I’d treat myself, plus it’s easy to remember the date. The office visit cost $350! That’s outrageous. At least their magazines were up-to-date in the waiting area. And they provided free water. I suppose they have to pay for those amenities somehow… I shoulda been a doctor. Oh, well… Haven’t touched base with Complaining Connie or Angie in over a week now. I wonder what’s up with them. I’ll rue that wondering, I’m sure… Life is good. |
| Ugh! So, early Monday morning, here at The Home, before my first walk of the day, I gathered my laundry and made my way to the laundry room to complete one of my least favorite tasks before tackling the rest of the day. I entered the room and saw one of my neighbors from the third floor sitting in front of the washers reading a magazine. I don’t know her name, but she’s one of the friendly ones here who smiles and says hello in greeting others. “Good morning.” (me) Smile. “Oh.” She threw her magazine aside. “Oh.” She stood up. “Oh.” She approached the two washers she was using. “Oh.” The washers were agitating and gurgling. “There’s no need to hurry; I have only one load.” There are three washers here and I was attempting to assure her that I could make do with the third one. “Oh.” She opened the first of her washers and pulled out a piece of clothing, wrung it out and tossed it into her wash basket. She repeated this several times, periodically emitting a strangled “Oh” each time she reached into the water. Water dripped everywhere: down the front of the washers, the floor, her arms and legs, her wash basket. I was perplexed. Again I tried to calm her: “It’s okay. I need only one washer.” (me) “Oh.” Wring. Wring. “Oh.” After five minutes of “Oh”ing and wringing she picked up her basket and fled into the hallway, dripping water behind her. Strange. I inserted my quarters, loaded the washer and sat back while things agitated and spun. Upon my return from my morning walk, I ran into her in the common area on the third floor. I smiled and said, “Hello again.” She blushed, looked down at the ground and hastened into her apartment. At least she didn’t say, “Oh.” I wonder what was up with her…was she embarrassed by her “delicates” and that I’d walked in on her? I’ve seen worse, believe me! Life is good. |
| Ugh! Went out to my car yesterday to go to the farmer’s market and grocery store. The first thing I noticed was I couldn’t unlock it with my remote – uh-oh. I used the key to gain access, inserted the key into the ignition and turned it. Nothing. Then I noticed my headlights were turned on. Acck. I haven’t driven at night or in wet weather for a long time, so I was confused. The last I drove was last weekend – during the day. I wonder if I forgot to lock my car last week and someone opened my driver’s door, turned on the lights, and walked away. Jerks! And I wonder why none of my neighbors said anything to me if they saw my lights on sitting in the parking lot. I’m disappointed. But, thank goodness for AAA. Within 10 minutes of my pleading call, the guy showed up, jumped the battery and I drove around for 45 minutes – aimlessly killing time and charging up the battery. When I returned to The Home, I turned the car off and restarted it – success! Yay! I went out three more times during the day to make sure I locked the car and restarted it on each trip. I was pleased with the results. Mechanics are not my favorite thing, so I stressed pretty much all day imagining the worst-case scenario. The worry was a time waste and I wish I hadn’t done it but I did and it’s over now, so life goes on. Over the weekend I watched three 1960s movies: “Breakfast at Tiffany’s,” “Georgy Girl,” and “Bells Are Ringing.” I enjoyed all of them: Audrey Hepburn was stunning, Lynn Redgrave was humorous, and Judy Holliday was one of my favorite actresses who was taken from us way too soon. It’s refreshing to know they’re all immortalized in celluloid. Along with the car glitch, the humidity is very uncomfortable. I have to run the air conditioners lest everything gets soggy inside the apartment. Still… Life is good. |
| Ugh! The end of another week here at The Home…yesterday was smoke detector/fire alarm testing day. Lots of beeps and clangs all day long; I was happy when it all ended…and not one fire engine appeared. Nor did Calamity Cleary make her panicked forays around the hallways alerting us all to imminent danger. I had a root beer barrel last night…yum. I’d forgotten about them; it’d been decades since I’d eaten one. If my grocery store carries them, I’ll have to purchase some to keep on hand for a treat now and then. Television newscasts are boring now that the debt deal is old news. Our local station covered a dog show as the second story yesterday – right after a fire caused by a barbecue in someone’s backyard. It was hardly worth watching, but I did – it killed time until Judge Judy came on. Here’s to a quiet weekend… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Overcast, showery here at The Home yesterday…and the temperature never got out of the 70s. I was in heaven. The long-range forecast is filled with 8s so I am happy for the time being. It’d be better if it was 7s, but I’ll settle for this – it is August after all. A few weeks back I mentioned the couple here that hold hands and whisper to each other. Well, apparently it’s all off. When I retrieved my mail yesterday, there were raised voices between them in the lobby: something about a missing meatloaf. In the time it took me to open my mailbox to see there was nothing inside, she stormed out the front door and he slunk to the elevator. I avoided both by coming back to my apartment via the stairwell – no need to get in the middle of quibbling seniors. Maybe it was something little and they’ll patch things up and be back to cooing and petting by tomorrow. I guess the meat concoction was very important to at least one of them. Too bad I hadn’t descended early enough to get all the details. On second thought, maybe I’m better off not knowing… Bernie’s bird has been chatty the past several days…his whistling can be heard in my apartment across the hall at times. Most of the time he sounds happy, but once now and then he sounds frantic – sorta like someone is chasing him. Perhaps he and Bernie play hide-and-go-seek in the middle of the afternoon? It’d be more challenging to wait until dark, but maybe they’re bored. She hasn’t hung a Post-it advertising her latest medical malady for a few weeks now – I’m assuming everything is under control for the time being. I kind of miss the updates…not that I want her to suffer, though; it gave me something to do while heading outside for a smoke. Still plugging away at “A Tale of Two Cities” – I cheated and found a synopsis of it online; now I at least know a little about what’s transpiring. I wasn’t too far off, but some things got clarified, so I’m happier now. Google is wonderful; I remember when I had to visit a bookstore and sneak peeks at Cliff’s Notes to understand a story. I’m hungry for a Philly soft pretzel. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday here outside The Home, it was very hot, but the humidity dropped significantly, so I turned off the air conditioner and opened my windows. That was my first problem. In my living area, I have two three-year-old window-boxes with plants in them resting on the window sill: one has an asparagus fern (named Ferne) and geranium (Gerry); the other has sweet basil (Rathbone) and a Norfolk Island pine (that my sister gave me for this past Christmas)(named Virginia). Back in April, I fed all of them with Miracle-Gro. As a result, the fern and basil grew exponentially making access to window lowering and raising problematic; nothing much happened with the geranium, and I couldn’t find the pine tree in amongst the overgrown basil plant. In an effort to open the window, I decided to “chop down” basil Rathbone; he was out of control and lately required a watering can of water every other day. There was just too much basil for me to ever use in a normal life expectancy, so it was sacrifice time. I began by trying to cut off the branches – that proved to be too cumbersome: the scissors didn’t want to slice through the wood-like shoots. And he began dropping leaves all over the place. On to step two: gather the whole thing in one fist down near the roots and yank it out of the box. No go: his root system had spread throughout the entire box and all the dirt lifted up as one piece. I didn’t want to get rid of the dirt, so I got a big knife and sliced into the dirt all around the base of the plant (apologizing to Rathbone the whole time). He came out – all over the floor. Thousands of basil leaves littered the carpeting, table, window sill, furniture. Ironically, I was humming Patsy Cline’s “I Fall to Pieces” while performing this task. Kidding! I folded the removed plant a few times and stuffed it into a large trash bag. Then it was time for the vacuum cleaner to suck up the leaves and dirt that had spilled. It was 9:30 a.m. by that point. I finished the whole process by 10. I was pleasantly surprised to re-discover the pine tree, Virginia; she had grown twice her size since December. Now I won’t have to buy a Christmas tree this year! Yay! And with gargantuan Rathbone gone, a lot more light comes into my apartment. Yes, he was that big. The only reason I grow basil is to occasionally run my hands through it and relish the released scent. Rarely did I use it in my cooking (years ago I used my basil crop to make pesto; I was sadly disappointed: it tasted like I was eating lawn clippings)(maybe I should try a different recipe?) – it was the odor that filled me with joy. I took the trash bag to the chute down the hall, said a quiet good-bye to Rathbone, and returned to the apartment. Oh my gosh, did it ever smell good in here. The window looks bigger now with him gone and although I’m sad to see him gone, I can always grow another one next year. I’ll hold off with the Miracle-Gro, though. That stuff really works! When I came back from my afternoon walk, my next-door neighbor caught me in the hallway. She asked me not to run my washer so early in the morning – it disrupted her sleep. I apologized half-heartedly. This is the same woman who told me my “washing machine” disturbed her a few months ago(I still don’t know what she was referring to with that; I don’t have a washer in my apartment – no one here does). If she complains again, I’ll suggest she get earplugs. Or go to bed earlier. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Did you know our ears never stop growing? I can’t recall where or when I heard that; it’s just something I carry around with me. Along with the name of Dennis the Menace’s neighbor’s (Mr. Wilson’s) dog: Fremont. Perhaps if I rid my brain of stuff like that, I could enjoy reading “A Tale of Two Cities.” Ugh, I am really struggling with it, but I’m not ready to give up just yet. I’m a quarter of the way through it and am not sure what is going on. Sad, but true…maybe I’ll plan on spending more than an hour/day reading it – at my age I tend to forget from day to day what transpired. But it’s cheaper than sleeping aids. And, there’s no hangover effect… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Thank goodness July is finished here at The Home. Now we’re presented with August – my least favorite month of the year; with any luck it will fly by quickly. I’m ready for autumn. For the past few weeks, I’ve heard a “slosh” in the vicinity of my right shoulder as I trek up and down the hills surrounding The Home on my daily walks. It reminds me of being at the lake and hearing the water’s rise and fall at the boat dock where my great-aunt and great-uncle had a cabin when I was growing up. Only back then I knew what the sound was; this new noise is bothersome. Friday evening my doctor called me with the results of my CT lung cancer screening I had done last week. “It shows two nodules on the right side. I want you to have it checked out with a thoracic surgeon.” Acck – the right side? I wonder if it’s related to the slosh I’ve been hearing. Maybe the nodules have become dislodged and are splashing around in my lungs? Maybe my recent weight-loss and exercise regimen has upset my body and it’s resettling at this late stage? Maybe my shoulder is becoming unhinged and is hanging there only by a thread of sinew? (Should I be careful if walking in a strong breeze, lest my right arm be Gone with the Wind?) Maybe my stomach has drifted upward in my torso with all the extra room it now has? (I usually walk shortly after breakfast and lunch – perhaps I’m hearing my stomach contents prior to digestion?) Questions, questions…it wonders me. Later this morning I will call the specialist to get to the bottom of this sloshing sound. The bad news: I’m not sure if my insurance will cover this follow-up. The good news: I walk past the medical building every day, so I already know where the office is. Lucky me! In other news: ran into Larry over the weekend eating donuts from a bag on his lap in the lobby. He told me he’s given up on walking and trying to lose weight. “Why?” (me) “It’s too tiresome to walk.” (him) “Want a bite of my donut?” “No, thanks, I’m headed out for a walk.” (me) “Watch out for pit bulls.” (him) Chomp. Munch. “Okay.” (me) “See ya.” “Bye,” came out of his mouth along with donut crumbs that fell on his bare chest. Life is good. |
| Ugh! While perusing the obituaries yesterday online here at The Home, I recognized the name of a woman I worked with a long time ago. I hadn’t thought of her in decades and, to be honest, I was surprised that she had lived so long (her age was listed as 97). I had a job as stock boy in a local upscale department store. Remember those? Each town had at least one where one could do virtually all the shopping in one stop (well, except for groceries). This store was typical of the period: men’s, women’s and children’s clothing; candy; shoes; notions; furniture: sofas, chairs, tables, dressers, beds, mattresses and box springs; luggage; lamps; sewing machines; toys; appliances from small to full-sized; etc. Us stock boys used to supply the various departments with goods from the warehouse as needed. It was menial work, but put money in our pockets on a part-time basis. This woman, Sully (short for Sulligan), was in charge of the “gifts” department: fine china, crystal, silverware, statues, vases, Hummel figurines, clocks, etc. Her bleached hair was in an updo; she wore cat-eye, rhinestone-studded eyeglasses; on her breaks she smoked like a fiend; and her voice had a whiskey-baritone quality: very Lauren Bacall-ish. Sully also had a foul mouth and was eternally “nervous” about everything under her guidance. Whenever we had to deliver something to her area, she’d admonish us for walking too close to the shelves or treading too heavily on the floor – in short, she was a pain to deal with. We groaned whenever we got a call from her to do something or other. One day, Greg (fellow stock boy) and I decided we’d had enough of her treatment of the help. During her lunch hour, we went into her area and set EVERY clock’s alarm to go off at 2:15 p.m. – both electric clocks and wind-up ones…there were about 30 of them. It took us roughly 20 minutes to complete our task during which we repeatedly looked over our shoulders to make sure she didn’t return and catch us in the act of sabotaging the Gifts Department, all the while stifling our giggles. When Sully returned from her lunch break at 2 p.m., Greg and I hid in the stockroom near the freight elevator and watched her tidying up the Hummel figurines in the middle of the department. We both silently counted down the seconds to wake-up time. 2:05… 2:10… 2:13… 2:14…we moved outside the storage area and stood near the passenger elevators at the edge of the Gifts Department. 2:15: “buzz” “ring” “RING” “buzz” “clang” “ring” “buzz” “RING” And from Sully: “GOOD LORD!” She clutched her chest and ran around the department turning off all the clocks. In her haste she knocked a few ornaments onto the floor, which elicited more swear words from her fuming mouth. She looked several times upward and put her hands into a praying position. Greg and I doubled over in laughter. It was a mean thing to do. She noticed us laughing, pointed, shouted, “You scamps!” and started towards us. We relented and helped her turn off the clocks while she berated us with many, many choice words. That was the last time Sully was mean to us. From that point forward, whenever she needed assistance she referred to us as “those nice, dear stock boys.” R.I.P Sully. Life is good. |
| Ugh! So, a few weeks ago, I read online about the local hospital (a few blocks from The Home) offering lung cancer screenings for current or former smokers. The CT scan is not covered by insurance; the radiology department, however, is offering them for a flat fee of $49 (regular cost between four and five hundred dollars). A valid prescription from a physician is the only requirement. Last week when I visited my doctor, I mentioned the test to her and she agreed I should make use of it. She wrote out a prescription; I called, made an appointment, and yesterday I went through with the screening. While being checked in at the radiology department, I happened to read the prescription my doctor wrote. It stated, “CT lung cancer screening; tobacco abuse.” What? Abuse? I never considered my smoking (over the past 40 or so years I averaged two packs a day; at its peak, I was smoking four packs a day; right now I’m constant at four cigarettes a day) to be abuse – tobacco USE, maybe, but not ABUSE. I wonder if my doctor writes prescriptions for diet pills for overweight patients with a diagnosis of “food abuse.” Or maybe hard-of-hearing patients receive a “noise abuse” diagnosis. Does a blind man get a “masturbation abuse” rating? What about bald people: “comb abuse?” And who decides when USE crosses the line to ABUSE? Why is it okay to have two drinks a day, but not three? If I eat two Big Macs instead of one, is it considered fast-food ABUSE? Okay, maybe four packs of cigarettes a day is a bit extreme, but that was long ago (five years) – don’t I get credit for cutting the amount by 95%? And if abuse is the diagnosis, shouldn’t there be a rehab available to rectify the situation – you know, like a drug/alcohol rehab? We should have them for overweight people, deaf people, bald people, blind people; over-tanned people (sunlight abuse?), ugly people (beauty abuse?) or even narcissistic people (mirror abuse?)… When the CT scan was completed I asked the woman who administered it if she saw anything. She shook her head and said, “I can’t tell you that. The thoracic surgeon will make a determination.” Not exactly good news to leave with…but I understand it’s not her job to make a diagnosis. But, still, throw me a bone, eh? I think we should all vote out our representatives in Washington next election cycle. Why? Trust abuse. And there is no rehab for that! Rant over and… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Our heat wave finally broke here at The Home – well, for two days, that is. The weather folks promise another stretch of broilment starting tomorrow. I pined for Thanksgiving the past few days, but it was too miserable weather-wise to heat up the kitchen, so I had turkey and feast-type things only in my imagination. During my morning walk (quite enjoyable once again with the absence of stickiness and breathable air) I decided to do a mini-version of T-giving anyway – summer be damned! I plopped a whole chicken into my crockpot, made gravy, stuffing, broccoli, yams, cranberry sauce (from a can – fresh cranberries aren’t in season as of yet), and an apple pie. That’ll be dinner over the next several nights – all I’ve have to do is plate it up and nuke it for a few minutes in the microwave while I sit in my air-conditioned living space and have imaginary, stilted conversations with family members I see only once or twice a year. And since the NFL lockout is settled, I can even fantasize watching a football game on TV. In reality it’ll be Judge Judy yelling at litigants. I’m a happy glutton! Life is good. |
| Ugh! Each morning, after my first walk of the day and shower, I go out the backdoor of The Home to enjoy a rewarding smoke. And each morning, without fail, a squirrel scampers up and down the sidewalk, sometimes darting into the street between moving cars – I think he’s some type of hellion, although I’ve yet to discern any mean-looking tattoos. Yesterday, on my return to The Home, I saw that some scofflaw had tossed a banana peel out of a passing car window and it laid splat in the roadway, just outside the backdoor. I suppose I should have picked it up to keep our neighborhood somewhat pristine, but I would have had to walk around the block to toss it into the dumpster, and I didn’t want to carry it three flights up to my apartment to toss in my own trash, so I just let it be; it’s biodegradable, and in this sultry weather, it would probably be gone in a day or two. So I’m outside puffing away and out of the corner of my eye, I see the squirrel approaching at a rapid clip, coming downhill. He got to the banana peel, stopped, sniffed it, walked around it, sniffed some more, prodded it with his nose, bent down, picked up one end of it in his mouth, and drug it away to the curb, where he hefted it up onto the sidewalk. The peel was longer than he was, so it was interesting to watch this escapade. He drug it a few feet to the base of one of the trees and stopped. He looked up. I thought, “He’s not going to try to hoist it up there, is he?” Sure enough, he dug his feet into the bark and pulled the peel behind him partway up the trunk. He took about six steps and the peel became dislodged and plopped to the ground. Undeterred, the rodent scaled down to the ground, got the end in his mouth, and started ascending again. Same thing: a few steps and the load became unwieldy and plopped again to earth. The scenario repeated four times. If I had been the squirrel I would have given up at that point. No, not this squirrel. He squatted and stared at the peel for a few seconds, looked up the tree, back to the peel, bent down and chewed off part of the peel to a more manageable size, got the smaller piece into his mouth, and scaled the tree like lightning. I lost sight of him once he got into the thick leaves. My cigarette was done, so I came inside. A few hours later when I exited The Home for my afternoon walk, I saw the banana peel was almost completely gone – just a little remnant remained on the sidewalk. Somewhere up the confines of the flowering pear tree sits pieces of a discarded banana peel. I wonder what he’s using it for. Too bad our folks in Washington can’t be as industrious as my neighborhood squirrel when it comes to working out a debt deal. Oh, and I found a five-dollar bill on my morning walk, and seven cents on my afternoon walk. A bonus day here at The Home! Yay! Life is good. |
| Ugh! We’re getting a little break from the heat and humidity – only supposed to get to 89 today…yay! We’re not set up for broiling weather in this part of Pennsylvania… During my second daily walk on Friday, in the oppressive air (104F air temp – 115 real feel), I had to wait at one of the busier intersections to cross the street. While I stood there biding my time, I saw a guy wheel by on his motorcycle wearing only a pair of cut-off jeans and boots – no shirt, no socks (that I could see), no helmet, no gloves, no goggles – I suppose it was his attempt to brave the elements. I noticed he had only one hand on the handlebars. I looked closely and sure enough, he was doing something to his phone with his other hand. I don’t know if he was dialing his phone or texting – whatever he was doing could have potentially taken his mind off the task at hand: remaining upright in a safe driving condition. I didn’t follow him through when traffic cleared. I hope he made it to his destination unscathed. I’d worry about bug splats on my body…ugh! A few blocks further on a woman approached me; she appeared to be leisurely strolling along. I blinked the sweat out of my eyes and looked at her. She looked like Casey Anthony. I did a double-take and decided to cut my walk short – I figured the tropical-ness was beginning to play tricks with what’s left of my gray matter. A texting, near-naked motorcyclist and Casey Anthony look-alike both within four blocks of The Home in the span of three minutes… I hoofed it back to base, showered and sat in front of my fan to regain my senses. And drank two quarts of water…and had a few Coconut M&Ms (yummy!)… Soon I returned to my normal, twisted self and felt better. Life is good. |
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no pun intended!