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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! Highlight of yesterday: I had to mail a large envelope, so I incorporated a trip to the Post Office in my afternoon walk. It’s a bit out of the way, but doable. Not doable was the falling rain that started when I got about three blocks away from The Home on my outset. I had my umbrella with me since the weather folks can’t make up their mind if it’s going to be sunny or cloudy or partly sunny and/or partly cloudy – it’s just become another part of my walking attire. Besides it gives me something to do with one hand while I huff-and-puff along the streets of town. The raindrops lasted briefly, so my envelope was saved. Had it teemed, I was prepared to shove the mail under my tee shirt, but was reluctant to do that in case my sweat would cause the ink on the address label to bleed rendering it unreadable. That cost me $1.71. On the way back I found a dime to go along with the penny I found on Tuesday. Who knew walking could be so lucrative? That makes my net profit for this week a negative-$849.51 after shelling out for the car repair and mail. It’s not been a good week so far. Let’s hope the weekend offers cheerier news! Tomorrow is my weekly trip to the grocery store and farmers’ market. And it’s near the end of the month…I’ll be scraping my pockets at the checkout. All in all, though, here at The Home… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, I took my car in to the dealer early yesterday morning to have it looked at for “…fluid levels…” and walked out $847.91 later. Yikes! They told me the timing belt had to be replaced; the rubber deteriorates over time, and even though I have only 13,409 miles on the six-year-old car, the time span was the culprit. They sternly said if the timing belt malfunctions, it messes up the entire engine, which would have to be replaced at great cost. I know nothing about auto mechanics so I had to believe them. Feeling defenseless, I handed over my credit card and drove back to The Home with a new timing belt. There goes a chunk of savings. Cancel my trip to Fiji! HAHA! I didn’t notice that my car acted any differently than it did when I dropped it off, but at least I have a new timing belt for the next six years or so until it dries up and cracks again due more to aging than heavy use. Sigh. If only the grocery store and farmers’ market were within walking distance – I’d ditch the four-wheel conveyance and rely on my legs. However, they’re where they are, so I’m stuck with driving to get there and back again. At least the automobile folks threw in a car wash, so all was not dismal at the end of the day… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Every day on my morning walk, I huff-and-puff past the community swimming pools. As I’m coming down the hill by the park where they’re situated, I can see all three pools, and I observe the duck family that has set up home in the middle pool. I don’t know where they lived when the pools were empty for the winter/spring period, but since the pools have been filled with water, the honkers paddle around the medium-depth one each morning. I assume they vacate their abode once the gate opens and swimmers invade their space, but my afternoon walk through the park does not afford me a view of the goings-on. I’m glad I’m not on staff there – I’d hate to pull pool-cleaning duty each morning. Last night the chirping of neighborhood birds in The Home’s environs kept me awake until very late. I assume they were heralding the arrival of summer at long last on the lengthiest day of the year. We’ve already endured two heat waves this spring; I’m confident more will ensue in the coming season. This morning the air is eerily silent; I suppose the chirpers are sleeping in after their late-night revelry. Or it could be the humidity and storm clouds in the distance have them late-roosting. Today I’m taking my car for its 75,000-mile check-up. The dealership sent me an email last week stating it was time for the service according to their records. I have only 13,000 miles on my six-year-old auto, so I question their record-keeping abilities. However, I’m abiding by their statement in order to keep the warranty in place. When I questioned them, they suggested I have the work done to “…check for fluid levels…” I have no idea when it comes to auto mechanics, so I believe them and will go. Kind of like an annual physical exam – poke and prod to make sure everything is okay. Only, Medicare does not cover automobiles… Life is good. |
| Ugh! During my afternoon walk this past Sunday afternoon, I had an encounter in the local park. It was sunny and hot. Lots of kids were playing on the swings and monkey bars, the basketball court had a vigorous game going with boys and girls from the surrounding neighborhood, and there were a few people strolling and biking along the walking path, just like me. Up ahead I saw a young woman, a little boy, and a small bike. The boy looked to be about four or five years of age; he was clad in shorts, sneakers, knee pads, elbow pads, and a bike helmet. His bike had training wheels attached. As I neared this couple, he got onto the bike; the woman helped him maintain his balance and he began pedaling with the woman holding the bike steady and jogging behind him for a bit. Then she let go. The boy sped off – his legs churned as his wheels spun; he turned his head back and yelped, “I’m doing it, Mom! I’m riding my bike!” It was a momentous occasion for him, his mother, and, heck, even for me. Uh-oh, he was headed right at me. His mom yelled, “Brian, watch out for the old guy!” Old guy? I didn’t see an old guy. I thought of turning around to warn the “old guy” of the impending danger, but wanted to keep my eye on the boy and his fast-approaching bike-with-training-wheels-attached. Then the thought crossed my mind that *I* was the “old guy.” The boy turned back around about five feet in front of me. I moved to the left; he moved in the same direction. I quickly side-stepped in the opposite direction; he steered right at me. What was I – a magnet? I thought of jumping off the path, but didn’t think I could hop high enough to clear the curb. Just kidding…I KNEW I couldn’t clear it! He drove right into my shin. Luckily I had turned partway, so his head didn’t collide with my crotch. He would have been safe had that occurred; he wore a bike helmet; I, however, didn’t wear my cup, so it was lucky it turned out the way it did. I had put my arms down to fend him off, but they weren’t needed. My thigh stopped the fast, forward motion of his helmeted cranium. His mother ran up to him. He began to cry. Mom and I both knelt down and at the same time asked, “Are you okay?” He blubbered and barely nodded his head. I stood up. Mom said, “Tell the man you’re sorry.” “That’s okay,” I said. “Accidents happen. I’m just glad everything turned out okay.” Brian squeaked out a “sorry” and wiped his nose on his hand. Ugh. Kids and their hygiene… Before I walked away, I told him, “You did real good with your pedaling,” gave him thumbs up and smiled. He and Mom both smiled back. I hobbled my way back to The Home. So far, no bruise! Life is good. |
| Ugh! I hit a milestone with my walking on Friday, 17 June 2011: 1,000,000 steps! Yippee! I started this journey on 16 March; below are some figures: 1,001,045 steps 8,592 minutes 505.1 miles 43,271 calories burned 29.8 pounds lost 5 inches smaller in waist size Even though no one here at The Home has remarked on my new look, I’m satisfied with my progress. It’s been difficult at times, but I’m glad I stuck with it. Walking is now a regular part of my day – along with exercises five times a week (I take weekends off with the exercise stuff). My diet has improved – I’m eating healthier and more often. Sleeping is better and my general outlook has improved. Oi, I’ll probably get hit by a bus tomorrow. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I had what my friend Ed calls an “invisible day” yesterday. No matter where I went, it was as though people didn’t see me. On my first walk of the day, I nearly was hit by cars at two separate clearly-marked-with-crosswalks intersections; one lady tooted her horn at me as she sped around me while she yakked on her cellphone (not allowed by city ordinance: neither the cellphone chatting nor aiming at pedestrians in crosswalks). The other driver screeched his brakes, which made me jump – but didn’t break my stride. Back at The Home, Complaining Connie ran into me with her wheelchair as I sat on the bench out front enjoying a smoke. It was just carelessness on her part: she was attempting to light a cigarette and steer her transport at the same time. She didn’t acknowledge or apologize for the infraction…no “good morning” – right into “I can’t stand all this rain” (the weather folks had mentioned a chance of showers for later last night). During my second walk, I had to get off the sidewalk because two women walking towards me refused to let me past them. It was just rude. They were nurses or something from the nearby hospital out for a lunchtime stroll, I guess. Is it part of the nurses’ code to be inconsiderate away from the workplace? And speaking of nurses…I’ve had this on my mind for quite a while now. I wish they would go back to wearing nurse uniforms: white dress, white hat, white hose, white shoes. The way they casually dress these days makes it difficult to identify them in hospitals or doctor’s offices. A few years back I was briefly hospitalized. I happened to spill some water on the floor of my room. When the cleaning person came into my room, I pointed it out and asked if she could mop it up to prevent any accidents. Her reply: “I’m a nurse – not housekeeping.” How was I to know the difference? They all dress alike. Geez. Maybe they don’t dress that way anymore because of Louise Fletcher’s performance in “One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest” – Nurse Ratched was one creepy, cruel caretaker. Here’s to a quiet weekend at The Home and elsewhere... Life is good. |
| Ugh! With all the news and jokes about Anthony Weiner’s unfortunate name and his imbecilic actions, it got me thinking about people I’ve known at various points in my life and their at-times challenging names: There was a family in our environs with the last name Fuchs…that one was certainly tricky; pronounced FEWKS. I worked with a woman whose surname was Cockburn…I quickly learned (after a red-faced encounter) it was pronounced CO-burn. Remember Ed Koch, the ex-mayor of NYC? Well, where I grew up, people with that name pronounced it KUCK, not KOTCH. From my old high school German, we would have said COKE, unless it was spelled with an umlaut – then it would have sounded something like KECK. So many different versions of four letters…no wonder English is difficult to learn. A long-ago acquaintance had the last name O’Seaghadha – it was the pronunciation that threw me: O’Shay…what’s with all the extra letters? I went to school with a boy whose last name was Christmas…his older sister was blessed with the Christian name of Mary. How cruel can parents get? Here’s how: neighbors from my old stomping grounds had the last name Ferry. They had a daughter and named her Gaye. Oi, that poor kid… Off for my first walk of the day…chance of showers today – need the umbrella just in case. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, yesterday was the second Tuesday of the month: time for Vera to show up here at The Home to regale us residents with some time-killing activity. Given her late track record of either not showing up or failing to entertain us I decided to bail on the session and went for a longer-than-usual walk: the weather was superb. I ran into Angie earlier in the day and even she was not going to attend; “Why bother her by showing up?” was her feeling. I didn’t hear feedback from anyone else afterward, so I sense Vera’s coming here each month is in jeopardy. It’s a shame because some folks could use something to pass the time, but if they don’t put forth the effort to attend, it’s a little inane to keep trying. It was a nice gesture on the part of management to attempt something like Vera, but ultimately a waste of time, money, and energy. I have a bunch of “Mister Ed” shows backlogged on my TiVo – time to schedule an afternoon marathon session of catching up on the episodes. I hesitate to do it because that darned theme song gets stuck in my head and maddening to rid myself of. Must be my old age: I get set in my ways and it’s too much effort to push the lyrics and notes out of my psyche and replace them with something more challenging – like what did I have for dinner last night? (That’s a tough one to answer some days!) Even writing about it just now has a few notes trying to get started in my brain. “A horse is a horse…” Arggh… Subject change…wouldn’t a better name be flutterby? Life is good. |
| Ugh! Ran into Larry sitting shirtless inside the back door of The Home yesterday on one of my forays outside for a few puffs; he had the door propped open with his bare foot and had a BIG bag of potato chips opened on his lap while shoving a handful of crisps into his mouth. He said hello and “…just trying to catch a cool breeze. My a/c broke.” “It’s beautiful outside. Why don’t you go for a walk?” (me – and it WAS beautiful: low 70s and even lower humidity) “I went for my daily walk earlier. I’m trying to lose weight.” (him shoving another fistful inside his gaping mouth) “Oh, I’ve been walking, too – since mid-March. So far I’ve lost 28 pounds.” “That’s great. I’ve lost one pound so far.” I looked at his gargantuan girth sitting there on the plastic chair and wished he had put a shirt on. Yikes, his man boobs were pushing against the foil bag of Lay’s. “Well, that’s a start. Good for you. Where do you walk?” “I just started two weeks ago. Today I walked all the way up to Clancy and back.” He smiled and fake-mopped his brow before ingesting more chips. Clancy is half a block away – at the end of The Home’s parking lot. I don’t think he’s going to be dropping the poundage by walking one block a day, but I decided to encourage him. “You know, I walk twice a day – once early in the morning and again around noontime. The fresh air is nice and the exercise is really good for me.” “Yeah? How far do you walk?” (him) “I average a little over six miles a day.” (me) “Holy Jesus! How many hours does that take? It takes me 20 minutes to walk to Clancy and back.” “Total, about 100 or so minutes a day. I have a pedometer to keep track of the distance and time I spend walking. You might want to think about getting one to keep a record of your progress.” “How much is one of them things?” “Mine was about $16.” “Maybe I’ll do that. My doctor wants me to get down to 175 pounds by this time next year. That’s why I started walking two weeks ago. Right now I’m at 279.” More crisps and falling crumbs… I didn’t want to burst his bubble, but I don’t think he’s going to make it at the rate he’s going. “Maybe we could walk together now and then?” (him) “Naah, I don’t think so. I want to do it on my own.” (me) “Well, let me know if you ever want a walking partner. I’m willing to go with you, if you’d like.” “Thanks. Maybe some other time.” A final mouthful… “For right now I’m gonna try it on my own at my pace.” “Okay. Umm, excuse me, can I get out the door?” (me) “Sure.” Larry removed his propping foot and let me past him. As the door closed behind me, I saw him heave himself up and out of the chair and waddle into the lobby. I’ll be on the lookout for him while I traverse the streets and hills of town on my daily walks. It might be nice to have a walking partner – even if it is only for a block… I’ll just follow the trail of potato chips remnants. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Doom-and-Gloom Earl was on a rampage over the weekend about his Social Security income as compared to what someone else here at The Home receives. Why people discuss such matters is beyond me, but there you have it. He doesn’t understand why this other person, who recently moved in, gets more each month even though DnG “worked for over 40 years” at the same job. I asked him what job he had had. “I worked at my brother’s garage.” When asked whether or not he was “on the books” during his entire career, he replied, “I was paid in cash every time.” I mentioned that I thought he would have had to pay into SS in order to receive credit for his work history. That didn’t settle well with him. “Too bad,” I thought, “you got your money for all those 40 years while I (and millions of others) paid our ways.” I didn’t say it aloud – he wasn’t in a very good mood and I was fearful of his reaction. Social Security in my mind is sort of an insurance policy that one pays into for years in the hopes of receiving a benefit when needed later in life; no pay-ee, no get-ee. I have serious doubts about it surviving long-term, though, what with all us Baby-Boomers retiring and beginning to draw on the funds and a smaller workforce coming up behind us. I didn’t like paying into it during my working time, but now that I need it to survive, I’m glad I did. Seeing that chunk coming out of my pay on each paystub was irksome most of the time, but in the back of my mind I knew it would pay off some day. Too bad I didn’t sock enough away to live a really lavish lifestyle. Oh well, I’m satisfied with my lot – it’s easier than complaining. I just wish others would be thankful for what they have and not grouse about this, that and everything. Rant over. Other than those fireworks (and the thunderstorms that broke our early heat/humidity spell) it was quiet here at The Home. Life is good. |
| Ugh! The birds that had taken up residence in the pear trees outside the front doors of The Home have finally moved on after three weeks. And none too soon, I might add. The past weeks have been like playing dodge ball every time someone left the premises. The parking lot, sidewalks, and benches are covered with bird droppings. I’m not sure what the phenomenon was that had them residing in our trees, but apparently they have relocated to a bunch of trees a few blocks away now. I got bombarded on my walks yesterday when I traversed that block. They seem to be attracted to me. Perhaps it is my getting-thinner-by-the-day new self that makes me a moving target for their shenanigans? Or maybe their nestlings have left their twiggy abodes and they no longer require this address? In any case, we’ll have to wait for a few days of steady rain to rid the benches of their markings before a little sit in the fresh air will be possible. Other than that… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Is it autumn yet? Heck – it’s not even summer yet and we’re having our second heat wave. This does not bode well for the next few months. Summer is already my least favorite season; the weather people are making it impossible. Oi. I shouldn’t complain, though; I have air conditioners. And it’s nice that the common areas are very well cooled here at The Home, so I could sit and read on one of the chairs out there…until another resident sits down and starts complaining. I’ll stay inside my apartment, thank you. Yesterday when I checked my mail, Mrs. Roper was in the lobby (I could tell she would be there by the musky scent lingering in the stairwell) talking loudly with Irene. Mrs. R complained about her electric bill: “They are just highway robber barons, I’m telling you. It’s disgraceful what they charge. I’m calling this afternoon and letting them know what I think” and off she stormed in her peach-and-white op-art checked caftan – with her purple scarf flowing behind her. Irene looked at me and half-smiled. My mail wasn’t nearly as exciting. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I suppose it’s inevitable that living in close quarters could spark friendships of the romantic variety. It seems that two of my neighbors are courting…I’ve seen them together often since I moved in here at The Home, but now when I see them, they shuffle along holding hands. It’s sweet to witness. I’d love to get close enough to them to hear what they whisper to each other…too bad neither is hard of hearing - it would make my subterfuge a lot easier what with them raising their voices for the other to hear… I enjoy imagining among the coos are snippets like “How lovely you look this afternoon” or “Gee, you smell good today.” In reality there are probably warnings about not forgetting to take heart medication each morning or to stand up slowly after sitting a spell or remember to put your dentures in. Hey, I wonder if either one of them is the owner of the “Ritz Clear SEE-THRU Shower Curtain.” It could happen… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday I carried a bag of waste outside to the dumpsters; usually I just use the trash chute on my floor, but I was on my way out anyway, so decided to cart it down the stairs. As I hefted the bag to toss it inside, I saw a plastic container inside the dumpster from a “RITZ Clear SEE-THRU Shower Curtain” on top of stuff already in there. (Aren’t “Clear” and “SEE-THRU” synonymous? The person who came up with that one should retake Marketing 101, in my opinion.) It got me thinking: who threw the package away and why would anyone want a transparent shower curtain? Could it be there is a thrill-seeking, frisky neighbor living here at The Home? Oi, that image hurts my brain…senior cheesecake anyone? Or beefcake if one leans that way? The last thing I would like is to have someone walk into my bathroom while I’m scrubbing away and see me sans togs! Maybe after I shed a few more pounds. Maybe. Until then I’m satisfied with the black, opaque, non-SEE-THRU shower curtain hanging in my bathroom. Thank you very much. Life is good. |
| Ugh! We survived our first heat wave of the season here at The Home. It’s too early in the year for brutal temperatures. I ended up turning on my air conditioners – both of them. The first night in my bedroom, I woke up every time it ran – I imagined dollar bills floating out the window. It was not a good night. I did better after that initial weaning period. My hope is not to get too used to it. But it is nice not to have everything stick together inside…like body parts. Nothing of note occurred over the past week here at The Home while I was taking a little time off. The people I ran into acted the same as always – negativity-ness about everything. It’s tiring. They should be happy they’re ALIVE, for crying out loud. My walks continue and my weight is still going down. On my forays to the outside to enjoy a smoke I now wear shorts and a tee shirt. So far no comments from neighbors – yay or nay, so I suppose that’s good news. For the past several weeks, hundreds (if not thousands) of birds have taken up residence in the pear trees outside the front door of The Home. I enjoy my first smoke of the day sitting on a bench underneath said trees before the sun comes up. I’m going to have to change locations (or better yet, not smoke) if what has happened the last two days continues: apparently the birds do not like my cigarette smoke wafting up into their habitat – they release bluish-white liquid bombs that land on me while I puff away. Ugh! Other than that… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I had to check the outside of my apartment door yesterday to make sure there was not a sign hanging there reading: LENDER. In the middle of watching “Shrek” from Netflix, I heard a knock. It was a woman who lives on the second floor. I’ve only seen her in passing, so don’t know her name. “Yes?” (me) “Hi. I’m in sort of a bind. I don’t have any money and I need some laxatives. Do you have—“ (her) “No. Sorry, I have no cash on me.” Which was somewhat true…it wasn’t technically ON me; it was in my bedroom. I stifled a laugh over her use of the word “bind” and her request for something to clear herself with… “No, do you have any laxatives I could borrow?” “No, sorry.” “Okay, bye.” Before I closed the door, I said, “Wait. Try Bernie’s apartment down the hall. I’m pretty sure she can help you.” I remembered Bernie’s post-Rapture Post-It announcing her ingestion of a laxative. Unless her supply was depleted, she would be able to help this woman. What is it with my neighbors wanting to “borrow” things from me? A hot dog a few weeks ago…a laxative… And who “borrows” a laxative…or a hot dog for that matter. Oi. (I thought “Shrek” was so-so) NOTE: I’m taking a week off here at The Home. Life is good. |
| Ugh! So a while back I offered to watch Complaining Connie’s mangy dog, Rascal for her if she ever needed to go someplace and couldn’t take him along. All I asked was for a day’s notice to be sure I’d be free. Chances are I would be free, but one never knows. I got back from my walk yesterday morning at 8:30, showered, and was in the middle of making naked tuna salad (it was hot in the apartment – sue me!) when there was a knock on my door. I stopped chopping onion in mid-onion, quickly ran to put on clothes, followed seconds later by another loud knock, yelled “Be right there,” got into shorts and t-shirt, momentarily heard another loud knock and stumbled to the door to find out who the heck had no patience! It was CC in her wheelchair with Rascal on her lap. “Can you watch Rascal? I ran out of food and it’s too hot in the car for him.” I was still processing that it was HER at my door doing the incessant, impatient knocking…she of all people should know that people can’t answer a knock in two seconds. Then I wondered about the day’s notice. Luckily I was free. “Okay. How long will you be?” “Why?” (her) Hey, lady! I’m doing YOU a favor, got it? “Just curious. I have something to do at noontime.” (me thinking of my afternoon sojourn through the neighborhood surrounding The Home) “Oh, I won’t be that long. I’ll be back before then for sure.” Rascal came in. I unleashed him and he cried. No matter what I did (talk to him, pet him, put fresh water in my cereal bowl, jokes, Bible readings – just kidding; I don’t know any jokes…) he cried. And he stank. Ugh. When I run into them outdoors, I can smell him, but inside the stench was overpowering. I reluctantly petted/scratched him making a mental note to sterilize my hands later. I took him outside for a walk after he drank some water. He stopped to pee seven times. We were out there for about three minutes. Oi. He missed his mommy-on-wheels. I watched the clock tick and listened to canine laments. 10, 10:30, 11, 11:30 – getting antsy… At 11:55 a knock at the door. Rascal barked loudly. He must have recognized the rapping or perhaps he heard the squeaky wheels from the hallway – who could tell? It was CC. “I’m back.” (her) “Did you get everything you needed?” (me – hoping I didn’t regret asking) I leashed Rascal and watched him jump into her lap. “All but the toilet paper…they didn’t have four-ply.” “Oh, too bad. Rascal missed you.” “Okay, thanks.” Squeak…squeak…squeak…down the hallway they went. Cats are easier. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I finished Stowe’s “Uncle Tom’s Cabin” the other night; it was quite enjoyable. That should do it for me for a while when it comes to the Civil War. I plan to tackle Dickens’ “Great Expectations” soon, but first I need a break so I started reading another novel by P.G. Wodehouse, “Love Among the Chickens.” It’s part of a collection I got for free for my Kindle from Amazon. He is a humor author from the early 20th century and is fun to read. Kate, who lives on the first floor here at The Home and takes it upon herself to butt into everyone’s business, stopped to talk to me over the weekend as I sat on the bench having a smoke. “You get out and about, don’t you?” (her) “Yes, now and then.” (me) She has her own car and does drive, so I was a little suspicious about where this was going. I tensed. “Do you ever go to Scarmotti’s?” (her) “Scarmotti’s?” “Yes, over on Maple and Third.” The name didn’t ring a bell and I tried to envision that neighborhood, but nothing clicked right then (I can’t be on ALL the time!). “No, I can’t say I’ve ever been there. Why?” “Oh, I was just wondering. It’s a nice place to dance.” !! Dance? That’s the last thing I expected to hear from her. She’s in her mid-80s, tall, thin, white hair, glasses, and always wears sweatpants and sneakers, goes to church EVERY day – I don’t imagine her gyrating away under a disco ball and strobe lights. “Oh, what kind of dancing do you do?” “All.” (her) And then, “Maybe I’ll see you there sometime.” And in the front door she went. “Maybe.” (me) And to myself, “Not.” I only dance in my head…it’s safer there. I hope she wasn’t hinting at a date. Yikes! Life is good. |
| Ugh! I’ve gotten into a nasty habit of late: whilst walking, I count steps to myself - even though I carry a pedometer that does the counting for me. To make it more challenging, I count by twos each time my left foot hits the pavement by odd numbers: 1, 3, 5, 7, 9, 11…it helps to pass the time while trudging up and down the hills surrounding The Home. On more than one occasion during the past few weeks, I’ve been embarrassed when meeting someone else out for a walk. Avoiding eye contact is something I do out of force of habit from living for years in Center City Philadelphia – it’s best to do that. It’s not being mean or aloof; it’s a survival mechanism to not draw attention to oneself. But once in a while the person walking towards me will say “hello” or “g’mornin’” as we pass one another. When that occurs, nine times out of ten, my response is something like, “g’ thirty-thr-ornin’” and I continue on my way saying in my head “thirty-five, thirty-seven” as I imagine the person I just passed wondering what the heck I said and whether or not it was code for something I had just passed and was relaying vital information to warn of still-ahead-for-them dangers. I use my hands as a makeshift abacus: the left fingers keep track of the hundreds; the right fingers keep track of the 500s. Inevitably I lose track of the numbers once I get over 2,500, so I must rely on the pedometer reading when filling in my walking diary anyway. Counting is better than singing the theme song to “Mister Ed” ad nauseum… Uh-oh. It’s starting already: “A horse is a horse, of course, of course. And no one can talk to a horse of course. That is of course, unless the horse is the famous Mister Ed. Go right to the source, and ask the horse…” Arghhh… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Well, the world didn’t end here at The Home on Saturday (nor Sunday nor today) (so far, anyway) …not sure about other places, but I didn’t hear any adverse news reports so I’m assuming life goes on. Yesterday, as I headed out for my first mega-walk since injuring myself a few weeks back, I passed by Bernie’s apartment door. Her Post-It read: DO NOT KNOCK. DO NOT CALL ME AT 999-999-9999. I TOOK A LAXATIVE YESTERDAY - WORKING GOOD. THE BIRD IS ASLEEP. THIS IS A MEDICAL NECESSITY. It was messily written all in CAPS; I guess it was scrawled hastily, heh. What an odd thing to do on the brink of Judgment Day, huh? The laxative ingestion, I mean…others sold their homes, depleted their savings, said final good-byes – not Bernie. She downed an Ex-Lax! Perhaps for a lighter flight during the Rapture? I don’t quite understand why she has to post her phone number if she doesn’t want calls; seems counterintuitive to me. Although, I don’t keep track of her postings – maybe it’s just a random number she makes up for each note? And I think it strange that she must advertise her ailments and let us know about her bird’s sleeping habits. I hope this doesn’t catch on with other residents here at The Home. Of course, it would make hall roaming a lot more interesting… Life is good. |
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I shall miss your wit and wisdom. Hope all works out for you.
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no pun intended!