%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 |  A Baby-Boomer STILL alive and living in senior housing...
|
|
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! I retrieved my mail from the lobby mailboxes yesterday here at The Home. The “woman” from a few days ago was there, still wearing the same halter top. I said, “Good morning.” She replied, “Yeah, whatever.” I thought, “Oh, joy be to me…another problem neighbor.” My mailbox was empty…YAY! “She” (I’m still not sure of her/his gender) slammed the mailbox door, locked it and looked at me (as if I did something wrong). I said, “Hi…glad to meet you.” We shook hands and exchanged our names. I hoped to get a hint of gender. He/she said, “I’m Robin.” *sigh* I’ve known two Robins in my life: one was a girl (Robin Caskhill) and one was a young man (Robin St. James), so I am no closer to figuring out who this person is. It’s not really a big deal…it would be nice if I knew their genders, so I don’t say something inappropriate, like “…oh, when are you due?” to a male with a large belly or “…nice mustache.” (Several of my neighbors wear mustaches…it’s about half-and-half between males and females.) Robin defies description gender-wise. Men can don a halter top as easily as women…it’s just one confines woman boobs and the other confines man boobs…neither requires a bra, so I’m left wondering. Whether or not Robin is a man or a woman, he/she is my new neighbor and I have to accept it. I doubt I’ll make a chocolate cake for him/her, but I’ll be nice to him/her when we encounter each other. Oi. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday, I heard Andrew, my next-door neighbor for the past three years talking to another neighbor at our mailboxes in the lobby here at The Home. Apparently, he had yet another auto accident and is now car-less. This is the third car he’s wrecked during the past three years. I’ve been driving for over 44 years, and, knock wood, have not been involved in any mishaps. How does he get away with it? I’d hate to be his insurance agent/company. He “sells” rides for those here who don’t possess a vehicle…he charges them like a taxi. Considering his track record when it comes to driving, I’d think twice about accepting or buying a ride from him. (Note to self: keep up-to-date with all automobile maintenance so you don’t have to rely on Andrew to go anywhere at any time.) And on that note… Life is good. |
| Ugh! I headed off to the convenience store yesterday for cigarettes…I was down to five packs in my stash and I realized it was time to stock up with 10 more packs – just in case. Just in case of what, I don’t know. I like to be prepared. Monday we experienced a horrendous rain storm here at The Home. It took me a while to mop up the rain that came in through my opened windows (it was hot and humid before the storm) – drat. I thought it might have been the last storm of summer (even though it’s been autumn (calendar-wise) for three weeks). Sure enough, the TV weather folks reinforced my thoughts; they said it was a season-changing storm. The humidity rapidly dissipated and the temperatures reduced to livable levels. Yesterday morning the temperature was 48 when I left The Home for my smokes. Sitting outside the front doors were Larry and a new “person.” Larry was clad in his usual manner: Bermuda shorts and nothing else; he ate potato chips out of a large bag on his lap. The other person was female (I thought)…”she” sat on the opposite bench puffing away wearing a pink halter top and blue jeans cut-offs – nothing more…don’t these people know about shoes/socks, covering up one’s arms/legs? I nodded good morning. Larry said, “Watch out.” I paused for a moment, looked both ways before entering the parking lot, and Larry continued. “There’s an asteroid headed to Earth.” I sighed with relief at his non-news. I went on my way. I came back 15 minutes later and Larry and the new “woman” potential resident (or transient – she could have been a homeless person who just happened to run across the bench in front of The Home and Larry for all I know) were in the exact same positions…Larry continued munching his potato chips and “the lady” continued to smoke. I nodded as I walked past them into The Home. I heard from “her” as I entered, “It’s a little nippy out here; I’m going to head up.” So I figured “she” must live here now. Larry replied, “It’s not so bad for December.” I quickly swiped my security card, headed to the elevator, and ascended to my abode. “December?” It’s the second week of October; what world does Larry live in? And why doesn’t he dress appropriately for weather conditions? The same goes for the new tenant – halter tops should only be worn by people who look good in them; they should be able to pull the look off successfully – just my opinion. For lunch I had a can of Manhattan clam chowder – undiluted. I decided to splurge last week at the grocery store and picked up a can. It cost twice as much as the condensed form – I wanted to test the difference. The result, according to my own survey (with an audience of one) is I can’t tell the difference. So it’s back to the condensed Manhattan clam chowder for me. Yay! Life is good. |
| Ugh! So, yesterday, here at The Home, I watched a show about birds. Yes, it was a slow day; sue me! I can recall as a child, a bird cage in our dining room and a bluish-green parakeet residing inside it. We called it “Peetee.” It was merely there; the bird didn’t talk, chirp, or sing. Day after day it inhabited space in our house. It was just there. Maybe I was too young to appreciate something like a bird living in a confined environment merely for the pleasure of adults? It could have been wallpaper to my young mind. Each week, Dad cleaned the cage (removing the newspaper spread on the bottom of the cage to catch its droppings), replenish the water and bird seed, and life went on. It wasn’t like one could cuddle with the bird – it was in a cage, prohibiting curious child touches. One Sunday, when I was about five, we came home from church and I noticed something strange in the cage. Peetee dangled upside-down from his perch. I said, and I can clearly remember this, “Look, Peetee’s doing a trick.” Mom and Dad went over to the cage and said, “Go to your room.” I did – for several hours. When I came downstairs, the dining room had more space: the bird cage and Peetee were gone. My first exposure to avian life (and demise). What happened to Peetee? I’ve always been fascinated by birds – their ability to poop anywhere and whenever they want (wouldn’t that be a fantastic human thing?); they can sing/talk whenever they want and say whatever; they can build a home, raise a family, then when the time comes, they can kick the kids out to venture on their own; they can fly! There are billions and billions of birds in our world, but, strangely, I only see the alive ones. One would think, with the vast number of birds, and their life expectancies, our world would be littered with bird carcasses. What happens to them when they die? Do they just disappear? Is that part of God’s plan – quick disposal? The only dead birds I encounter are the nestlings that splat onto the sidewalk after Mother pushes them out of their nests in spring. The same thing goes for squirrels. The only dead ones I notice are the ones squashed by cars on roadways. Where are the ones that die of old age? We, as humans, tend to treat death with services, memorials, monuments. Does that separate us from the other animals? What about the bird that survived being chased by a cat? What about the squirrel that successfully crossed Main Street numerous times – during rush hour? Where is his/her recognition? I wonder…but, I’m not obsessed. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I was feeling badly Friday morning: nauseated to the point I had to cancel the weekly markets trip with Mom/Dad. I haven’t been sick for so long, I didn’t know how to respond. The only thing I knew was not being able to drive for fear of throwing up over the steering wheel. It turned out I’m not the only one here at The Home going through this malady – Complaining Connie, who was not infected informed me six other residents have been affected. I’ll have to be more diligent about washing my hands when I return to my apartment after going downstairs to retrieve my mail. By yesterday, I felt better, so early in the morning I called Mom/Dad to see if they wanted to go to the farmers’ market. They were happy to hear I was feeling better, but begged off on the trip: “We have plans for church.” I knew a “no” was in the offing from the outset…they faithfully attend church each Sunday, then on Sunday afternoon when I place our welfare-check phone call, this occurs: (Dad) “I can’t hear what the pastor is saying;” (Mom) “There were no young people there;” (Dad) “I counted only 22 people today;” (Mom) “It isn’t like it used to be.” *sigh* I ask why they go each week, and Mom says, “Because we have to.” I have no idea where her thinking comes from except her upbringing. There are no set rules when it comes to attending church, unless it’s a cult-like organization, which as far as I know the Lutheran church is not. Going to church is their normal…I never enjoyed it growing up – having to dress in an itchy wool suit, sitting through Sunday school, sitting through church. I never got anything out of it. To me, it was part of life – something we had to do: like brush our teeth, bathe, make beds, set the table. If religion and faith are tantamount in life, more power to you. If you’re doing it out of a sense of guilt or responsibility, perhaps you’re partaking for the wrong reason. I really don’t think God keeps a score card as to who does and who doesn’t attend church each week. I’m pretty darned sure there are more important things on God’s mind. Mom/Dad are elderly and set in their ways. Mom kind of has a sense of humor about the situation. Each Sunday afternoon, when I call, and hear their laments about their experience of earlier in the morning, she teases me with, “Do you want to come with us next week?” And each Sunday I reply, “No!” Then we enjoy a quick laugh. Sorry, God, but it’s what we do. At the market, it seems the calendar has resulted in no more nectarines and plums, so I purchased apples. And I bought another small jug of apple cider. I likes me some apple cider in autumn. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday was a slow day here at The Home. I re-watched “E.T.” for the first time in about 20 years. It’s a good movie…funny, sentimental, and poignant. I was especially touched by the scene when Elliot is trying to explain where he lives by showing E.T. a globe – he points to California and says, “Home…home…home.” Because it was a slow day at The Home, I had time to think about that simple phrase: “Home…home…home.” I have fond memories of home…always a meal on the table, always a roof over our heads, always enough blankets to fight off winter’s chill, and always lots of people around. Our house was small. When Mom/Dad purchased it in 1963 it was a two-bedroom Cape Cod…before we moved in, Dad put a floor and insulation in the attic and turned the upstairs portion into a sort of dormitory for us three boys; within three years our family grew in size with another baby brother and twins.. While I lived there, each night I went to sleep looking at the brand-name of the insulation hanging from the ceiling – “Johns-Manville” – that is burned in my mind; it was blue and silver. When I came out as gay to my parents in 1969, Mom/Dad and I had a heated exchange. I was 16. I KNEW who I was. Mom/Dad had difficulties with me. The next morning, Mom said to me, “We’ll never be able to accept you, but we will tolerate you.” That was it. For 44 years I’ve lived with being “tolerated” – on the surface, they do appear to “accept” me: our weekly trips to the markets are full of conversation and are pleasant and they always thank me and say what a nice time we had; the several-times-a-month trips to doctors’ offices are tedious, however, I’m glad to be able to assist them; but I have this nagging notion about the “tolerate” word. I guess it could have been said in a moment of passion and feelings could have changed over the years. Maybe I should just get over it at this point in my life. But, boy, it would have been nice to hear something like “…we accept you…” so long ago. “Accept” is so much better than “tolerate.” At least in my mind. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday’s blog entry had to do with Mrs. Roper and her excessive use of patchouli here at The Home. I received a comment from connieann: “I think your subconscious likes that patchouli” with a smiley face (don’t know how to do that on WDC – but there was a smiley face). I thought about that for a few hours after I read her wise comment, and came to the conclusion that I DO like the scent of patchouli – just not coming from Mrs. Roper. I have a specific remembrance of patchouli in my life. My early adulthood (1973-79) was spent living in Central Pennsylvania – HOURS away from Philadelphia, Pittsburgh, Baltimore, Washington DC, New York City – we had to make our own entertainment. Each Saturday night we all gathered at Mary Lee’s apartment for party time…party time entailed grass, beer, wine, and spirits and snacks back then – we all partook except for Mary Lee. Don’t ask me why; she was a social worker who couldn’t look people in the eye when she spoke to them (some social worker, huh?); she was extremely shy, yet she welcomed our band of pot smokers/drinkers/snackers into her apartment each Saturday night. She had a nice stereo that blasted music. Her living room filled with smoke. We laughed and discussed what was wrong with the world every Saturday night. We were proud of our solutions…and Sunday mornings were spent in a haze leftover from the night before. One thing I recall of those get-togethers is Mary Lee putting a drop of patchouli oil on the light bulb of each lamp in her apartment. The heat generated by the light bulb created an aroma of patchouli so her neighbor didn’t know we were smoking pot in her apartment. Her neighbor was Harry J. Anslinger (Google his name if interested); in the 1930s he was on a crusade to get marijuana outlawed. I can still recall the laughs, guffaws and coughs shared on those Saturday nights from long ago…Harry was next door in his dotage (he died in 1975). But, boy, did Mary Lee host some FUN times! I can still recall the New Year’s Eve get-together when we all jammed into her vestibule to try to replicate Times Square on New Year’s Eve – there were 20 of us crammed into a small space (a vestibule is teensy). About three years later I got to experience Times Square on New Year’s Eve – 1977 for real. So, connieann, I don’t hate patchouli – it brings up memories. I like it in moderation – like on a light bulb…not on a neighbor in a muumuu. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Our government shut down; one would think we were rudderless. Not here at The Home! I checked my mail yesterday in the lobby and ran into Mrs. Roper, clad in a muumuu/caftan of birds-of-paradise and a purple scarf. I could smell her before I reached the lobby. I wondered, “JUST HOW MUCH PATCHOULI DO YOU DOUSE YOURSELF WITH EACH DAY. WOMAN?” She was at her mailbox when I approached. (me) “Good morning.” (her) “And isn’t it a wonderful one?” I hadn’t ventured outside as of then, so I nodded and put a finger under my nostrils to block the overpowering scent of patchouli. (I wouldn’t know where to even buy the stuff these days! She must bathe in it…maybe she’s the maven of a black-market patchouli industry? She might have even more business with the government shut-down.) I looked at her as she bent over to open her mailbox, and hoped she wouldn’t entangle her scarf in the locking mechanism like she’s prone to do. She succeeded. I noticed she has only one eye brow. I don’t mean one over one eye. I mean, ONE eyebrow – it traverses her entire forehead – over both her eyes. (Truth be told, I have the same, so I sensed a moment of closeness with her, but then I inhaled and forgot about it.) She stood up and winked at me! (At least that’s how I interpreted it…) I was shocked (read scared) that she would do that. Then she raised her hand to her face and rubbed her eye…maybe she had something in it. I checked my mailbox – nothing – good. She went to the elevator, pressed the button, turned and sort of winked at me again, and asked, “Need a lift?” . Need a lift? A lift? Where am I? London? I came back and laid down for a nap of 15 minutes that stretched into two hours. Ugh. The scent of patchouli lingers on my nostril hairs. Ugh. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Slow day here at The Home yesterday. The high point of my day? I called Mom/Dad for our daily welfare check (the calls work both ways), and got Mom on the phone. After a few seconds she was able to put me on speakerphone. I asked, “Where’s Dad?” (her) “Outside getting goose feathers off the car.” (me, with wide opened eyes and gaping mouth) “What?” (her) “On the way to the store this morning to buy cinnamon, a goose stepped onto the road right in front of our car. It just walked onto the road…without looking.” (Yes, she said that! I had mentioned something like that several weeks ago when I noticed the geese living near them just willy-nilly cross the road without a care. I said at the time, ‘They don’t even look both ways.’ Mom must have recalled part of that conversation.) “Dad didn’t have time to stop. By the time we did stop, the goose was gone. We got to the store and saw all the goose stuff on the front of the car…it looked nasty.” (me, still agape) “Wow. Some excitement, huh?” (her) “It’s not too bad. When we got home from the store, Dad got the hose out and sprayed the car to get rid of the mess. Now he’s cleaning up the pieces that got stuck on the bumper.” (me) “Oh…I don’t know what to say.” I didn’t know what to say. (Mom) “Oh, here’s Dad.” Silence…shuffle...mutter. “Are you still there?” (me) “I’m here. How’s Dad?” (Dad) “That goose will never smile again. What a mess. Bye.” Except for the goose… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Quiet weekend here at The Home. My sister called me Saturday evening – we caught up on things while she watered her numerous outdoor plants. We chatted about this and that, and suddenly she said, “Oh! A praying mantis.” I asked her, “Where?” She replied, “On the porch.” We both discussed that it’s illegal to kill a praying mantis (I have no idea where the life “rule” comes from, but my sister agreed with me; it was illegal – might be something from our childhoods: parental-care tactics? Fanatical biology teachers? Local ordinances? Insanity? We weren’t sure…). I said to my sister, “Don’t kill it.” She replied, “It’s too late.” (me) “What do you mean?” (her) “It’s on its back and not moving.” [I thought it was superfluous…what a great word, huh? I congratulated myself] “Wait…let me kick it a bit.” *pause pause scratchy-noise* “Nope, it’s dead.” (me) “What are you going to do with it?” (her) “Put it in the recycling bin.” (me) “Sounds like a good idea.” (her) *silence silence* “Okay, it’s gone.” (me) “Good to hear you’re safe.” [not that praying mantises should be feared – they merely look scary, but are not in real life]. “Thanks for calling.” (her) “Have a good weekend. Bye-bye.” And the first half of my exciting weekend here at The Home was completed…I went to sleep. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday. *soft knock* *harder knock* *insistent knock* I opened my apartment door to Crazy Diane. “What does she want now?” I thought. “Hi, Diane.” (me) “Do you have a tablespoon of butter I could borrow? I want to fry eggs and I’m out of butter. I’ll give it back next Tuesday when I go shopping. Connie told me to check with you.” Curses to Complaining Connie; I’m sure that’s the “Connie” Diane referred to – Silent Connie has no idea where I live; Complaining Connie flat out knows. (me) “Umm, let me check.” I closed the door and pretended I went to my refrigerator. I opened my door after a few seconds and said, “I’m sorry, Diane. I’m running low on butter and I have plans.” Lie. I’ll admit, it was a lie…may I be struck with lightning. I had a pound of butter in my freezer. Sue me. “Not even a tablespoon?” (her) (me) “Sorry, not even a tablespoon.” Even if I was amenable to her request, how would I present it to her? On a plate? On a knife? In plastic wrap? In my palm? (her) “Connie said you’d be able to help me. I guess she was wrong.” I guess so! (me) “I hope you find your butter.” (her) “I do, too. I’m hungry for eggs.” And another week ends here at The Home. TA-DUM-dum… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Yesterday, here at The Home, I encountered Larry who was splayed out in one of the lobby chairs, semi-clad. I nodded to him and said, “G’morning.” He remained silent. I thought that odd, and opened my mailbox (he almost ALWAYS has something to say). No mail, again! Yes! That meant no bills. I headed back to the staircase thinking, “…I didn’t have to interact with Larry. YAY!”” Curses. I thought too soon. From a distant chair in the lobby, I heard, “I guess you heard.” A shiver went through me; I thought I had escaped Larry and his thinking. Evidently not (he might sleep with one eye opened – I’ve heard of that, and if anyone can do it, it’d be Larry); he had captured me. Should I ignore him and continue on my way back to my place or should I acknowledge him? I strive to be kind, so I replied, “Heard what, Larry?” I stepped a little closer to the staircase: my escape route. “You know.” *shiver* “The mall attack.” I’d heard and read about the Nairobi, Kenya IN AFRICA (the other side of the world!) incident and was intrigued because the mall’s name is exactly the name of a mall in our town. Our Westgate Mall is sad – half the spaces are empty with “For Rent” signs in the windows; no one goes there (Why? Because there’s nothing there to go to); and it isn’t really a “mall” – it’s lame – it’s a bunch of (somewhat) businesses under one roof. I hesitated and, darn it, I bit. I said, “What mall?” Larry scratched underneath one of his man boobs (he was shirtless) and said, “Westgate. People were shot.” I wanted to run up the staircase to escape his logic; why is there always a “but” in my life? I replied, “Larry, the Westgate Mall in the news is in Africa…not the one on Westgate Boulevard across town.” I felt confident with clearing his mind. Larry smiled, and said, “It’s just a matter of time.” And he scratched some more. I should have just excused myself, but I continued with, “What matter of time?” Larry replied, “Oh, you know.” I ABSOLUTELY HATE WHEN HE USES THAT PHRASE. (Okay, I’m back to normal…deep breath…) I paused and said, “No, Larry, I don’t know.” He sniffed and said, “Yes, you do.” I didn’t, I can’t, I won’t – he scratched some more. I went up the stairs leaving him behind on his perch in the lobby. Accck. Despite it all… Life is good. |
| Ugh! Whilst checking my mail yesterday in the lobby here at The Home, I ran into Mrs. Roper. (me, without looking up) “G’morning.” The scent of patchouli filled the lobby. I looked askance; she did not don a scarf…instead, over her brightly flowered caftan/gown/sheath (whatever her attire is called) she sported what looked to me to be a shawl with short sleeves (I’m pretty sure there’s a name for it, but I don’t know)…a step up from her scarf that occasionally gets caught in her mailbox door. She hummed as she bent forward. (her) “And isn’t it a glorious morning?” Not really, I thought; it was a normal morning – I woke up, I brewed and drank my coffee, I did The New York Times crossword puzzle (in eight minutes; I’m getting better), I checked Facebook – in essence, there was nothing glorious about my morning. Nevertheless I said, “It is.” She checked her mailbox and we headed together off to the elevator. She must possess gallons of patchouli…standing next to her it was almost difficult to breathe. How does she do it? We entered the elevator; she pressed the “2” button and I pressed the “3” button. The doors closed and we ascended together in a small, confined space…up, up, up [gag from excess patchouli] (me) gasp, up. We arrived on the second floor. The elevator door opened and Mrs. Roper strode forward while I remained behind. She said, “Be careful.” The door closed and I went up to the third floor. “Be careful”? What the heck did that mean? Careful – why? I know not to run with scissors. I know not to step on a crack lest it break my mother’s back. I know not to cross a street outside of the pedestrian zone. Am I missing something here? Now I feel scared! Just in case, I’ll be careful in my goings-on…I’ll take baby steps instead of long strides. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Friday I drove to Mom/Dad, picked them up, drove back past my place here at The Home to the grocery store and the farmers’ market, drove them back home (past my place again), dropped them off, then returned to The Home. What for me would be an eight-mile round-trip excursion explodes into a 40-mile trek each week. Don’t get me wrong…I enjoy the excursions – it’s sometimes easier to talk in the car than it is when I call each day and they put me on speakerphone. We chatted and enjoyed our time in my car. At the grocery store and the farmers’ market we all got provisions from our respective lists. I dropped Mom/Dad off at their house and backed out of the driveway. Mom ALWAYS stands in the doorway to wave good-bye to me. We waved to each other. It’s a small gesture, but soooo meaningful to me. It makes me feel wanted, special, loved – at least I hope it’s so. In my dotage, I look for little things in life…like the sparrow family serenading me from my air conditioner in the living room window (which will end in a few weeks when The Home maintenance crew comes in to remove the a/c); a squirrel scurrying along the street with the remnants of a discarded banana peel in its jaws and its feet tripping over said peel (curses to the person who discarded said peel); the late afternoon sun creating wonderful shadows on my kitchen wall…it doesn’t take much to entertain me. Mom’s wave each week after I drop Dad and her off at their home is something I look forward to. Back in 1998, when I lived on the farm, I had my 12-year-old cat, Gershwin, put down in February. It was a difficult decision, but one needed to be made. We lived together: Gershwin, Miss Bessie Smith (my other mutt cat) and me in a cottage on a 200-acre farm. That night in bed, I dreamt of Gershwin walking away from our cottage and up the hill into the orchard…it was a sun-drenched early morning with dew still visible and a crispness in the air. When he reached the crest, he turned around, looked at me standing in the doorway, blinked his eyes, waved at me (meaning he lifted his paw – I took it as a wave; sue me!), turned and continued his trek over the hill. In my dream, the little pause during his trip meant maybe he thanked me. For what, I don’t know, but he waved. Miss Bess hopped onto my bed and nuzzled her nose against me and purred…in my grief Miss Bess comforted me. Waves are powerful. They possess dual meanings: hello and/or good-bye…one evokes a smile (hello) and one evokes tears (good-bye)…but each is the same hand gesture. We must learn to discern. What words can’t convey, a simple hand movement can do so simply. So when you wave to/at someone, know it’s a form of communication in one form or another. I’m not talking about royal/celebrity waves – those are expected and appear as though they’re doing something out of custom or necessity. I prefer Mom’s wave from the front door each week to the required/expected waves of others. I KNOW Mom’s is authentic. And I’m thankful for her little hand motion. I can’t believe I just spent hours writing about something as normal as waves. But, we each go through life on different paths…I think it’s important to be cognizant at all times. Mom is in the early stages of dementia…that she waves to me each week as I head back to my place here at The Home counts. Her action of waving to me is heart-warming. I can’t read her mind, so I’m not even sure if she knows what is happening to her…and, maybe it’s good. Life might be easier if she doesn’t know. In all the confusion, I love Mom for her being in my life for over 60 years…a long time for a commitment…a commitment sealed with a wave. And… Life is good. |
| Ugh! According to the calendar, it’s autumn! YAY! My favorite season of the year. Yesterday I took trash out to the dumpster and ran into Complaining Connie puffing away on her wheelchair (I know…you all envy my life). (me) “G’morning.” (her) “Yeah, if you’re a polar bear.” *puff puff cough* “It’s too early for these temperatures.” (Just for the record, it was 72F outside) *cough puff* “I need this blanket on me so I don’t freeze. It’s gonna be a long winter.” (me) *sigh* I thought to myself, it’s gonna be long no matter what with her attitude. I chastised myself for running into her – I know her routine; I screwed up time-wise. I put my bag of trash into the dumpster and on my way back into The Home, I said, “Have a nice day.” (her) *puff puff cough-up-phlegm puff cough* “I’ll do-“ *cough puff cough-hard puff* “I’ll do my best. Don’t expect a miracle.” A miracle? I don’t expect one…the real miracle would be if CC could be friendly and non-complaining at some future point. THAT would be a miracle. I went back to my apartment, made sure my door was locked and watched some TV. Life is good. |
| Ugh! Quiet day here at The Home yesterday. I didn’t even check my mailbox. I mostly get bills and junk mail so I’m pretty sure I didn’t miss out on anything exciting. And, by staying home, I avoided my uncontrollable neighbors (and when I say “uncontrollable” I mean both physically and mentally). It was a bonus day for me… I removed my air conditioner from my bedroom window; the long-range forecast predicted nighttime lows at a comfortable level. I’m always hesitant to install and remove my air conditioner with no assistance – I fear having the machine fall out the window, crash to the ground, splatter bits and pieces all about, and Complaining Connie complaining about the entire ordeal, while puffing away. I took a deep breath and hoisted it inward and fell backward onto my bed -- with an air conditioner in my arms and in my lap. I got wet. I’m more a wimp than butch…I do the best I can. Why did I get wet? I’m anxious when it comes to autumn (my favorite season of the year). I’m sick and tired of heat, haze, and humidity. I LIVE for thunderstorms and changes in weather systems by mid-September. As soon as I see a long-range forecast with nighttime temperatures in the 50s (40s is even better) for more than a week, I figure it’s time to transition. The bad part is, those storms that scrub summer out of the air are usually heavy, and I’m excited about the impending season, and when I heave the air conditioner inside, it’s filled with the remnants of the previous night’s rainfall. It’s a minor inconvenience. So I got wet. Big deal. Worse things have happened to me. Like when I was in 8th grade and argued with my older brother in our basement as to who was going to take the dog out to pee – he threw a punch at me (he was/is much butcher than me – he played football; I wanted to be the cheerleader – I wrote about it a few days ago. Ugh!); I tried to block his punch by raising my arm in self-defense (probably a girly move, but I was in 8th grade and didn’t want to be punched in my face; besides, “punch” was not in my vocabulary) – his fist landed on my forearm…we heard a crack, we looked at each other with wide-opened eyes, I said, “Ow!” and my brother yelled up the basement stairs, “Dad, come down here…I think he broke his arm.” “He” broke his arm? “He????” It was you, older brother that broke my arm. The NEXT DAY, not the same day it happened, but the NEXT DAY nearly 24 hours after the encounter, Dad drove me to the hospital to have my arm looked at…it was broken (I was obviously NOT the favorite son). For the next six weeks I sported a cast on my right arm. I never received an apology from my brother…or parents, for posterity. See? I have nothing to share today…except for leaking air conditioners and shattered bones…I desperately need a life. Thankfully it’s Friday. Happy Weekend to all. Life is good. |
| Ugh! I checked my mailbox here at The Home yesterday. The stench from the carpet-cleaning of the day before still permeated the lobby; it was a little less, though. Joy of joys, Mrs. Roper, in her caftan/muumuu (or whatever those flowing “gowns” she wears are called), sidled up to me. I knew it was her without even seeing her. The scent of patchouli. No more needs be said. (me) “Oh, hello.” (her) “Isn’t it a glorious day?” She opened her mailbox. I checked askance to see if she wore a scarf. No scarf…good – no chance of her being swallowed by her mailbox door, which has happened numerous times. “It is a nice day.” (me) No mail…good. I believe in the adage, “No news is good news.” I closed my mailbox door and smiled at Mrs. Roper. Larry strolled into the lobby clad in basketball shorts (meant to be worn by teenagers) and nothing else…he wasn’t a sight for sore eyes, he was a sore sight for eyes. “I guess you heard,” he announced. I looked at Mrs. Roper smoothing her attire after retrieving her mail; she seemed oblivious – apparently she knows how to ignore Larry better than I do. (Maybe I should hire her as a tutor?) I bit. “Heard what, Larry.” (me) When will I learn NOT to engage him in conversation? He sprawled into a chair and said, “You know…” *shiver* (I HATE when he says that!) As he got himself situated, which took several seconds (I think his bare back, bare arms, bare legs, and bare feet contributed negatively to his getting comfortable to entertain the rest of us passengers – the chairs in the lobby are faux leather, but still, skin sticks to them). “They rescued the Titanic.” Mrs. Roper laughed, and said, “The Titanic? That was 60 years ago.” She headed off to the elevator, the scent of patchouli diminishing as she walked away. I had doubts about her 60-years statement, and she inadvertently forced me to employ my grey matter. I think Mrs. Roper is “stuck” in the 1970s and can’t get out. “Lord, help me!” (my thought) The Titanic sank in 1912 so the 1970s would account for her statement about 60 years. What the heck has she been doing for the past 40 years? “It’s true,” Larry informed us. “I saw it on TV. It took longer than expected, but they got it upright.” He scratched his ankle and something fell off onto the newly cleaned lobby carpeting. *shiver* (Note to self: always wear shoes when retrieving mail.) I wanted to tell Larry he was confused with the Costa Concordia off the coast of Italy, but, he continued to scratch himself; I took a deep breath and said, “Thanks, Larry.” He ignored me and scratched some more. “See ya later.” (me) “…ahh, that’s better…” (him – still scratching and sprawling even wider on his lobby chair) I made it back to my place, ensured my door was locked, retrieved a cucumber/melon seltzer water from my refrigerator, and sipped it while thinking, “When is this voyage going to end?” I’ve never experienced Mrs. Roper and Larry on the same day. Yesterday was a first. I hope it’s the last…but they do provide fodder. Life is good. |
| Ugh! The maintenance people here at The Home cleaned the carpeting in the lobby yesterday, where our mailboxes are located; the management office is there, too, which used to be an open-door place, but since new personnel were hired, the door is locked. If you want to discuss something with them, you must knock, wait for a response (“What do you want?”), then shout your intended purpose through the closed, locked door – the neighbors living just off the lobby can hear any issue. Eventually the door is opened with a big sigh from the manager (and she’s pretty big herself), and she ushers you inside to discuss matters. “Welcome aboard.” (The last quote is mine; it wraps up how I feel when I gain access to the management secured chamber) So the maintenance people had this rug cleaning machine that roared. I’m not familiar with horsepower ratings, but this thing sounded as though it was preparing to take off for a mission to the moon. Besides the noise, there was this what I can only describe as toxic vapors emanating from the device. Ugh! I was on my way out of The Home to run an errand. When I returned an hour later, the maintenance people were not on site – but the smell from the carpet cleaner affronted me. I ran into Billie in the lobby as she headed outdoors to walk her pug, Bella. Billie is one neighbor I’m somewhat fond of. We caught up on what’s been going on with our lives…as with most of us here at The Home, our conversation took about two minutes and we were completely caught up…we don’t possess actual lives. As we chatted, the elevator opened and Complaining Connie, her mutt, Rascal, and obedient Angie came into the lobby. “What SMELLS?” CC stated almost immediately while reaching inside her bra for a cigarette. Rascal barked at Bella. Bella barked back. Rascal growled. I sweated. CC said, “Get your dog out of the way,” to Billie. Billie said, “No. I was here first.” I flashed back to recess in elementary school. Angie pushed CC’s wheelchair towards the exit while muttering something about chocolate. Both dogs continued to bark and growl at one another. After they left, Billie said, “What is wrong with those two women? Angie is 11 eggs short of a dozen and Connie is just horrid.” I didn’t want to get involved, so I stooped down and scratched Bella and got a big whiff of the carpet cleanser. Ugh! It would be nice if all us passengers on this cruise ship could get along with no, or at least, minimal conflicts. But it isn’t the case. I don’t need the drama of my neighbors’ bickering, which I strive to avoid at all costs. I bade good-bye to Billie and Bella and came up to my apartment. The lobby smells toxic. At least it’s not a urine smell, though. I ate a plum. And my new hair clippers arrived! No more mohawks and mullets. Life is good. |
| Ugh! The weather changed here at The Home over the past few days…it’s feeling AUTUMNAL (regular readers know why it’s capitalized). With it comes football (American football – not what the rest of the world calls football: soccer). Midget leagues, high school and junior high school football games, college football, and the professional football players have all begun their seasons. Manly men (of which I don’t include myself) are pretty pleased for the next few months. Growing up, my dad and brothers all enjoyed football. I wanted to be a cheerleader. It didn’t go over so well in our household, needless to say. So I did the next best thing: I joined the high school band playing my clarinet; I taught myself to play (it took two private lessons from a nasty school teacher for me to give up on private lessons and learn it on my own). My high school got a football team when I was a senior – before the appearance of the football team, the autumn sport was soccer. Well, football teams require the high school band to perform and egg the crowd on with lively music and marching skills. Three weeks before school started for the fall semester our band met on a field next to the school – not the football field – a field; there were no yardage indicators, no goalposts, no sidelines – it was a plain, green field. And our practice sessions started at 6:30 a.m. – prime time for dew in autumn weather. Our pants absorbed the dew as we practiced our routines, so by the end of each session our pants were soaking wet up to about our knees. Still, we persevered through our practice sessions anxious about our first football field performance the first week of September. The game was played at another school…the band bus ride was fun! At the time, my high school had obtained this new technology known as video tape (it was long ago). The cameras were huge, the tapes were huge, but it was something new and we were all excited. The equipment was purchased by the athletic department to record the games for future teaching experiences. The first game, the camera person also recorded the half-time show of our band performing on the football field. We band members were excited to show off our skills. We blared, we tooted, we marched…and Monday morning in band class, our instructor played back our halftime performance. We sucked. Big time. And worst of all was me. For the last part of our show, the band spelled out the name of our school on the football field. I happened to end up dotting the “i*. It was our last number and we marched off the field. I was the last one. I was mortified when I saw me. The crotch of my band uniform was down about knee-level, so I looked like a penguin waddling off the field. *shudder* Band uniforms were not custom-made; they were handed down from year to year – you got the uniform which fit you the best. Apparently the year before me, the band member who wore my uniform was six feet, six inches tall – I was five nine. Do the math… I bring this up because I found a You Tube video of the worst high school band ever. I’d provide the link but I don’t want to bring more embarrassment to the school (the clip is about five minutes long but I only made it to the two minute part – it was painful.) I have fond memories of being in band…penguin-walking off the football is something I cringe about…but I was a kid – how was I to know beforehand? Life is good. |
| Ugh! We have a new Miss America after the pageant returned to Atlantic City – finally! I have an embarrassing story related to the Miss America pageant. I must have been about 10 years old. Mom and I watched the show on TV – none of my siblings nor Dad were interested. At a commercial break, I excused myself to use the bathroom. Dad had just installed a full-length mirror on the back of the bathroom door. When I finished my business, I caught sight of myself in the mirror, and I noticed my belly bulging (it still does to this day – I’m cursed). I heard tap-dancing sounds and lively music from the TV (Miss Missouri? Miss Kansas? I didn’t know) in the living room as I gazed at my image in that blasted full-length mirror. My VERY FIRST thought was, “I’m pregnant.” My second thought was, “How do I explain it to Mom and Dad?” My third, and most alarming, thought was “How did I get pregnant?” I wasn’t aware at that time of how pregnancy happened (I had discussed it with my friend/neighbor Judy and we, with the wisdom of 7-year-olds decided it happened when a father spit into a mother’s mouth – we were seven!). At that early age, I sweated before leaving the bathroom. I thought, “Mom’s going to KNOW as soon as I return to the sofa to watch the rest of the Miss America pageant.” I opened the bathroom door, sucked in my stomach as far as it would go and sat down beside Mom on the sofa hoping and praying she didn’t notice anything about my body. Luckily she didn’t notice anything amiss…I silently congratulated myself on successfully “hiding my condition.” Oi. We watched TV until the new Miss America was crowned and we each headed off to our bedrooms – with me still sucking in my gut. The next day, Sunday, we prepared to go to church and Sunday school. I was still alarmed about my “pregnancy” so continued to suck in my stomach. It was agonizing. I thought, “How long can I get away with Mom and Dad not knowing I’m pregnant?” I survived Sunday, and Monday at school during library period I used the BIG dictionary (on its own stand) and checked out “pregnant.” I sighed a BIG sigh of relief when I learned I couldn’t be pregnant…it required a man and a woman…I merely possessed a bulging belly. Even at that early age, I knew a woman would not enter my life – maybe as a friend, but nothing more. Now, 50 years later, I chuckle about the incident. But I also think, had I been pregnant, I’d have a 50-year-old child. Yikes! Sometimes I think I have too much time on my hands. Life is good. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
I shall miss your wit and wisdom. Hope all works out for you.
.
no pun intended!