Books and Freedom

Well, here I am again, could you just lose it from the shock, or what? Don't let it lure you into a false sense of security; Liz will be visiting in about ten days and I'll be back to my terrible habits and getting great ideas but not getting around to doing anything about them.

Believe it or not, I am here again because I was reading some news stories again, and something got me a bit worked up. Now, you may think I'm highly opinionated, in which case I might have to use the ancient playground retort of, "I'm rubber and you're glue, anything you say bounces off me and sticks to you," or something like that, I never really used that retort. After some soul-searching, I think I can freely say that I don't have strong opinions about everything. Like corn. Corn is a vegetable that not only has many super-scientific uses, but numerous methods of preparation for eating. So maybe I don't like creamed corn but I do like lots of others, like snack chips and popcorn. On the other hand, we have something like canned spinach, which in the realm of The Lunatic is an evil thing which must be avoided at all cost, thereby making us ineligible for a lasting friendship with Popeye.

It was just one news article, my friends, which stirred me up in several ways on related subjects. The events in this story took place somewhere in the state of Texas. I can't remember where, because it didn't sink into my brain, and I really would rather not read the article again. The article was inspired by some mothers and their reactions to a specific book. Since I had never seen or even heard of the book before this evening, I will state that I am unqualified to comment on it because it would be akin to me discussing life on an oil rig, or what flying to Mars feels like.

Now that we have that cleared up, the gist of the news story. Mom gets a phone call from her friend, AnotherMom. AnotherMom is having a conniption over a book that happens to be available for checkout in the library of the High School both mothers' children attend. The book is a graphic novel by an LGBT+ author, and includes sex and gender identity issues. Both mothers jump into action to make sure that not only their children, but everyone else's, are protected from the book by banishing it forever from the School District's libraries.

The story goes on to cover the actions and beliefs of a local politician who is very much against dangerous things like kids knowing about topics like S-E-X, and LGBT+, and non-white people not getting the same treatment or protections that white folks do. The Lefties, these people all went on to say, are going after our kids. The politician and some of the mothers have formed groups with like-minded people, as is their right. These groups have names that include words like Freedom and Liberty. Their goals are to protect their freedom and liberty by making sure the Lefties are not allowed to force them or their kids to wear masks, learn about the history of race in the USA, or have access to any books that they don't want their kids to read.

This is where it all goes very wrong for me, when people profess their love for freedom and liberty by restricting the freedom or liberty of others. If you don't want your kids to read a certain book, tell the teachers and librarians that your child isn't allowed to read that particular thing. But don't tell other parents that they don't have the freedom to allow their child to read it. And if you don't want your child to know about things like racism, civil unrest, unfairness in the legal system, and the struggles of the LGBT+ community, then let your children know it. But don't tell other parents that they have no rights regarding what their kids will learn.

I'm certain that someone reading this might be saying something snide to me along the lines of me having no right to open my big, fat mouth because I have no children. Good for you, aren't you the clever one. May I remind you that I was a child in these United States of America, and was raised by people who held this county's values close to their hearts? Let's talk about that for a moment or two, shall we?

My parents and my siblings risked their lives to leave their native land and travel thousands of miles to a country where they could be free. They could read, think, or say what they wished without the risk of losing their lives or jobs or freedom. After the loss of my parents, I eventually came under the care of the woman I came to know as Gram. When I came to live with her, I was nine years old and she was sixty-two. Although she came from a far different generation (and had an incredible temper paired with a sharp tongue) here are some things about how she raised me. 

Gram never forced any political ideas upon me. She felt that it was my right to learn things and decide how I felt about them. When I was a skinny nine-year old girl walking to the local library, that heavenly place filled with books and words and ideas and the wonderful smell of paper, I was never told what books I could or could not read. I honestly don't think it ever occurred to Gram to censor my reading experiences in any way. This is undoubtedly related to her own upbringing. She was raised by a single father years before the phrase was ever invented, because her mother died in childbirth when she was twenty-two months old. Her father, who had vision problems due to an accident he experienced when working in a mill at the age of seven, would have her read books to him since he could only clearly see print the size of a newspaper headline. And any time the Catholic Church forbade its members to read a particular book, he would immediately buy it for her to read aloud. Bless him for that.

There were moments during my formative years that impressed me greatly. One of my favorites, which I've written about before, happened when I was in High School. My Social Studies teacher gave us an interesting assignment. We were told to go home and ask our parents if they would be willing to sign a document stating that if the government of our country no longer represented the wishes of its people, we had the right to overthrow it. I eagerly signed the document and felt sure that Gram would do so as well, which she did. When we had our next Social Studies class and the teacher asked about parents' reactions, there was quite an uproar. Kids were talking about how their parents were angry and said the teacher was a Communist or un-American. Who had signed it, and whose parents? I raised my hand with a smile on my face while people around me expressed their shock and disgust. When asked why I would sign such a thing, I told them it was simple. I would gladly put my signature on the Declaration of Independence, which was paraphrased in our assignment.

It wasn't until I was old enough to vote that Gram and I discussed political affiliations. She simply asked, after I registered to vote, if I had chosen to declare a party, and did I mind telling her what it was? I learned that the party affiliation I had chosen was the same as hers, but she never told me her party affiliation, not wanting to unduly influence my choice. And in case you're curious, I was raised by one of those lefties, and without even trying, she turned this kid into one as well. It must have been the books.

Postscript:  Incidentally, I don't think that the loose reins regarding reading caused me any harm whatsoever. I never felt the need to hide what I was reading, even though I read primarily from the adult sections of the library from around the age of ten. I'm pretty sure that if there was anything in those books that was over my head, it flew on by without doing any temporary or permanent damage. Also, all of this made me think about things like people not just banning, but burning books. It made me think of when Gram, her daughters, an adult granddaughter, and I all went to see the movie Victor/Victoria. Gram and I told each other later how much we enjoyed it, but Alice and Jackie deemed it filth and said we should throw rocks at the theater and then burn it down. Oy.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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The Lady is a Misogynist?

In retrospect, perhaps I should have shared online the article I've been mulling over for several days now. But then again, my strong opinions are what gave birth to this blog in the first place. Or at least its title. Seriously! A number of years ago, Trent and I were in the car and another driver did something terribly aggravating (which I can no longer remember) that irked us both. I've always taken my front-seat passenger duties very seriously, so I gave the other driver a talking-to that they, of course, didn't hear. I mean, everyone makes mistakes, let's not turn it into a road rage incident that gets on the evening news. But a little this-outburst-stays-in-the-car moment can sometimes cool down that adrenalin burn you get from a near miss. After the outburst was delivered, I told Trent that some day, if I ever started to write a blog I would call it (the) Ravings of a Lunatic. So there you go.

I'll freely admit that when I peruse the online news I don't just focus on what you might call serious news or hard news or please could I read something else because this is depressing news. I'll say, "How does this qualify as news?" even as I click on the stories about friendly dogs and the UPS drivers or US Postal Workers they love. And all kinds of other stuff, honestly, because news reading can be depressing, aggravating, worrying, and a slew of other adjectives which I shan't use now because it would seem like Showing Off.

Now, back to the article I mentioned at the beginning. I'm not quite sure where the story originated, but I suspect that it was lifted from the AITA (Am I The A-hole) forum. For those who may be unfamiliar, this is a virtual place where people seek confirmation on whether or not they were the jerk in a situation that they will describe and opine upon. Readers then have the opportunity to share their thoughts on whether the OP (Original Poster) qualifies as NTA (NOT the A-hole), YTA (You're The A-hole), or something like NWH (Nobody Wins Here). 

You will soon be fully aware that I am iffy on several of the fine details, because my little brain became hyper-focused on one particular facet of the story. The OP wanted to know, AITA? She is engaged to be married soon, and is observing and enjoying many of the rites of passage that are attached to this momentous occasion. The facts, as I recall them, are like this: the bride-to-be is going to have a bachelorette party with her bridesmaids. Bachelor and bachelorette parties have been happening for years, a last hurrah to one's life as a singleton. Depending on those involved, they may run the gamut from fairly quiet local soirees to trips to Las Vegas or other destinations full of temptations of debauchery. The point of these gatherings is generally for the couple to have a last chance at fun with friends before becoming part of a committed pair. Simple, yes?

Not so in this case. FH (Future Husband) wants to be in attendance at the bachelor party, to which the OP said no. She may have also stated that she has no desire to attend the bachelor party, I can't recall. We all know that a lot of the traditions around weddings have changed, such as couples coming to bridal showers and such, but the OP wanted a traditional bachelorette party, a chance to have fun with the women who have been her friends for years, maybe even longer than she has known her FH. Well, this didn't go over very well. At this point, while reading the article, I am having thoughts that maybe FH has control issues, or is insanely jealous, or perhaps doesn't trust the OP, maybe judging her by his own bachelor party behavior? I am also thinking, "Run, girl, while you still can. You don't need an obsessive, controlling person trying to run the rest of your life!"

When OP told FH that he was not invited to her bachelorette party, and stated all of the obvious reasons, he developed a fixative problem. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he came unglued. and argued at length that she should allow him, and any other interested significant others, to attend. She stuck to her opinion, which resulted in him saying that by only allowing her female friends to attend the party, she was being a misogynist. At this point, because I know what the word misogynist means, I am eager to read the answers/opinions in response to this OP. Also, I've decided that not only is she NTA, but that he is a JACK-A. He has responded to his future wife's desire for a females-only party by calling her a misogynist, a person who hates or despises females, someone who is anti-woman. 

I eagerly searched the responses for someone who would tell the OP that she should run like she's on fire to get away from Jack (-A), as I now think of him. I am excited to see someone tell OP that she needs to school her not so bright, potentially controlling or abusive FH that she is not by any means a woman-hater, but could possibly be developing a case of misandry from prolonged exposure to this man. Of course, I exaggerate, but I think you get the picture. The Lunatic thinks that when he pointed a finger and said misogyny, he forgot about all of the fingers that were pointing back at him, to borrow from an old saying.

And then my disappointment grew. In fact, it branched out and bloomed. Yes, the overwhelming consensus was that the OP was NTA. There were comments about FH being a person with low self esteem, being a controller, being a potential abuser. Heck, there were even comments that said that her decision didn't make her a misogynist. But the moment of reason I longed for never appeared. Not a single comment in the article mentioned that she wasn't a misogynist because she didn't disrespect herself or other women. Maybe they read the word and confused it with misanthropy? Or maybe everyone is TA? Or maybe it's just me. Oh, no, AITA? I just may be. Sigh.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Timing is Everything

I now publicly state that I must quit dwelling too much in my thoughts and instead type some of them down. I could, at this time, elect to elaborate on that train of thought, but let's do something else this time, shall we?

On a day not long ago, I took a walk in the warm afternoon to my mailbox. My mailbox duties aren't performed with the same dedication they once were. Once upon a time, I would dutifully check my mailbox every day, making sure to keep on top of bills and grocery ads and whatnot. Of course, when you move across the country, it takes a while for your mail to catch up with you, even if you file all of the necessary paperwork. Add to that the lovely humid Florida weather, and sometimes that walk just doesn't seem as urgent as it once did. Throw in the variable of constantly getting mail for your deceased spouse, and it starts to seem even more aggravating.

When I get around to ending my dereliction of duty, sometimes the box is crammed full of all sorts of things. Grocery ads and catalogs and bills are jammed in the little box. Occasionally there is a package that's been waiting for someone, anyone, to pay it some attention for two or three days. There's even occasionally an announcement of impending nuptials or a card or note or something else not involving the goal of separating me from some of my money.

(I interrupt this blog-in-progress to wonder what the heck is up with my flowery language and dollar-and-ninety-eight-cents words tonight. Sometimes it's just like that. Seriously, I don't do it on purpose, it just happens. As I've been writing this I've been thinking that I make me sick with all of this hifalutin' talk, haha.)

We return to me and my poor, neglected mailbox. On a particular day recently, I headed over to my Fail Box, which I just decided is the name for a mailbox which is being neglected by the human it so faithfully serves. As has become my habit recently, I approached with a reusable shopping bag tucked under my arm, and an eye open for exotic bird, gecko, and squirrel buddy sightings. And yes, the box was crammed with an assortment of things just as I expected. But in front of it all was The Key.

The Key is often the provider of magical moments. It means that there is a parcel of some sort eagerly waiting to be taken home so that it can produce oohs and ahs, or comments about the color looking different on the website but that's okay because this color is nice, too. This was an unexpected package from a friend, just when it was most needed. And I will be completely honest. I had to take a little peek before I got home. Just because you're a grownup doesn't mean you can't be excited!

The first peek - a box of Junior Mints! Mint and chocolate, one of my favorite combos! I knew this was going to be a fun one! Everything in this box was something that I would enjoy and that would put a smile on my face. There were elements of chocolate, cashews, cherry, all sorts of yum! There were rolls of Smarties, and the treasure of it all, a Halloween card. Not just any Halloween card, mind you, but one that was affixed to its envelope, on which there was an original work of art from my friend. 

You know how sometimes everything about a situation is a delight? This was one of those times. All of the flavors in the box were ones that I love. The Smarties took me through many Halloweens of the past, especially the first one we had with our poodle, Paris. We had left a large bowl full of Smarties out where they'd be handy if anyone rang the bell, and little Miss Smartgirl decided to give them a try. And she didn't do anything gauche like chew them down wrapper and all, or crunch them into dusty chunks scattered everywhere. No, our girl managed to neatly unwrap them and eat them like a lady.

And not only was the card just a really great idea and so fun with the original added artwork, but it seemed as if the artwork was tailor made for me. The witch was riding her broom past a house in my favorite color - purple! Gah! The card is now in a safe place, the Binder of Important Stuff that is to be retrieved and rescued in the event of fire, flood, or other valid reasons. It is the item that, when we've moved, hasn't been packed into a box. On our move here, the Binder of Important Stuff was actually in my carry-on bag along with other treasures.

I am (not) embarrassed to admit that when I opened the little dispensing and reclosing doohickey on the Junior Mints box, I not-quite-accidentally made it unable to be refastened. Instead of transferring the contents to one of my hand-dandy resealable silicone food bags, I made the courageous decision to spend the afternoon and evening doing my best to make sure those little chocominty pieces of yum would not have to face the prospect of becoming stale (the dreaded process often known as Going Bad). Yes, I stayed up until I had protected every last bit. Sometimes a gal's gotta do what a gal's gotta do. Yes, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it! Here's to more memories that are sweet!

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Rollercoaster, and Not the Fun Kind

I know, I've written before that this year is definitely not the gold standard for most of us. But I just wanted to give you a little taste from my point of view. Maybe this will serve to explain why my writing has been so sporadic lately. As you may or may not know, it didn't take long for my 2021 to start looking like a dumpster fire. By six weeks into the year, I had become a widow. I mention this not for sympathy, but as necessary background for the rest of this post. 

There's a tawdry side to experiencing the death of a spouse, a financial side. I'm neither the first or last widowed person who will have to find a different place to live because of the loss of income. Heck, it happens to non-widowed people as well, and you all have my sympathy as well as empathy. I thought I saw some light in the tunnel in the form of assistance in paying rent. However, the waiting lists are months long, and I can't qualify anyway because I'm trying to be responsible and have a bit of money in savings. No dice. If you have savings, you can't have help. Such is life.

My train of The Lunatic's Variety of Logical Thinking ended up at a simple little whistle-stop station. If I was going to need to get rid of my money, I might as well try to buy myself a little home. While this isn't what I dreamed of when I was younger, there are tons of places, okay, several, in Florida that are age 55+ manufactured home communities. When Liz was out here on her last visit in September, I found the community where I wanted to live. It's a relatively quiet place on the shore of a huge lake. There's tropical bird-critters and squirrels, and friendly neighbors with adorable dogs. And a home I thought I might like.

I was eager to see inside this home, with its new flooring and remodeled kitchen and two bedrooms and two bathrooms. I eagerly filled out an application to be allowed to move into the community (!), and made an appointment to see "my house." It was just the right size. It also had a huge shed that contained tons of storage shelves, a full-size washer and dryer, and a double sink. The shed was even air-conditioned. A few days after Liz went back to Colorado, I received the news that I was approved by the community to move in, and made an appointment to make a deposit on my place. A few hours later, I received another phone call telling me not to bother coming in. They had left a message for another prospective buyer and she had jumped in her car with her deposit. Man.

Meanwhile, life does go on. My apartment lease had expired, but I had an agreement to go on a month-to-month plan until I had a new home. All I needed to do was let the leasing office know by the end of September if I wanted to stay past October. I went online one day late in September to pay my October rent, and the system said nothing was owing. The leasing office person said the rent amounts hadn't been posted yet and not to worry. A couple of days went by, and still no amount showing. Again I called the leasing office to be told I needed to fill out a form. September 30th rolled around and I received a call from the leasing office telling me my request to stay through November wasn't approved. Apparently due to lots of dropped balls and misinformation, I had been promised the ability to stay in the apartment through October, but nothing was put in the system. And I needed to move out ASAP. Gaaahhhhh!

I calmed down and called back to the office and they conceded that I could stay through October, which was a lot better than you need to be out of here by yesterday. I woke up  the next morning to the sound of my phone ringing - it was the office at the community where I had wanted to buy a home. The other client was unable to get her financing; did I still want to buy the home? Heck, yes, I did! I made an appointment to come with a deposit on Monday and did a mortgage loan application with my bank. By Monday morning, I had received a prequalification letter, and was thrilled to get things rolling. Until I talked to the community representative again. The homeowner, whose property had been on the market for six months already, decided that he didn't want to wait for the process of a loan approval and only wanted to sell to someone who could pay cash.

Since I don't have that amount of money just sitting around looking bored with itself, the deal was off. I am wondering if there was more to this than meets they eye. My mortgage banker informed me that for manufactured home sales in Florida, the owner needed to provide various documents in order for the loan to be approved. Perhaps he couldn't readily obtain them for one reason or another and decided to change to a different plan instead. Less than a week later, the home was no longer available for sale.

Luckily there was no drama with my apartment...wrong! Another phone call asking why my rent was past due and did I want to do anything about it before I was evicted. You see, they had charged me the wrong amount of rent for two months and posted the extra amount owing to the resident application but didn't notify me. Their approach was that since I use the app, I had the ability to know that I had a past due amount. Since my Gram didn't raise me to be a dummy, I quickly made them aware that I wasn't falling for that. Anyone who has paid their rent in a timely manner has no reason to check every day to see if there's any money owing. As it stands, having paid the several hundred extra dollars, I can stay in this apartment through November. I'm planning to contact a realtor to get help finding a home, and hope to find something soon. Frankly, just writing about it has me tired, so it's no wonder I've found myself both wound-up and utterly exhausted from living through it.

As you can see, it's been quite a rollercoaster ride. Not the fun kind like they have at Disney World, but the kind that could possibly leave a person terrified. I'm pleased to report that after each setback or letdown I have eventually managed to regain a calm and positive outlook while still facing reality. Now, if I could only bring that feeling into my mishaps with my grocery deliveries...but that's a different story!

p,s, Please send some positive energy or prayers or whatever you like to call it my way. Every bit of positivity helps. Thank you.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Celebration

About a year and a half ago, when Trent and I knew that we would be moving to Florida before fall, I decided to give him a surprise for our upcoming anniversary. I made a reservation for dinner at his favorite Disney restaurant. The restaurant is in one of the Disney hotels, so we didn't have to pay extra to buy Park entrance tickets. He was thrilled that I was going to take him to dinner at his favorite place after we made our move. And then COVID 19 (or The Plague, as I tend to call it) blew up and many businesses across the country shut down. The entire hotel in question was closed, so we switched our reservation to a different restaurant. Naturally, since it wasn't the place we had hoped for, it proved to be a bit disappointing.

Time passed, and I kept checking to see if Disney was offering Annual Passes for sale again, and to see whether or not The Restaurant was going to reopen. We also were on the lookout to get COVID vaccinations to protect ourselves when these magic moments came to pass. Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's came and went, and then Trent got sick. Without having gotten an Annual Pass or going to the Parks or going to The Restaurant, Trent was gone. 

Shortly before my sister's second trip to visit me in Florida, the company announced that The Restaurant was going to be accepting reservations in a few days. When I explained to Liz that it would be open on my anniversary, which would happen during her visit, she immediately accepted my invitation to go to dinner there with me. I stayed up all night when I knew the reservations would be opened up to make sure that I could book a dinner reservation. Imagine my surprise when I did a search on my computer for the confirmation email and found the confirmation from the year before, and saw that the reservations were within ten minutes of each other! It felt like Trent was giving his seal of approval for us going to this dinner of celebration, not sadness.

It was a lovely evening. The weather was beautiful, and we enjoyed seeing the geckos running around at every turn on the winding tropical path from the parking lot to the hotel. Liz, who freely admits to being a picky eater, bravely tried and enjoyed the African-themed foods. And for any of you have figured out that The Restaurant is more commonly known as Boma, I have two words for you: Zebra Domes. Actually, everything was delicious, and as an adult who has no kids and therefore can eat whatever I want and not worry about being a bad example, I will freely admit that I helped myself to several different treats from the dessert station. And ate every one of them. It sort of reminded me of being on my honeymoon years ago and deciding that since I was an adult, it was perfectly fine to eat dessert first. This time I did it at the end of the meal, but the joy and gusto were the same. 

I know that this isn't a grand and glorious story with events of mythic proportions (although I consider my dessert-eating to be a mission during which I exhibited the utmost in bravery), but I think that's okay. Having a good dinner, visiting the gift shop, and sitting in the hotel lobby to soak up the atmosphere were all great ways to celebrate the years I had with Trent, and to honor him with my happiness. I won't lie and say that I didn't feel any sense of loss or melancholy when the date was approaching, because I did. But I tried to turn it around into what I hope I can make a new tradition, going out to celebrate on our anniversary. Maybe it's an idea that you can borrow, trying to make a happy memorial out of a day that could be sad. I think that Trent would like that.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Doughnuts and Destiny

It's interesting to me that sometimes the smallest of decisions or actions can become major events. On a mid-October day two years ago, Trent and I were out running various errands when Trent told me that he would like to get a few doughnuts from the nearby Krispy Kreme. I agreed that it would be a good last stop on our list of places to go. I had sort of assumed that he would go through the drive-through, but he said that he'd rather go in and see what was available, so we headed into the garden of glazed delights.

When we walked in, I noticed a couple with two adorable little girls, and the mother was wearing a Disney Halloween t-shirt. Now, this was a happy coincidence because I was wearing my purple Hocus Pocus Halloween t-shirt. Trent said something, and we were all courteous to one another, and the little girls were entranced when they caught sight of my Pandora charm bracelet. After everyone had purchased their snacks, we walked by their table on our way out. I stopped and asked if the girls wanted to take a closer look at my bracelet. Before we knew it, we had been talking for at least twenty minutes. Disney has a way of doing that to people. 

We exchanged contact information and they said they'd love to see Hocus Pocus with us. They needed to go pick up their other children from school, and we headed home talking about what a nice young couple they were, especially to be so friendly with a couple at least twenty years older than they were. We really felt drawn to them, and decided to contact them and see if they really meant it when they said they would love to have us over. Within days, we were headed over to their house for a pizza and movie night. As we sat around eating and getting ready to watch the movie, I looked at the twins' older sister and thought, "This little girl is going to be my friend." And when I talked back to the movie and the boys repeated what I said, I knew we were all meant to be friends.

We would come over to their home and have fun with everyone of every age. On one occasion when we were all in their car going to the local shopping center (to go to the Disney store, naturally) one of the twins asked their parents if the cousins were going to stay overnight and sleep in the basement, where there was a little apartment. I thought they were talking about some relatives that were coming over, but they were actually talking about Trent and The Lunatic! Over time, the twins kept referring to us as The Cousins, so that became our title. 

We did become friends with all of the kids as well as the parents. The little girl who had sat near me during the movie did become my friend. Any time we rode in the car with them, I sat next to my Lucy, and in front of Noelle and Natalia. Lucy is the only person in my memory that I have felt comfortable with looking through my purse. It is something she started early in our relationship, and I often got in the car and handed my purse directly to her. Everyone knew that if needed, Katrina could be counted on to have mints and at least one band-aid. Lucy almost always remembered that she was in need of a bandage when she looked through my bag, and I shared them with joy.

When The Plague, as The Lunatic calls it, fully knowing the difference, hit, Trent and I knew it would cause problems with our upcoming move. Imagine our pleasure and surprise when we were offered the chance to live in the basement apartment for a couple of months until the world got slightly closer to normal. What a relief it was to know that we had a place to stay, and a family to mingle with! I was reminiscing just today about how helpful the boys were. If we were moving something from our old apartment to our temporary one, Gabe and Eli were right there to help carry things in and down the stairs. The same with groceries or other shopping. I remember one occasion when four-year-old Noelle helped with the toting of the groceries. She slung a bag that contained a two liter bottle over her shoulder and walked in front of me toward the house. When I asked if she needed help, she gave me a confident but polite no, thank you.

We had lived with the family for a while when we learned that from the very first day that we met them in the Krispy Kreme, the twins had begun calling us The Cousins. From the very start, they decided that we were a part of their family. This ended up feeling true. We've been through a lot together, learning to know one another, moving apart, and even loss. When the twins said that they wished they could give us hugs, I got on the internet and ordered them matching pillows. On one side, Trent was sitting with Natalia on his birthday, and the other side was me with Noelle (and Trent) on my birthday. The twins can now hug us any time they want. Who knows, maybe one day I'll be able to ring the doorbell and surprise them all with a hug in person.

We do all sorts of things at all sorts of times. Sometimes they're routine, sometimes eventful. And sometimes destiny shows up disguised by a doughnut. May all your surprises be sweet.

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Frantic

You know, I get the ideas for my blog posts the way everybody gets ideas. Sometimes it's about my past or present or my hopes for the future. Sometimes I have an experience that just gets me thinking. I might be thinking about ice cream, or it may be something incredibly serious. One never knows what simple things will lead us onto the deep-thoughts train, but it often takes us on an unpredictable ride. A few days ago, I had a simple thing take me right to that train station.

I was catching up on my life, the world, and the New York Times crossword puzzle when my phone gave me a notification. If I placed a free delivery order from a convenience store through a certain we-deliver-food-and-stuff-to-you app, they would give me a discount of ten dollars. I gladly took up the challenge to find more than twelve dollars worth of snacks and beverages, quickly going over the minimum purchase amount. Have you noticed how much easier it is to spend extra money on items from convenience stores when you know you'll be getting a chunk of it back? Ah, the fun games our minds and pockets play.

I was notified fairly quickly that my order was completed by the store and on its way to my home. Woo-hoo! Kettle style chips and diet soda for the win! I fiddled around some more on the phone, waiting for the notification to get my things from outside the front door. A phone call came in from a number I didn't recognize, so I followed my usual pattern of not answering it. Before I knew it, there was a message from the delivery driver. Call, it said. Of course I knew that the driver was a little bit lost. 

This poor nervous fellow was beside himself. Frankly, it was hard to get a word in edgewise, as Gram used to say. Even then, I'm fairly certain he didn't pay close attention to my directions, because he called again saying that he was lost and couldn't find my building. I tried to tell him it was across from where he was parked, but he was going into a meltdown. I told him I would come outside, put on my fabulous tie-dye Crocs, and headed out to the parking lot. I phoned him again and saw his car head toward the turn into my parking lot. Turn left, I said. He did, but at the next building. He decided to go back to his starting point at the mailbox, and even though he had mentioned certain landmarks on the first trip into the maze, he still was sure he couldn't find me.

"I don't know what to do, I can't see you!" was the poor driver's cry. I told him that I could see him coming. Again, he couldn't see me, I wasn't in the parking lot. I said he couldn't miss me, I was quite big. So here I was in my pjs and Crocs, phone in hand, and waving my arms over my head. He was a wreck, and I told him patiently that everything was fine, and started walking back home with my bag of snacks, As I walked past the gigantic shade trees toward my front door, I thought how sorry I felt for the driver because he was nearly hysterical. And then I felt like a real jerk, and my brain was at the train station.

I'm not sure that enough people know that hysterical or variations like hysterics are fraught with extremely negative origins and meanings. I don't want to give the idea that they are just kind of mean. They are flat-out misogynistic. I didn't intend this post to be a lesson in semantics, but sometimes it's good to know where the words we use come from. Misogyny, for example, means dislike or prejudice (or even hate) against women. Why is hysteria misongynistic? It's pretty simple, really. Its Greek root is hystera, which means uterus. Yes, this word for uncontrollable emotion that can have physical manifestations is based on the Greek word for a uterus.

The concept of women being unable to control their emotions, and this actually being a disease, dates back possibly thousands of years. Women were seen as unable to control their emotions. As far back as 1900 BC/BCE, there exists documentation of the belief that if a woman was having a health problem, it was because her uterus was wandering in her body.  Eventually this turned into a belief that the uterus wasn't wandering, but it was still causing problems. In fact, these problems with the uterus may have been the work of the devil Call your priest or your friendly neighborhood exorcist! Eventually, hysteria became known as a brain or mental health issue. And don't even get me started on the treatments used over the centuries. Suffice it to say that they were often sexual or reproductive in nature.

It has been demonstrated again and again that doctors still seem to have this bias against women and their health issues. If a man has a pain, it is tested and addressed quickly because they are so strong and stoic and if they complain there must be something seriously wrong. If a woman has the same type or intensity of pain, it's often attributed to women having a tendency to whine or complain or be unable to tolerate pain. A common missed diagnosis is endometriosis, because women are seen as too weak to handle the minor pain of menstrual cramps.

In spite of my close relationship with Doctor Mike, I saw this affect our interactions. I think that at times he forgot that I had at least a modicum of intelligence. I also pushed through fatigue even though it was difficult, and had a notoriously high threshold of pain. Seriously, I fractured my tibia and drove myself home, climbed the stairs to my third-floor apartment, and walked into his office the next morning under my own power. I'm also in tune enough with my body to be able to tell when I have pneumonia or pleurisy or just costochondritis. So I found it frustrating when I tried to tell him that there was something wrong with me. I'd bring up the weakness and near collapses and he interrupted, dismissing it as low blood sugar. I finally caved in on one of my visits and told him not to say it was my blood sugar, because it wasn't, and to listen to me instead of dismissing me. And it wasn't my blood sugar, it was my heart.

I get these ideas in my little noggin, and sometimes I get passionate about them. First off, nobody knows your body and how you feel as well as you do, so let your voice be heard. Make your voice be heard. Second, I'm going to try to remove the word hysterical from my vocabulary and replace it with something like frantic. Unless, of course, my uterus is raising a ruckus and really bothering me.

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Gecko Wreck - Oh!

My subject tonight is dear to my heart - geckos. I am in no way an expert on these adorable little creatures, but I've learned a lot about them since moving here a year ago. About all that I knew about them before I got here was that they are cute little critters who eat bugs and run very fast Their racing around amuses the child in me. When I walk down the sidewalk outside my front door, dozens of them scurry around, racing to hide in the flower beds from the two-legged giant. For right now, every time I see them running away, I think of Trent. He was so sweetly indulgent with my declarations that I felt like Godzilla because geckos flee before me! As I walk down the sidewalk alone, I think of those moments and chuckle because I want to say, "That's right, geckos, flee before me!" I daren't say it aloud, though. I'm a resident of Orlando, not Crazy Town. I do think they're both in Florida, though.

Something I didn't know about geckos is that they seem to have a compulsion to get indoors. I don't really know why, because it's not like there's anything indoors for them. Maybe they're just intrepid explorers embarking on the gecko version of international travel. They may not speak the language, but they are excited for the sights they may encounter. The tragic thing is that this international gecko travel is an almost certain death sentence. The environment indoors is too dry for the little creatures and they end up dessicated. Yes, like someone stranded in a desert, they die of thirst. Even though I freely admit to being The Second Meanest Woman in the World, I don't generally mention that under this hard exterior lies a core of soft marshmallow. It really makes me sad to think of these little creatures suffering.

My own first experience with this came when I spotted a very large bug on the floor next to my living room wall. I remember thinking something along the lines of what the heck kinds of crazy bugs do they have in this state? I was on edge, because I do not like bugs, and this thing was bigger than a quarter. I saw it wasn't moving, and went closer, to see something that looked almost like a frog. But it had an itty-bitty tail. It was a dried out gecko. Not many days later, I walked into the bedroom and spotted a gecko on the wall. With the help of a plastic drink glass and a stiff piece of paper, I was able to capture the gecko and release it in a flower bed. This movie has played several times, and while it may be a tiny thing to save a gecko, it's a big deal for the gecko.

In the time leading up to Liz's visit in July, I happened to notice something skittering around on the floor. After my Raiders of the Lost Ark moment ("Indy? Why does the floor move?") I was determined to capture this super tiny baby gecko. I followed it as it ran around the bed, cup in one hand and paper in the other. I kept saying in a soft voice that I wanted help it, not hurt it. It stopped for a moment, and I put the inverted vessel down on the floor. Right on the little guy's teeny-tiny neck. I felt horrible. I tried to tell the little guy (and myself) that at least its death had been a swift one, but that didn't make me feel any less like a murderer. When Liz brought me home at the end of her visit, there was a tiny gecko in my kitchen sink. She asked if I could just catch it with my hand, and I remember telling her to go for it. She learned that day about the lightning fast reflexes of these critters. I did manage to save this one, so I did feel a bit of redemption.

This morning, I was in the bathroom thinking, when I saw the floor move. Another baby gecko on his backpacking trip through Europe. Surprisingly enough, he listened when I told him not to go anywhere. After I washed up and went to the kitchen to get my trapping supplies, he was still waiting on the bathroom floor. I was still a bit nervous after the Notorious Gecko Murder Incident, but I managed to catch him in record time. In less than a minute, I had finished my rescue mission. I'm glad I was able to save the little fellow, and glad that I was able to feel better about myself at the same time. Run, little gecko, and eat lots of tasty bugs. And quit breaking into people's houses, it's dangerous in there!

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Keeping the Peace

Hello, my friends. I'm ashamed that it's been so long since I've written for you. I've had a couple of weeks that have been too full of memories, some good, some bad. There have been some other challenges as well, which seems to have stifled my will and ability to write. But here I am again, ready to let my fingers tippy-tap on the keyboard. 

I am sure that some of my memory and emotional glut has to do with a few things. Of course, there's those two unwanted guests, Stress and Worry. They come in whenever they wish and refuse to leave when asked nicely. I shan't bore you all with the whys of their companionship, but I will say that their visits leave me exhausted.

Another thing happening a lot lately is thinking about family, and remembering things that I haven't thought about in ages. In some cases, they're things that I haven't thought about at all, and they jump into my conscious thoughts and surprise me. I have more time for reflection these days, and maybe that's why so many things are starting to surface. Since I've lost my number-one cheerleader and supportive sounding-board person, these memories often bite deeper than they would have when Trent was still here.

I've been thinking a lot about Gram and some of the dynamics of her family. By that, I mean her three children, Alice, Jackie, and Harold. I remember some of the stress they added to my life, and can only imagine what the stress was like for Gram. You see, all three of these offspring were very jealous of any bit of attention Gram paid to the others. Frankly, it was aggravating and exhausting. It also, I think explains a few of the ways they (especially Alice) interacted with, and judged, me.

I learned very soon after moving in to Gram's house that the management of her adult children's feelings was an important thing to her. When I grew a bit older, I remember her referring to something called keeping the peace. As I entered adulthood, it was often combined with snide or cruel comments that were meant to reinforce her belief that her family came from far superior stock than what Liz and I sprang from. As an example, I grew pretty adept at doing minor household repairs. I could replace the flushing mechanism of a toilet or install new light switches, or even repair the cranking window mechanisms in the house. Sometimes, though, she didn't want me to do these repairs. She wanted it to be left for her son to do, apparently so he would feel needed and wanted. I would offer to do the repair or pay for someone to do it professionally, but she wouldn't hear of it. Her son would want to do it, and it was important to keep the peace in a family. If you didn't keep the peace, a family would be broken apart (like mine). So we lived in a house with windows that wouldn't open, and various other problems, because her son was busy and we had to make sure he kept feeling good about himself. And when she had her final decline in health, he raged for hours about the number of repairs that I had allowed to pile up. Of course it was my fault.

And the jealousy amongst the three of them, especially between Alice and Jackie, over Gram spending the least bit of time with any of the siblings was horrible. If Alice wanted Gram to go to the library with her and Liz or I stayed home, we were given strict instructions. If Jackie or Harold were to call while she was out with Alice, we were to tell them that she was out, but not with whom. We dreaded the phone ringing any time she left, because if one called while the other was out with Gram, a screaming match or temper tantrum was certain to follow. Heaven forbid that she might enjoy a bit of time spent with one of her own children. And preparing for major holidays was a nightmare. I can't even face talking about it right now. Maybe I need to do another post about that, perhaps with a title like My Holidays in Hades.

In retrospect, I believe that Alice's adamant refusal to allow me to perform in school stage productions, even though the drama teachers really wanted me to, was a reflection of her jealousy of her sister Jackie. Jackie was an accomplished dancer who toured with the USO. Gram showed me a picture of Jackie in Stars and Stripes with the caption, "Hey, boys, here's Denver's Darling, Jackie C-----!" She was lovely in the photo, wearing a dance costume that showed off her legs. And since I'm able to do basic math, I was able to figure out that when she got married, there was a little bun in her oven. I never said a word about it to Gram, but it perhaps sheds a little light on the whole litany of insults employed to explain away why I wasn't allowed to audition for choir or be in any plays or even do a sleepover with my cousin. Acting was a rough life. Choir went on overnight trips (also a sleepover excuse), and people who didn't sleep in their own beds were tramps.

Jackie was a whole 'nother kettle of fish. I think she still thought she was the prettiest girl on the block long after her youthful beauty faded. She also wanted to be the wisest as well the sharpest knife in the drawer. She was one of those people who might say something in your house about your neighbor and whisper when saying it, and ask if we should shut the windows so the neighbors wouldn't hear what we said. She was also one of those people who would keep predicting something dire for years and years so that she could say she told you so. 

Let's face it, we're all going to die some day. If you predict someone's death often enough and long enough, you will eventually be proven right. Around 1978, Jackie started quietly whispering to me that Gram looked terrible, and that she wasn't going to last much longer. That was when I quit being able to sleep well. I was always listening in case something went wrong with Gram. If I heard her shuffle into the bathroom during the night, I had to wait for the shuffle back to her room and the sounds of her settling back into her bed before I could relax again and sleep. Jackie kept up with her doom and gloom predictions, and was eventually proved right. In 1997. After only 19 years of predictions of Gram's imminent death, Jackie was finally right.

You know, Jackie used to say such nice things to someone's face and then turn around and say something really crappy when they were gone or she thought she couldn't be heard. Obviously, the women her sons chose to marry were completely unworthy of her boys or the rest of her family. There were many times that she told me that she liked me or that if she had ever had a daughter, she wished that she would have been like me. Once, I was invited along for the long ride to a neighboring town to visit her older son and his new wife. Since I was eager to hear gossip, which absolutely was going to happen, I faked being asleep not long into the car ride home. Imagine the sting when Jackie looked in her rear view mirror at me seemingly unconscious and said to Gram, "It's asleep." IT. I guess it was a good reminder that even though the daughter-in-law was hated, I was still genetically and socially inferior to the rest of the family.

Over the years, Jackie tried to maintain her delusion that she was hip to everything, and that there was very little she didn't know about. She felt free to correct doctors whenever they might explain something. She  would tell Gram things about her or her husband's health conditions that occasionally made me laugh out loud. Seriously, I couldn't stop myself. When she told Gram that her husband had been tested and found to have sleep apathy, I really busted a gut. Think about it for a second. Instead of telling her mother that he needed a CPAP, she essentially said that as far as sleep was concerned, he just didn't give a CRAP. 

The biggest one related to me had to do with my diagnosis of systemic lupus. As you probably know, lupus is an autoimmune disorder, and systemic lupus can cause someone's death. While I was still in the hospital, Jackie had to phone Gram about my diagnosis. I bet that even though I was in the hospital, Jackie still whispered on the phone. While I was in the hospital with twenty-five pounds of water retention, kidneys beginning to fail, and blood pressure high enough to categorize me as being in imminent danger of a stroke, Jackie made sure Gram knew what was wrong. Keep in mind that this was before home computers. Heck, it was pretty much before most businesses had computers. But Jackie told Gram that she had "looked into it" and the reason that I had lupus was because I didn't wash my face properly. I'm grateful that Gram came to me for the truth and believed me instead of her daughter that time around.

I feel really bad about spilling all of this because it makes me seem like a horrible, hateful relative. But I truly loved these people. I didn't always like them, but I did love them. Despite the sayings, though, loving people does not make you automatically blind to their faults. And I'm still not a fan of lying to keep the peace.

 

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I Got Jokes

I have a confession to make. Or maybe it's just a disclosure, I'm not sure. I have a tendency toward smartaleck-iness. That's not necessarily a real word, but I'm using it anyway, because it's honest, and it works. I suspect the SAness may be due to a genetic predisposition, but I have nothing to back up this opinion other than my own not-privately-funded field research. Additionally, I prefer to use kinder, more user-friendly terminology and say things like I think on my feet or I'm quick-witted, the second being far preferred over my childhood designation of being half-witted. (Naturally, it has occurred to me that being told repeatedly how thick I was probably spurred the development of the aforementioned quick wit, like the creation and placement of a vital tool in my survival kit.) It could just be that I like to laugh, and make others laugh as well. One of the great joys of my marriage was our ability to make each other laugh.

Today my friend Julie reminded me of a lovely moment when we were in Paris along with Liz and my friend Marie, who is also Julie's sister-in-law. This led me to remember a moment when Julie and I had quite a laugh and became those loud, gauche Americans, and we did not care. We had spent the day at the palace of Versailles, and as a student of History, it was quite an experience for me. The vastness of the palace, and being able to see the artwork and furniture that were there more than two hundred years before was an incredible experience. Both Liz and I were having camera problems, so we relied on our friends to take photographs of all of the splendor. After a lot of walking and a tasty meal, we were back on the train to Paris.

Julie and I were seated together catty-cornered from Liz and Marie, who were facing our direction. Marie was showing Liz the photos she had taken in the palace, including many "pictures of pictures." I heard Marie tell LIz, "Oh, no! I cut her head off!" Well, Ms. SA piped up and said, "Huh. Must be Marie Antoinette." This of course tickled Julie's and my funny bones, and we commenced to giggle. Marie responded, "I can't tell who it is, because I cut her head off." That was it for us, the giggles turned into uproarious laughter, and we turned into gauche, loud Americans. I still love that memory. (I know you may be wondering, so I'll tell you that the headless woman in the painting was the Empress Eugenie.)

I guess maybe the relaxed "I'm on vacation" vibe sometimes frees us to be a little more sassy than we are on a daily basis. I am of course the exception that proves the rule, see first paragraph. When Liz was visiting we had numerous bouts of uproarious laughter. The best times were when one of us caught the other unexpectedly with a witty comment, leaving both of us dissolving in laughtears. Hey, I just gave birth to a new word! I hope it catches on, but since my name isn't Stephen King, I doubt that it will get a great deal of exposure. Liz's funniest moment is unfortunately not suitable for a family program due to mild language. Har-de-har!

On the same day, I managed to sneak up on her, humor-wise, twice. We were driving back from a really lovely visit to the beach. Liz kept rubbing the corner of her eye, so I asked her what was wrong. She said she thought maybe she got a bit of sand in her eye at the beach. Now this is when I wish this was vlog instead of a blog. Of course, if that were the case, it would be less spontaneous because I'd have to brush my hair, make sure there wasn't any spinach in between my teeth, and do boring stuff like sit up straight. But you'd be able to hear the genuine and loving concern in my voice when I said, "Oh, no, that's too bad. Did a big, mean bully kick sand in your face while you were at the beach?" (If you're too young to understand why we were so hysterical, ask your parents or grandparents to tell you about the Charles Atlas ads in comic books.) We continued on our relaxing drive. Life was beautiful, we were happy, and I was thinking of  everything that I had experienced that day. I told Liz that the beach visit had really touched. me. I was feeling almost poetic, and my creative juices were flowing. She was duly impressed and said how cool that was. I blandly replied, "Yeah, I think they have special underwear for that now, but I don't know for sure." Touchdown!

Until next time, remember to laugh, it's good for the body and mind, and it's just plain fun!

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Ramblings

For years, we've all heard the saying about not being able to teach an old dog new tricks. I have never really subscribed to this philosophy, whether it be used about dogs or about humans that are set in their ways. As someone who inevitably worked as a trainer in nearly every type of job she ever had, I like to believe that there is often a way to get one's message across. Heck, even The Lunatic is able to learn, although lately this female canine has also found that sometimes things just make themselves apparent to her seemingly spontaneously. Man, The Lunatic is a wordy one, isn't she? It's difficult to believe that one of her high school English teachers told her that her term papers were too succinct and suggested that she take a creative writing course to allow more words to flow freely from her pen, isn't it?

I guess what I'm thinking at the heart of it all is that like a fine wine, or maybe a stinky cheese, sometimes we get better with age. Case in point - many people's behavior as grandparents is far different than it was as parents. They've seen and done a lot, so they're not as excited about a kid getting covered with dirt or eating a few cookies. Although I'm still the Second Meanest Woman in the World, I've mellowed out a bit. Most of the time this pleases me, but there are moments when I get disappointed about this. Just when I'm approaching the years when I can get away with being a cranky old lady, I'm getting slightly softer as I age. And I don't mean in my head, I'm still tarp as a shack.

Of course, it's not just my meanness that softening. My arms and legs and heinie are getting mooshier, too. And what's up with the whole hair thing? A few years ago, I decided to let my hair go, and let it grow. It's now long enough to accidentally, or on purpose but that ain't happening, tuck into my pants. But where the heck did it all go? When I was younger, it was so thick that it would take all day to air-dry. Now when I use the smallest size of hair band to tie it up, I can wrap that little sucker around my ponytail about eighty-seven times. Last evening I tried to console myself by saying that at least one part of my body is thin. Yes, you're right in guessing that these words of consolation really didn't work.

Something that definitely hasn't changed is my love of food. Boy, did Liz and I have some delicious food when she was here. And some lousy stuff, too, but life is like that. I have a tendency to go through phases where I just can't seem to get enough of a certain type of food, But lately, some of these morsels are losing their charm. Who would have ever imagined The Lunatic losing her love of potato chips? Or butter flavored popcorn? And horror of horrors, the other day I realized I no longer have a desire to eat bacon. Yes, I seem to have lost my taste for meat candy. I want green beans instead. Or big fat cherries. Or dried mango. I don't know, let's give it a week or two and see what happens. Maybe by then, I'll be ready to order Chinese food again. Or an Italian ice. Or maybe a baguette.

Random thought: I recently learned that a post-menopausal woman can continue to have hot flashes for 20 or more years. Ain't that a kick in the head?

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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Refund

I made a post on Facebook last night in which I asked if anyone knew the Customer Service number for 2021. I imagine there were a couple of people thinking, "Oh, that Katrina, she's a funny one. She's always got some king of joke!" While this is certainly true (you'd agree if you'd been eavesdropping while my sister was here visiting me) it really wasn't fully in jest. I think that the last couple of years have been a challenge for people of every size, shape, and description. And while I've never really been the type to ask why me? I'm not Wonder Woman. I have my moments of sadness and worry, and then I try to figure out what to do about it.

Of course, the hardest thing I've dealt with this year is my Trent dying. I hope this won't make my sister sad when she reads it, but having her here made me think of him even more every day. Almost every day, when we returned to the hotel from our adventures, me sitting with my feet up in the air-conditioned room and Liz sitting outside taking in the evening air, my mind and heart automatically reverted to the times Liz and I have taken trips together in the past. As I shed my overloaded purse, kicked off my tie-dyed Crocs, and sat on the bed, I would automatically think about calling Trent to tell him about the fun we'd had that day. I'd think about things I should remember to tell him so that he could share in our laughter. I wasn't depressed or anything by these moments. I know they're just a manifestation of love and a reminder of how I'd share the day's happenings with him if we weren't together. And for every time I remembered that I couldn't call and tell him any stories, I must have had at least five or ten memories that were happy or positive. It wasn't a time for tears, but for wistfulness.

My time with Liz was not without its own pain and worries, though. The day before she arrived, I was thinking of all of the things I wanted to do and get and pack. I knew that I wanted to get some dried fruit and some nuts (insert comments here about eating nuts making me a cannibal, I know that's what you're thinking) because, you know, Road Snacks. So I pulled on some clothes and went to Sam's Club where I ran my sweet little Fiat 500 into a great big pickup truck in the parking lot. I am relieved to say that the driver and passenger of the truck were in the store, so I was the only human that sustained any damage.

I'm really not accustomed to going to the hospital as a patient, but that's what I ended up doing. Apparently I scared my caregivers because I take anticoagulants due to a personal and familial history of clotting problems. The bruises on my knees were incredible and gloriously colorful. The seatbelt abraded my neck and caused bruising on my chest and an incredible and huge bruise on my lower abdomen. (My poor right dirty pillow was entirely covered on one side with dark purple bruising and has threatened to go on strike after being injured by the car so soon after the shingles.) I was given CAT scans and X rays because the contusions were so severe the care team was afraid that I had internal injuries.

Two and a half weeks later, I still have pain in my chest wall from being jerked by the impact. My bruises are mostly faded to yellow, but I still have patches of purple and the hard knots you get with really bad bruises. I am so glad that no one else was injured, and always glad to be alive. As my friend Julie says, I'm still upright and taking nourishment, and that's a good sign. Unfortunately, Sofia the Fiat is not able to be repaired and will no longer be a part of my life.

So I find myself with no car just as the time approaches for me to find another place to live. Yesterday, as I rode in an Uber to the DMV to get a title copy for my insurance company, I realized that I wasn't making any attempt at conversation with my driver. I was depressed, nervous, and worried. Frankly, it was one of those boy am I an idiot, and boy do I suck, and boy, I'm such a failure, moments. Later, I regained some balance and positivity. Somehow, things will work out. My body will finish its healing process, and my life will continue with its own healing and rebuilding. This chapter of my life will meld into the next one, and I'll try to remember it's always a good day to be alive. But I still want at least a partial refund.

BONUS: Liz originally planned for eight days here and we ended up switching to a different hotel when she extended her stay because the original lodging would have been pretty expensive. We're talking more money for five days (before tax) than we paid for eight days including sales tax and fees. So we moved to another hotel, no big deal. But the room was filthy. I mean dirty walls, floors, carpets, it was just horrible. To make a long story a bit less long, I called Corporate to complain and they said they couldn't really do anything, so we went down to the lobby to seek a manager for lodging elsewhere. The front desk staff were busy, and a woman working on a computer near the lobby asked if she could help. We found out later that she was a Corporate-level employee, but I told her calmly and politely that the room was horrible and we couldn't stay in a room that looked like it would be used by a twenty-dollar hooker. Yes, ladies and gents, that came out of my mouth, and in a tone as gentle as a soft breeze.

We were moved to another room that was in far better condition and much, much cleaner. When looking at my bank accounts the next day, I saw a pending refund for most of the cost of the lodging. I believe that all we paid for were taxes and fees. Looking at the amount charged a few days later, I said to Liz, "Well, the amount we spent ends up being xx dollars a night. Does that mean they see us as less-than-twenty-dollar hookers?" I swear, my mouth...

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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

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A Special Beauty

Yes, I realize that it's been a little while. I forgot to tell you that my sister was coming to visit me here in Florida. And that she extended her trip by several days. Oh, did I mention the accident that I had the day before she arrived? That's a story for another day.

Seeing Florida through the eyes of a first-time visitor has been wonderful. Each place we visit or inhabit has its own uniqueness, its own special beauty. The amazing Rocky Mountains of Colorado that are so rugged and beautiful, and which help so many high plains residents find their way (okay, the mountains are on my left, so I'm heading North) are no longer there as a guide. Instead, there are vast areas of trees and undergrowth. Pines and oak and palms of numerous varieties are mixed together and draped with Spanish Moss. Just looking at the dense growth can be frightening - it's easy to imagine how quickly a person could get lost (or eaten?) if they take several steps into the jungle-like tangle of trunks and undergrowth. 

We are also surrounded by water here. Sometimes you can step onto a beach and discover that the sand is as soft and finely-textured as talcum powder. There are shells everywhere that come in as many colors as the people swimming and sunning and breathing in the salty seaside air. The ocean moves and breathes like a living thing, sending warm waves over your feet and ankles. It deposits shells and kelp and seaweed, and then rushes back, trying to reclaim them. As you stand on the firm, wet sand, the receding water pulls the sand out from under your feet, stealing your sense of equilibrium. It is a moment of pure poetry, a living and vibrant thing of indescribable beauty.

The boardwalks are filled with tables of tchotchkes of all sizes and descriptions. You're in the mood for a cutout in the shape of Florida, made out of license plates? They have that. A bracelet with your name woven into it? Your unusual name is no problem, they can make one for you while you wriggle your toes in the sand or have a delicious cold drink.

When you trudge back through the sand, the walk seems longer than it was when you were headed toward the water. Your last, almost ritualistic stop appears in front of you, the cold, fresh water to wash the sand off your feet or body. It's a physical act that symbolizes that your time at the beach is done. Like Mr. Rogers changing out of his sweater, you are leaving this last bit of your visit behind. You wash the sand and sweat from your body, but the ocean and everything it has given you stays in your heart. You're tired but relaxed as you climb into your car, ready to find your next adventure. 

Hiding

Another before-I-begin moment. I had my second COVID vaccination today. So far, in the immortal words of Lizzo, I'm feeling good as h*ll. This is not bragging, so the Fates can just calm down right now. I'm just doing my little part to encourage anyone who might be needle-phobic.

Just a few minutes ago, I was thinking of my favorite scene by the amazing Fanny Brice. Ms. Brice was the inspiration for the Funny Girl films starring another gifted performer, Barbara Streisand. Fanny Brice was not known for her beauty, but was a natural comic with an ability to deliver a song with an emotional power that could break your heart in pieces and put it back together again. Part of her shtick was her Yiddish-accented humor. The scene I remember so fondly is one I've seen only one or two times. I've searched for it all over the web but haven't found it. If you should by any chance know where I can find it, please let me know! If need be, I'd be willing to buy a movie just for this scene.

The scene, to the best of my memory, unfolds thus: A new bride is waiting for her beloved to return from his day at work. She decides to play a sweet little game with him and hides in the closet when she hears his footsteps on the stairs.

Him, entering abode: Darrrrling, your Lover Bunch is home, where arrrre you?

Her, peeking out of the closet: I'm hiiiiiiding!

Him: Darrrrling, I have a surprise for you, where arrrre you?

Her: I'm hiiiiiding!

Him: Darling, I got that gold bracelet you wanted, where are you?

Her: I'm hiiiiding...in the front closet!

I know, it's all kinds of silly, but it amuses me. When I was unable to find it on video to show Trent, I acted out the skit with different voices, and it amused him too. It became part of our special language, with one of us, from time to time, saying, "I'm hiiiiding...in the front closet!" Yeah, we were corny like that.

So what made me think of this? Well, sometimes I think Trent's essence, or spirit, or energy, or whatever term works for you, likes to play little tricks on me. We always did love to hear each other laugh, why should anything be different now? And today, like on another recent occasion, I was convinced that he hid something from me. A couple of months ago, I was looking for an unopened bottle of an important prescription medication that I had ordered before it was needed. Naturally, I put it away in a safe place, which is perhaps a code for that stuff having gone right into the Twilight Zone. I really wish I had a dollar (okay, maybe five or ten) for every time I've put something in a safe place and had it either disappear forever or prompt a frenzied search for what I considered a safe place six weeks ago. 

When I was searching for my medicine, and trying not to freak out since I was entirely out and the prescription had no more refills, I remembered a time or two when I had done similar searches for medications for Trent. He was always so calm about it as I was breaking a sweat tearing everything apart. He'd tell me that he wasn't worried because he knew I'd find it eventually. At that point I'd either take a break from my search or just calm myself down a bit, and then go straight to the pills that had been invisible mere moments before. When I was searching for my pills a couple of months ago, I imagined him sitting with his feet up and telling me that he knew I'd find them soon. I chuckled and felt really calm, and decided to take a break. A few minutes later, I decided to look in place x, a place where I had already searched three times. There they were, sitting plainly on top of everything in the place they were located. I really just had to laugh and tell him thanks for playing tricks on me.

I had another moment this evening. I was looking for a zipper pouch that Trent used to carry a couple of gift cards and some pocket money. Since my sister is coming to visit in two days, I decided that I should put the little pouch in my purse so that Trent's money could perhaps get me a little something while she's here. That pouch was nowhere. I tore the joint apart. I removed lots of stuff to see if it was in my purse. Nowhere. I was really sad about it, too. It wasn't because I was afraid that I may have accidentally picked it up with something else and thrown money in the trash (which I took to the dumpster before I went for my vaccination), although the idea of throwing away money bothers me immensely. It's the fact that this zipper pouch, which says Heart of Gold, was something he really liked. The cards and cash were put in by his hands, the individual bills folded the way he liked. That's what upset me the most.

At some point, once again picturing him in his chair, I told him that I really wanted to find his little pouch. I took a break and reached for my purse, my thoroughly searched purse, and there it was. Yes, Trent's got jokes. even now. After the relief of finding this little pouch full of sentimental value, and other value as well, I could hear Fanny Brice saying, "I'm hiiiiding...in the front closet!" And I could hear Trent saying it as well.

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Jabbed

As we spend this weekend celebrating the anniversary of our nation's independence, my thoughts turn to some of the things that make this country what it is. One of the things that causes both happiness and strife is our freedom of choice. We have the choice to do or say so many different things, and some choices are restricted. I'm not here to discuss that in depth here today, but to talk about some choices of my own.

Two weeks ago today, I received my first COVID-19 immunization, and my next jab is scheduled for a week from today. I know that people have varying degrees of trust, or lack thereof, in the vaccines, and vaccinations in general. There are various reasons why the family unit of Collins and Szatmari, and now just Szatmari, have made the personal choice to to partake of vaccines as available, appropriate, and necessary.

First and foremost, Trent was a transplant patient and was on daily doses of immuno-suppressing medications. This is a necessary treatment with the majority of transplants to prevent the recipient's immune system attacking the transplanted organ since the body will see it as something foreign to itself, unless perhaps it comes from an identical twin. This is a normal and expected response built into bodies, and generally encouraged, unless it will unwittingly kill us.

I have systemic lupus erythematosus, which is an autoimmune disease. The immune system of someone with lupus can and will attack the body's organ systems for no reason. It can attack any and all organs, and can result in permanent damage or death. With the two of us being immune-impaired, I've often said that we can catch a cold from across the street. Seriously, I've always been a bit uncoordinated and very unathletically gifted, and if you toss me something from a few feet away, chances are I will flub the catch while looking far less graceful than the dancing hippos in Fantasia, even if they were replaced by real hippos. But walk someone with some kind of germ through the room, and chances are great that I will catch it, no contact necessary. And the cold or intestinal scourge likes to make itself at home for far longer than normally reasonable and expected. Yep, germs have long considered us the perfect hosts. It's not always nice to be appreciated, however.

Trent never did get around to receiving the COVID vaccines, but would have done so. I delayed for several reasons, most having to do with the desire to avoid huge crowds in general, as well as large groups of possible carriers of everyday germs that would put me out of commission for a while. So, as I said earlier, I have myself on the road to better protection from COVID. And yes, I'll continue to wear masks around others out of respect for everyone's health. There are some other vaccines I plan to get after I've finished with these, and I want to explain why.

Around the third week of this April, I started having some symptoms I've had before with my lupus. I have a tendency to bouts of something known as costochondritis, which is a fancy term for inflammation of the joints where your ribs attach to your breastbone. The first time I experienced this, it hurt so much I thought I had pneumonia. Now I know how to tell the difference, and I do what I can to alleviate the discomfort. Generally it involves getting quality rest/sleep, and taking over the counter pain relief. Frankly, topical rubs aren't always a good choice because of delicate skin in the area.

A couple of nights into this delightful interlude, I woke up in incredible pain in numerous areas of my body, like shoulders, arms, hips, and knees. My first sleepy thought was that I was in an uncomfortable sleep position and it was screwing everything up. Well, that wasn't the case. For various reasons, when we moved into this apartment we got an air mattress. The air mattress was about halfway uninflated, so I had no support. When I tried to get up to use the bathroom, I was struggling like a turtle on its back. I had to use my tushy and feet to move the bed from the wall so that I could re-inflate the bed at 2:30 in the morning to give it enough resistance for me to stand up. Even though I got online and ordered a replacement right away, the situation continued a few days. I'm sorry to whine, but it made everything in my body feel so much worse.

A few evenings later, I was lounging around, content to do whatever I needed to make myself feel better. Suddenly, I started getting an intense, pulsing, repeating pain in what Carrie White was raised to refer to as one of her dirty pillows. I knew it wasn't the joints because it was a bit to the side. It was definitely a concern, and the pain pulsed for quite a while longer. When I woke the next morning, though, I discovered that it was an outbreak of shingles. They went along the side and over to my back, all the way to my spine. And boy, do they hurt. It's like the costochondritis said it was really kicking my butt and the shingles stood up and said, "Hold my beer."

You may not know a couple of things about shingles. They break out along nerve pathways and are lurking in your body if you ever had chicken pox. In addition to being incredibly painful, they can be dangerous. In fact, Trent's father had a shingles outbreak that led to sepsis and caused his death. A couple of months after my shingles outbreak, I have scarring from the breakouts, and another thing you may not be aware of, which is lingering and recurring pain. Just last evening, I had shooting pains in some of the breakout areas that reminded me of how much I'd like to get a shingles vaccination. I know that for many years parents have wanted their kids to get chicken pox and just get over that hurdle. Knowing what I do now, I'm also greatly in favor of vaccinating against chicken pox. I know it's a pain in the arm, but isn't protection from horrible pain or possible death worth getting jabbed? For me, it's a definite yes.

p.s. If you are anti-vaxx, this is not meant as a judgement of your choices. It's just an explanation of mine.


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The Tip Jar:

As always, I am happy and honored to write for you. It brings me great joy, and I hope that it gives you joy and/or food for thought. If you'd like to support the cause, please visit:

https://www.paypal.me/TheLunatic