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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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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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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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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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.