Category: Uncategorized

Send in the clowns

It turns out Dale is not the only one around here who can do his own circus stunts. I was going to write about this sooner, but my humor was impaired.

No, that’s not it. It was something about humor not being funny. Oh, yes, I’ve got it now. My humerus was fractured. Which means I fell and broke my arm.

Sometimes I crack myself up.

I was being Super Caregiver, doing too many things at once and tripped on a power cord that should not have been there in the first place. I knew right away it was bad. Dale still couldn’t drive, so I had to get a neighbor to take me to the ER.

Well, you know how all that goes. I left there a couple of hours later in a sling. My neighbor came to retrieve me, and I was already on the phone with the home health care company scheduling help.

I am one-finger typing, so I will keep it short.

This is awful, but we will survive. Dale’s arms are strong, and my legs are sturdy. Between the two of us, we almost make a whole. The pain is manageable. I’ve got to get some follow-up CT scans to rule out surgery. They don’t think I will need it but want to be sure. All I can say is I sure hope not. But I have made peace with whatever happens.

Dale practiced driving today, if you can believe that. Just in the neighborhood, but he is declaring us mobile again. Our home health aide started today. Four hour shifts, three times a week. She can also take us to appointments, the grocery store, etc.

What a lesson in humility. My able-bodied arrogance was a bit much. Now I’m using shower chair I bought for Dale! Oh, and when everyone told me to take care of myself, I thought that meant massages, facials and golf. What it really means is slow down, be mindful, take care not to hurt yourself.

A little late, but I like to share my lessons learned.

I find myself singing Send in the Clowns.

Isn’t it rich?

Are we a pair?

Me here at last on the ground

You in mid-air

Send in the clowns

Isn’t it bliss?

Don’t you approve?

One who keeps tearing around

One who can’t move

Where are the clowns?

Send in the clowns

Just when I’d stopped opening doors

Finally knowing the one that I wanted was yours

Making my entrance again with my usual flair

Sure of my lines

No one is there

Don’t you love farce?

My fault, I fear

I thought that you’d want what I want

Sorry, my dear

But where are the clowns?

Quick, send in the clowns

Don’t bothеr, they’re herе

We made it to June

No use complaining about the daily onslaught of dreadful news. The upside is we made it to June. And now here it is, bustin’ out all over.

At least we had beer for the journey. But just because we can’t have nice things, today’s newspaper reported Track 7, our favorite local brewery, is closing permanently. No reasons were provided, but I assume it’s related to the economy.  

Does that mean it’s Biden’s fault?

We’re currently featuring Track 7’s Panic IPA in the kegerator, so we shall propose a farewell toast before that kicks. Perhaps we’ll head on over to Total Wines & More and see if there’s a spare keg to be had. We have room in the kegerator for a backup.

These are the times that try men’s souls. Thankfully, we still have Jameson Black Barrel. Proof God wants us to be happy.

Speaking of men, not to be confused with God, I was reading an article about the history of the LGBTQ movement in Washington, D.C., and they quoted a lesbian who said it was so great to find a community of women who didn’t exist to please men. Maybe I signed up for the wrong team.

Although I do my best to please one man, I have pretty much ignored the rest of it. I never dressed the part, never acted the part. I did what I had to do to get by at work, where pleasing men was a core competency. That said, my career highlights included catering to the whims of high-ranking women.

One female boss told me I’d be pretty if I wore a little makeup. In another job, I briefed a woman exec and asked if she had any questions. She said, “Wherever did you get those ugly shoes?”

Ugly as in comfortable. Teetering around on stilettos was never my thing. Take it from me, you gotta be ready to run.

Anyway, I was in communications … or PR as we used to call it. Dale always said that stood for porking the rich. Special events were always a showcase for privileged buffoons behaving badly. Communicators were deeply involved in planning special events, and by the time they were over, I hated everyone.

The stories I could tell!!  

Being retired and turning 70 this year, I can honestly say it feels good to ignore the pressure to please anyone except Dale and possibly my cat. Not that either one notices. As I have said before, the bad news is that my self-editing feature seems to be down. I tried rebooting it, but I’m still spewing a lot of things that might be better left unsaid.

On the food front, I made waffles last week, and they were delicious. I never order them in a restaurant because you usually get fake maple syrup. I only want the real thing, which I could drink from the bottle like Buddy from Elf.

I wanted another run on the waffles, but ever eager to please my man, we went with buckwheat pancakes, another family favorite. Dale buys bulk breakfast sausage and then freezes them in small patties. So we each had one of those on the side.

The cherry season is here! I never liked cherries until last year, and now I love them. I even bought a cherry pitter. We went to the farmer’s market this morning, and I bought a basket for $6. That seemed steep, but what isn’t? I also bought a big bag of walnuts.

Dale’s making fajitas tonight. He’s whipping up the marinade for the meat now. We went to Safeway for tortillas because we didn’t have the right size. And I say that as someone with a drawer in the refrigerator dedicated to tortillas. We also have a cheese drawer.

It was beastly hot yesterday but nice today, so we’ll eat outside. We always wait until the last minute to set up the music, so then we don’t. But this time I’m getting it all prepped in advance. Nothing like some good tunes to liven up the party.

That, and homemade fudgsicles for dessert!

Weekend at Bernie’s

I’ve spent a lot of time trying to sort out my thoughts on the current political drama, but I can’t quite get there. Nothing makes sense to me anymore. Every time I land on an idea or form an opinion about what is happening in America and what to do about it, doubt or misinformation creeps in, and there I am, stuck in Lodi again.

While I’m not afraid to criticize the government or those who fuck with it, I’ve thought about quitting or at least changing the subject because it’s too damned depressing. But if there was ever a time to speak up about injustice, this is it.

All that to say I gave AOC some money. Bernie’s next. With their “Fighting Oligarchy” tour, these two are showing great leadership in the face of billionaire bad guys running amok and threatening all aspects of American life. I used to think Bernie and AOC were too far left and ruined it for the rest of us well-meaning Democrats.

Now I see they have a point. After the current administration kicked in, I was fired up to save democracy and would have been happy to go back to the way it was. Status quo was fine with me. Sure, I knew our form of government was flawed, but I figured we could sort that out once we stopped the bleeding.

Bernie and AOC are opening my eyes to the reality that economic inequality is at the core of what’s wrong with our country. Until now, I mostly ignored it because even though I grew up in a low-income working class family, I was able to climb my way out. The system pretty much worked for me.

However, the system pretty much sucks for a lot of people. I was entrenched in this idea they probably made bad choices or didn’t have the will rise above it, but I now accept that what worked for many of us when we ventured out into the labor pool 50-something years ago isn’t the key to success today or tomorrow. Everything has changed.

There is a lot of bad stuff going down right now. It’s a lot to absorb, and any kind of discussion with friends and family usually ends in a food fight. Perhaps I’m naive, but what if we talked about how we can make our economy work for everyone? That conversation has the potential to expand across all parties and all ideologies. And that gives me a tiny glimmer of hope.

Ready? I’ll go first. How about everyone paying their fair share of taxes?

A bridge lesson

I was invited by one of the women in my golf group to participate in a series of beginner bridge lessons in her home, and I thought why not? They say this complex card game is especially good for the aging brain. It seems to me anything that might help us dodge dementia is a good thing. I’m retired. I’ve got the time.

Today was my first lesson, and that’s an hour and a half I’ll never get back.

Perhaps I should have known. When I told Dale, he reminded me math was involved. While it’s true I picked journalism as a major because it was about the only degree that didn’t require even the most rudimentary of math skills, I thought, well, it’s a card game. How hard can it be?

Many of you probably know this already, but it’s damned hard. I won’t even go into the complexities I tried to absorb during this first lesson, but it reminded me of high school geometry, when the teacher spent an entire semester saying, “Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.”

Because that’s what it sounded like to me.

The bridge instructor scheduled an indefinite number of lessons every Thursday at 9:30 a.m. Not bad, but not good for the retirement practice I subscribe to called, “The Slow Start.” But you know, staving off dementia, I guess I could move out faster for a good cause. Also, Thursdays at 10 is my preferred time for massages, and one must have priorities.

On the plus side, I wore jeans and my old Lucchese cowboy boots, which I haven’t done in a couple of years. At least I looked cute, and that takes a few brain cells, doesn’t it?

Bridge is interesting, and I can totally see the attraction. I generally like games. I really liked this group of women. If they had a Yahtzee league, I’m all in. I used to play Hearts back in the day, and that didn’t kill me. Backgammon. Scrabble.

But bridge, wow. I’m 67, reasonably intelligent and in excellent health. However, I don’t think I have enough time left to understand this game.

Even without the card counting and all that, there are all kinds of weird things including where you sit and what cards you play – north, south, east and west. What’s so wrong about left and right?

Sometimes your partner will show all their cards, and you play those, too. Like one hand wasn’t enough. And all these little codes to signal your partner how you want to bid. If everyone subscribes to the same convention, why not just say it in plain English? I have five spades!

I didn’t want to disappoint my friends, but I also didn’t want to pretend I’d come back when I knew it was a lost cause. While I acknowledge some stress is good for you, this is the kind of stress that makes me miserable. Rather than drag it out, I just laid it out for them. They were gracious, but now they have to find a replacement, which sucks for them.

When I got home, I told Dale he was right. Numbers gone wild! Crazy stuff! And all my Thursdays eaten up just to learn the basics? I’m pretty sure I would start dreading Thursdays, finding excuses to stay in bed, when in fact it’s a rather pleasant day of the week that has done me no previous harm.

He said, “So, you’re saying it was a bridge too far?”

The man’s still got it. 

All this is good news for those of you who enjoy reading my blog. I haven’t posted in a couple of weeks, and I had been thinking, maybe I’ll just quit writing. But that’s looking like a bad strategy now that I know bridge isn’t going to save me.   

I promised the bridge gods I would work harder at writing if they would just leave me alone.