My Busy Wednesday

Most days, I sit at home and do home stuff. But once or twice a week, I remember I have a car.

So my busy days go like this:

• Wake up about 6:15 a.m.
• Drink a cup of hot water.
• Reset my video game.
• Read news in The New York Times, Washington Post, The Guardian, the local paper, or whatever I see that may be interesting.
• Check my email and look at Facebook.
• Mix up my Cheerios (half plain Cheerios and half something like Honey Nut Cheerios) and eat them.
• Take my medication.
• Shower and dress.
• Put the recycling into the backseat of the car.
• Make out a grocery list.
• Check the grocery store online for coupons to add to my digital card.
• Talk to a friend who calls.
• Get in the car and leave.
• Stop in the middle of the driveway because someone is coming up the driveway.
• Talk to the men from the fiber company who are "checking" to be sure some things necessary for you to one day have something besides DSL internet access have been done. No, they don't know when you will be hooked up. Have a nice day.
• Take my leave of the men and head out.
• Drop off the recycling at the recycling bins. Today it took two different tries, as the paper bin was overflowing at my first stop. They'd been emptied at the second one.
• Put gasoline in the car.
• Get lucky at the crossover and manage to get across 4 lanes without stopping.
• Drive to the grocery store.
• Once inside, purchase a lottery ticket for my husband. 
• Travel the aisles looking for the items on the list. Speak to my neighbor who's using the electric cart, call out to someone else I know and wish them a happy holiday season.
• Back track because I forgot to pick up some sausage for my husband. They are out of sausage.
• Check out and speak enthusiastically to the checkout clerk and tell him what a great job he does.
• Haul the groceries to the car and load them in the trunk.
• Put the grocery cart in the rack.
• Return to the car, start it, and head back home. Take the long route because I want to stop at the mailbox withotu getting out of the car because it's cold outside, and if I come from the west I can do that.
• The mail hasn't run.
• Go up the driveway and park the car.
• Change my shoes and wash my hands.
• Empty the truck of its groceries. Put everything away.
• Wash my hands again.
• Throw a load of towels in the wash.
• Check the destination arrival time for several packages expected today.
• Fix myself an egg sandwich and eat the crumbs of a bag of Baked Lays potato chips.
• Read a couple of articles in The Atlantic.
• Take my medication.
• Put the dirty dishes in the dishwasher.
• Turn on the humidifiers because the house is dry.
• Put the towels in the dryer.
• Reset my video game. (This should be done every 3 hours, but I only manage it three times a day, at the most).
• Drive down to the mailbox to see if the mail has run. No mail. Drive back home. Wonder if I should do a video of the drive up and down the driveway so people will understand it's a very long gravel driveway.
• Answer a few texts.
• Talk to another friend.
• Check on the packages I'm expecting. Note that the "latest arrival time" has changed. Again.
• Work on this blog post.
• Answer the door to find the USPS driver has dropped off one package. I'm expecting several. She waves at me. I scoop up the package and deposit it on the kitchen counter.
• Drive down to the mailbox again. It is stuffed full. I guess she couldn't get the one package in the box.
• Return home and puzzle over the packages. Not exactly what I thought I was buying. Hmm.
• Decide this is enough of this blog post - this day will finish out itself with a walk on the treadmill, fixing dinner, and watching TV with the husband.

Negative Space

I was looking out the window a few moments ago, and I saw a gigantic cat climbing up in a tree. Clearly there was a huge cat head, with a paw playfully heading up the tree, batting at something.

The image was in the negative space between the limbs and remaining leaves, and now that there's been a little wind, it's gone.

Images appear to me all the time, and always have. My grandmother's bathroom had this tile with little squares of different colors on it, and I would bide my time doing my business by finding various items among the squares. Horses, cows, dogs, cars. Whatever my mind made an image of. Sometimes I could find it again, but often times, I could not.

One year, apparently a particularly bad year for me as an elementary school student, I found solace in a dinosaur made from a brush pile along a fence that I saw every afternoon on the school bus. I did not see it in the morning, but each afternoon on that hour-long bus ride, I would stop doing my homework and look for my dinosaur.

The dinosaur was there all year, and it brought me great solace to see it every school day.

The following year, though, I could not find the dinosaur. I wasn't even sure where to look for it, and I never saw it again.

I see dancing horses, gargoyles, and faces in the bathroom mat or in the bathroom tile these days, though they are gone after I blink. They are not really there. I simply have an overactive imagination, one that sometimes comes out through my eyes.

Negative space is an art concept. Sometimes it is called "white space," the area around and between the main subjects of an image. Negative space can significantly impact the visual effectiveness of artwork, photography, and design. Apparently, you can also see images in it when you look at trees.

I use negative space sometimes in my photographs. Landscape photography in particular can convey feelings of solitude when you have a single subject, like a cow or a deer, surrounded by huge fields, my wonderful Blue Ridge Mountains, and a blue sky. Negative space enhances the emotional tone and makes the subject seem more significant given the scale and context of the picture.

Sometimes what is left out can be just as impactful as what is included. Occasionally things left unsaid, left undone, left unseen, have great impact upon our lives, only we may not realize it. Some think these voids must be filled, but they may be better left alone. The truth may be out there, but that doesn't mean it has to be spoken. Rather than rushing to fill silence with words, leaving space for reflection or simply being present can often communicate more than words ever could.

Negative space teaches us to let go of unnecessary distractions and focus on what is essential. Just as I might zoom my camera out instead of taking a close up, we can edit our lives by eliminating what doesn’t serve us—whether it’s physical clutter, excess commitments, or unhelpful habits.

There is beauty in simplicity, balance, and intentionality. What we leave out - the things we don't say or do - can be as meaningful as the things we do say or do. Sometimes the most profound growth comes from the spaces where we allow ourselves to simply be.

Nothing But Blue Sky

I am trying hard to be more positive about everything, from the upcoming election to my personal life to local folks with whom I must deal with frequently.

My cashiers know me on sight at the grocery store. I am always polite to them. I smile and I compliment them on something. I say, "Thank you." I tell people I pass in the aisle that I like their jacket or their shoes. 

You never know what people are going through, and compliments are easy to offer up. But so few do it.

I am not by nature a positive person. I lean toward pessimism and depression. I look inward and overthink everything.

Stuff bothers me that other people seem to ignore. Maybe it bothers them, and no one speaks about it. People so seldom talk about anything other than surface discussion these days. Just, "Hi, how are you?" and then the answer is, "Fine," and then you ask back and they say fine, too. You might ask about the family and get the same answer. Fine.

Everyone's fine.

I don't think everyone is fine, really, because if they were, it would not feel so angry when I go out in public. I see so many scowls on the faces of unhappy people that it's a little scary.

The woman that cuts my hair for me talked about this yesterday as she snipped away. "Everyone seems to angry and mad," she said. "Such short fuses."

What's to blame? I'm not sure. Social media, probably. Bad news on TV. Worry about the future. We're an aging area, lots of older folks, and we all have aches and pains. 

Maybe we're just all old and cranky.

Hence my desire to smile and be positive. I smile even if I have a mask on, because I hope it reaches my eyes. (I still wear a mask sometimes if I hear someone sneezing or coughing in the store. I don't want their germs.)

Who knows when a small compliment will help? I like your purse. Your hair looks great. Thank you for working today and doing a great job at checking me out.

Maybe it helps.

Can't hurt, can it?

2020 All Over Again

Yesterday at the grocery store, a somewhat familiar sight from the past greeted me:

Yes, the toilet paper was mostly gone.

I attributed this to two things: panic about the longshoreman strike at the ports (which lasted 2 days and has resolved itself for now) and the urge to donate goods into the many donation boxes that sprang up around the county to help out the folks who lost everything in the floods in far southwestern Virginia, North Carolina, and Tennessee, courtesy of Hurricane Helene.

We donated, too, but not toilet paper. We bought food for cattle at the local farmers' cooperative, which as I understand it went to our neighbors in far southwestern Virginia. I also donated to the United Way, which seems to be doing a good job in North Carolina.

It's hard to know what to do when an emergency strikes your neighbors - or your own community. You need and want help right away, but the flood waters have to recede, the winds have to die down, and the manpower has to be able to make to wherever you are.

I've been in the mountainous terrain in the areas around me, and there are tiny communities everywhere, back in the gullies and hollers where no one thinks anyone lives. Some people who are missing may never be found.

And now there's another hurricane headed for Florida, which also was hit by Hurricane Helene. I hope everyone has left the area as this large storm - Hurricane Milton - hits that part of the country again.

A Crazy Friday

I needed to run errands this morning. This is how the day went:

I got up and began reading the news. The internet kept cutting in and out. I checked the phone lines, and they were static. I had had the phone company out yesterday to check the phone lines for the same thing. I was told there was water getting in the line "someplace" and as soon as I noticed it, I should call and tell them to have "Doug" come immediately. This has been a problem for YEARS, but we've had a drought, so it hasn't been as much of an issue.

Anyway, I called the phone company when I realized the lines were static. It took over 20 minutes to make this phone call while I was put on hold and asked questions that I had answered yesterday. The whole time I was thinking, this is taking so long, the lines will have dried up by the time "Doug" gets out here.

I jumped in the shower when I finished talking to the phone rep. The phone company called in the middle of my shower to tell me "Doug" was on his way. I swear I could take a shower at 2 a.m. and the phone would ring.

I waited around on "Doug," who did not show up. To pass the time, I wrote out the check for the local taxes. That is always a good way to make your day better (not).

The eye doctor's office called to remind me of an appointment, and the static had cleared up. So, I knew the lines were drying out and "Doug" wasn't going to be of much help.

After a while, I decided "Doug" wasn't going to make it, so I left to run my errands. On the way out, I went by the little box where the trouble with my phone line seems to always originate. There was a phone company truck there, so I pulled in and got out. "Doug" sat in his truck be-bopping to music, playing on his cellphone. I beat on the window, and he rolled it down. I told him my name. He said he had to work on something else then he would get to me.

Yeah, Candy Crush was "Doug's" big priority.

I left him there and went to the county administration building to pay the taxes, since I'd written the checks. The fellow who took my checks and ran my receipts was absolutely the slowest clerk in the entire world. He typed in numbers with one finger, with about 10 seconds between each number.

This was another 20 minutes for something that should have taken 10 minutes at the most.

On the way out, I ran into a friend, who gave me a big (and much needed) hug. We chatted a bit and then I hurried off to my next errand.

This stop was at CVS. It seems on Wednesday when I went to get a flu shot, the pharmacist made me pay a $42 copay for something that was supposed to be free to me. When I called my insurance company on Thursday, they said to go back to CVS and make them redo the entire thing and run it through the right insurance. They apparently had used my prescription insurance and it should have been my health insurance (although a flu shot is a prescription so . . . ). 

Of course, this took another 30+ minutes and 3 people because no one knew how to refund and redo the insurance. The line behind me backed up and I could feel my face turning red for holding up the process. I had been trying to get there at an hour when I thought there would be few people, but all of those earlier hold-ups had scuttled that.

While I was in CVS, "Doug" called on my cellphone. "I'm at your house and it sounds clear as a bell," he cheerfully said of my line. He added that he was standing there talking to my husband. I asked if the Internet was working. "Doug" replaced the modem even though I'm fairly certain the problem is the water in the line (I am still on DSL and can't get fiber out here) and not the modem. Oh well. At least it's working.

Then it was off to Bank #1, where I needed new checks. The new checks for this particular account were $30 for 20 checks. 

I decided I could transfer the money into my regular checking and go that route and screw the checks.

Then it was off to Bank #2, where I waited in no line for a good 5 minutes before somebody finally waited on me to make my deposit. What do these people do while someone stands in front of them? Am I invisible?

At this point, it was almost lunch time. I decided the grocery store wasn't going to happen and if we had no eggs for the weekend, too bad. I pointed the car in the direction of home and arrived to find my husband and "Doug" still having a chat about whatever guys chat about.

"Doug" also assured me I would have fiber by December. I told him I wasn't holding my breath. They've been telling me for YEARS I would have fiber "in a few months."

I came in, fixed us lunch, tossed a load of laundry in the washing machine, worked on blog posts for Saturday 9 and Sunday Stealing, and walked for 20 minutes on the treadmill.

I also developed a whale of a headache that is still pounding firmly in my skull. 

It might be my blood pressure. You think?

At the X Roads

Something's gotta change.

It's gotta be me.

I've no f#cking idea how to go about it.

What's My Name?

Right before the pandemic hit in March 2020, my husband and I went to the DMV and obtained our REAL IDs from the Commonwealth of Virginia.

This identification is recognized by the state and federal governments.

When I married, I chose to drop my maiden name. I changed my Social Security card. I changed my driver's license. Some places would not make the change no matter how often I complained about it, like hospitals and oddly enough the women's college I attended. So even though officially, as far as I was concerned, I was First Name, Middle Name, Married Name, the Maiden Name has followed me around.

When I went in to get my Real ID, I had to take along identifying documents that my husband didn't need. I had to take my birth certificate, my marriage license, and some kind of bill that had my name on it. The latter was difficult because when we married 40 years ago, the utilities were put in my husband's name. That is how it was done back them. I mean, we were only 9 years out from women being able to have a credit card when I married. 

Most of the documents I had in my possession were not the documents the state needed for my Real ID, but they had them on file. I had to pay for the copies so they could then use them to get my driver's license. It seemed a little obscene, because they could pull it up and look at it right there, but I later needed the documents for some of my husband's retirement paperwork, so it all worked out in the end.

Still, I consider the ID requirements to be gender biased and discriminatory against women. Taking your husband's name is what people do. I know some people hyphenate or sometimes they keep their maiden name, but the majority of women who marry a man take the man's name. They've been doing this for hundreds of years. The marriage license is on file with the state; they pulled it up and looked at it. It was right there. Yet it cost me considerably more to get the Real ID than it cost my husband because I had to get hard copies of those documents.

A Real ID is supposed to be the most valid ID you can have next to a passport. I don't have a passport, but I do have Real ID. The state recognizes my name as First Name, Middle Name, Married Name. 

So, imagine my surprise when last week an officer at a banking institution informed me that she would need a document with ALL of my names on it - first name, middle name, maiden name, married name. How many women do you know who have documents with all of that on it? Not many women have all of that on their driver's license, I bet.

I argued with her that the Real ID should be enough. I also told her if she was going to make this difficult, then the reason we were talking would go away quickly enough as it was just something we used for convenience. I don't need to deal with this bank, although I have dealt with this bank for almost 40 years. I am even a stockholder in this bank, which makes this oddball requirement all the more egregious.

We are still trying to work this out. But now I don't know who I am, if my Real ID isn't good enough for a bank but is good enough for the state and the federal government. 

Havoc

Last year, frankly, was not a good year for us. Everything that could break, broke, or so it seemed. My husband was constantly patching tractors and other pieces of farm equipment. We replaced tires on both vehicles. We had to replace the heat pump and the furnace/air handler at the house. We had a drought and fretted over hay so much that our hay count is down to the smallest piece of dried straw that a cow could feasibly munch on. Vultures killed a calf.

We have a small home we rent out, a place I inherited from my mother, and things went wrong over there, too. This doohickey didn't work, some other thing-a-ma-bob didn't function. The well pump went out.

On and on it went all last year. One hopes that such luck doesn't follow one into the new year, but so far that isn't happening.

In the bitter cold, the pipes are frozen over at the small rental home. Or perhaps not the pipes, but the actual well pump itself, we're not sure yet. We've owned this home for over 20 years, and up until last year, never had a problem with pipes freezing. (They froze and burst during the horrid Christmas cold of 2022; perhaps that was the beginning of this run of tortuous bad luck.) Now it appears every time the temperatures drop into the teens, we are going to be heading over there with a blow torch, and we don't know what changed to create this problem.

Additionally, the cattle waterers froze during the night, and my husband will have to check those every few hours until the weather warms up, which won't be until next week.

The only good thing is, knock wood, the electrical power has thus far stayed on, and the expected high winds did not materialize - yet.

I am useless in these situations and can do little to help my poor old husband. The best thing I can do is stay out of his way and fix his lunch.

But I fret. I worry about my husband being out in the cold. I worry about whatever is wrong. I worry about the cattle. 

Come on 2024. Do your thing and smooth out the rough seas!

I Close My Eyes

Back when I had insomnia and would often wake at strange hours and not return to sleep, I tried many things to bring rest to my weary head.

I would get up, pace, watch TV, read a little. Sometimes I laid there, drifting in and out in some kind of conscious-but-not sort of wakefulness. I worried about whatever was going on. What would happen if X did Y or Q did T or thus and such and who cared, anyway?

Apparently, I did at the time, but not so much that I remember those worries. They only seemed important in the moment.

Worrying doesn't solve anything, although many times my worry turns into a plan: if X happens, I'll do Y. If the interviewer says Q, I'll say W. Or whatever. If you can make worrying turn into something positive, like a plan of action, then it's not so bad.

Overall though, worrying, especially at night, is not good.

I still worry. Perhaps once a worrier, always a worrier, but my worries no longer keep me awake at night. In fact, I sleep fairly well these days. I usually get up only once during the night, and I generally go right back to sleep.

Occasionally, though, I do find that I can't go to sleep right away. I have a little house in my head that I visit when I can't sleep. I start on the steps, which is a count, then I go in and begin examining the room, item by item, inch by inch, after envisioning an overall version of it. Usually after a few "objects" have come under scrutiny, I drop on off to sleep.

There are whole books about what to do if you can't sleep, so I'm not giving advice. I do imagery; some folks might fall asleep mid-prayer, I don't know. Everyone has to do what works for them.

***

Last night I watched part of a documentary on Nikki Giovani (her website is not up to date). Giovani retired in 2022 from Virginia Tech, where she'd been a professor since 1987. 

One of the parts that made me laugh was when she went after Rudolph, the Red Nosed Reindeer. She wanted to know why Santa and Mrs. Claus didn't do something about all those reindeer making fun or Rudolph and calling him names. She went on to say that if she'd been Rudolph, when Santa asked for the big favor in the foggy snow, she'd have said something akin to "F&ck you, Santa." 

I confess I have always thought the same thing about the Santa in Rudolph. He really wasn't a very nice guy. He was a bit nasty to the elves and not especially jolly.

Additionally, the footage of Blacks living in America made me think about how many Americas there are actually are here in the United States. I'm going to state that I think there are about 300 million Americas here, one for each person. Because everyone is different, and everyone thinks differently, and while many of us may have similarities in how we were raised, still, we're all different. We differ by race, we differ by class, we differ by gender. We have Black America, White America, rich, poor, middle class. Men, women, and those with gender identity concerns. We are indeed a melting pot, and it's far too late to put that lid back on and keep that pot from boiling over.

Which is, of course, what is happening now. Some are trying to put the lid on the pot, and that lid isn't going back on. We can't turn the clock back to the 1950s or the 1890s or whatever year it is that some people want to return to. This is 2024.

A whole new year, a whole new time. Old ways of thinking need to move aside.

If that means I'm "woke," I'm woke. I don't always like change - I worry about it when it is happening - but I don't always hide from it, either.

By My Bed

Most of us have a bedside table of some kind, I suppose. Ours came with the bedroom suite that we purchased around 1991. The suite is dark cherry, made by Virginia House, a now-defunct local company that made great furniture back in the day. We got one of the last sets to come out of the place before some larger company took them over. The dark cherry is a bit out of place in the house, because everything else is golden oak.

Nevertheless, this was the suite we bought and have we each will probably die in the bed, or that's our hope, anyway.

We each have a bedside table. Here's what you'd find on and in mine:

A touch lamp.

A box of tissues.

Medication.

A bottle of water.

A box that holds a pair of scissors, a flashlight, a small notebook, a pen, and a paper towel.

 

In the drawers, you would find:

Old watches that no longer work.

Medication.

Nail files.

Nail clippers.

Allergy masks.

A dental mouth guard.

A dream catcher.

A small box with old jewelry in it.

A Slinky.

You'd also see that at the bottom of my bedside table, there is an indentation in the wood from something. It's from a step that I used to use to climb into the bed. The mattress sits very high up off the floor, and I can't get into it without a step stool. The block I used to use rubbed against the bedside table and left a place before I realized what was happening.

I wonder what that bedside table says about me.

Phone Company Update

Three trucks from the phone company rolled into my driveway around lunchtime yesterday. I thought I was under attack for a minute.

The three guys, good ol' boys, hopped out and one of them checked my phone from the box outside of my house. He made the phone call his cellphone and it hung right up.

"There's nothing wrong out here," he declared, as I stood in the doorway watching.

"Try it the other way. Call in from your cell phone and then try to hang up," I told him.

He tried that and lo, he couldn't hang up. Now he was perplexed. There was an immediate gathering of men to try to figure out this issue. 

Then they had to try again with different cell phones. Amazingly, they received the same result each time.

They discussed what the problem could be. This appeared to be an unusual issue that they'd not run into before. Was it something they called a card? Would switching a channel help?

I reminded them that it wasn't only my line. Since it looked like they were going to be there a while, I asked if they needed anything to drink. "Can I make you a sandwich?" I offered.

They all declined but thanked me. I would have made them sandwiches if they'd said yes.

They made phone calls back to home base, conferred for a long time, and two of the trucks left.

One of the fellows stood around by himself, and I went out to ask him about the possibility of my ever receiving fiber internet. I told him I wasn't holding my breath about getting it, but I was wondering if they'd have to dig up my sidewalk. He said they bored under stuff like that, so no.

That was a relief. I asked him when I could expect it, and he said, "They tell us it will all be in by the end of the 1st quarter, but, like you said, don't hold your breath."

I went back inside for a while. He later knocked on the door and told me nothing they'd tried had fixed the problem. They were sending it to "landline engineering," whatever that was.

Around 6 p.m., someone from the phone company called and asked me to hang up on him. I did. He called me back and said he was seeing unusual activity and would now work on it. 

When I last checked it just moments before writing this, the issue remained. I don't think it will be fixed until sometime next week.

At least I got somebody's attention.

End of an Era

I began reading newspapers when I was four years old. At first, my parents and grandparents thought it was cute, that I was copying them reading the paper with their coffee.

At some point, they realized that by then I could read some things, and I was actually reading headlines and pieces of articles. I may not have understood it, but I was reading it. Understanding dawned the more I read.

My parents always subscribed to The Roanoke Times & World News, and I loved to read the paper after I came home from school. (Well, after I'd watched Dark Shadows first. Or Batman. Whichever was on.) On Sundays, I would try to get the paper before my father so I could read it fresh. I loved the look and feel of an untouched paper. No wrinkles, no crumbs from anybody else. He would fuss at me for messing up his paper - he liked them untouched, too. It was sort of a game and I relished disobeying (yes, I was a hellion, I don't deny it.).

When my husband and I married the first thing we did was subscribe to the evening edition of the paper. We each read it over dinner after work.

Then the paper changed its name to The Roanoke Times and started only coming out once a day, in the mornings. We still read the paper at dinner, only the news was a day older. Still, there were the comics, and more in depth writing on stories that interested me.

In the 1990s, the paper began changing. At some point, online became a thing. I was a bit late to the online thing, living in a rural area as I did. The only way I could actually get online was through America Online (AOL). My local phone company didn't have a way to reach the internet until the late 1990s.

The newspapers, meanwhile, put information for free online. I don't know what genius thought this was a great idea. At any rate, news was suddenly free, and the downhill tumble began.

Today, the daily paper is a shadow of its former self. A Sunday paper now looks like what the daily paper used to look like almost every day. Advertisements are nearly non-existent, and as the revenue goes, so goes the paper, I guess.

It was with great sadness that I cancelled our print edition subscription and kept a digital one, so I could read the paper online. No more newspaper in the box. No more print edition to pile up in the recycling. No more newspaper to use to fill up space in Christmas packages.

Sunday was the last day of our print edition. So yesterday, there it was, an empty paper box. I read the e-edition online.

It's not the same. I don't think my husband is going to adapt to this well. He's trying to use a tablet to read, and with his big fingers he is having trouble manipulating it. I've suggested that tonight he try it on his computer screen. I find that easier than the iPad, too.

As a former news reporter, this hurt. It broke my heart to not renew the subscription, but they were asking so much for so little return I couldn't justify it anymore. A recent certificate of ownership in the paper said the subscriptions were down to about 20,000. At one time, that was how many people were reading the little ol' weekly I wrote for. And the over 100,000 people read the daily.

This explains a great deal about the country. If people are not reading the news, then stupid rules. 

Who knows, maybe in six months, we'll pick the print edition back up as new subscribers, if it's still available. I have my doubts the daily paper is going to survive.

It was hard to let that 40-year-old subscription go, but I guess I'm moving on into the new age with the digital edition.

Long Week

This has been a long week.

I had an echocardiogram on Wednesday. This was for a new heart murmur my doctor discovered a few months ago. She sent me to a cardiologist. The test wasn't too bad; the waiting on it to happen was, though. The test results have been released to me and I didn't think it looked bad.

Then I saw the chiropractor on Thursday, which always leaves me feeling kind of tired.

Last night, the air conditioning unit stopped working. It was 90 degrees today so we needed to get that fixed ASAP. With my asthma, I need the air quality in the house to be the best we can make it, and the air conditioning helps with that.

Even though we pay a company an annual fee to be available, they had no one who could come last night. But they had someone here by 10:30 a.m., and he was able to fix it. He had to replace the flux capacitor. I had figured it was that as it is a part that continually needs to be replaced.

The heat pump unit is 21 years old, so it is time to purchase a new one. Or it will be soon, anyway.

This morning, I saw my primary care doctor. She is always so kind. She asked if a medical student she was training could see me because she wanted her to see the "cool kids" that are in her practice. How nice to be thought of as one of the "cool kids" at my age! Her nurse managed to get blood out of me this time, too. I am a "hard stick" and sometimes the blood just doesn't want to come.

Also, my husband saw the dentist on Thursday. No cavities this time, thankfully. He is not a dentist person, but since his hip replacement surgery he has been better about going. He's had a lot of cavities filled in the last year.

Neither of us slept well last night because the air conditioning was off and fans don't do a thing for humidity. Hopefully we will both rest better tonight.

I am rather glad this week is coming to an end. It has been busy with doctor visits. And who wants to see that many doctors in just a few days?

60 plus 1 day

Yesterday, I had a nice day for my birthday.

My husband's radio alarm went off at 5:00 a.m., and it was playing a Melissa Etheridge song. That much registered, but I don't remember the song. Just that it was one of my favorite singer/songwriters.

My friend took me to lunch! I had the first piece of chocolate cake I've had in at least three years.

The pearls around my neck were my birthday present from my husband. I have on earrings to match.

I received lots of cards.

And over 100 people said Happy Birthday to me on Facebook! I also had phone calls and texts from various friends and family members.

My brother visited me, which would have been present enough, but he also brought me a cool gift - a box of retro candy from the year I was born.

Inside were things like wax lips, red hots, Smarties, candy cigarettes, a bubble gum cigarette, and other things that I had long forgotten.

I received a few gift cards, too. I am thinking about what to purchase with those.

Additionally, I received some books!

My husband took me to dinner Wednesday night, which was a very good thing as he got hung up on one of his contracting jobs and didn't get home until almost 9 p.m. I didn't mind the time alone; I put on a Fleetwood Mac concert we have on the DVR and read a book. Then I made a phone call to a friend whose birthday is today and learned about the former guy's indictments. I watched the news about that for a little while but then went back to my book until my husband came home. I made him a chicken sandwich, he took a shower, and we went to bed.

All in all, a very satisfactory 60th birthday. Many thanks to all who helped make it special.

Crash and Burn

Yesterday, I wheeled my grocery cart from Food Lion and as I approached my car, I hit the trunk opening.

A woman was walking by just as I hit the button, and it startled her. I called, "Sorry, I didn't realize you were so close to the car," and she said, "I thought I must've touched it or something." We laughed about it, and she climbed into her car.

I proceeded to start putting my groceries in the trunk. The woman had parked beside me and was driving a white van/SUV type vehicle. I was trying to figure out how to keep the hot rotisserie chicken away from the cold items when I heard a slight beep of a horn and then I heard, "crunch, crash, bang." I said, "Oh crap," and ducked. I turned around to see that the woman had backed right into a smaller vehicle with North Carolina plates.

They each pulled back into their parking spaces, and the woman climbed out of her car. "I just didn't see him at all," she said as she walked by me.

She said something to the man, and he somewhat loudly and angrily replied, "I don't have a job, I can't absorb this." Then he asked where he was, and she told him Botetourt County, and he wanted the police called, and wanted to know who would respond, and she again said, "Botetourt County."

I pushed my cart to the rack and as I walked back, I surveyed the damage. The car from North Carolina had taken the brunt of the blow, with the rear side being caved in. The white vehicle had scratches but was otherwise ok.

The woman was heading to her car with her cellphone in her hand. "Do you want me to stay?" I asked her. She shook her head no. Had she said yes, I would have stayed even though I didn't really see anything as I was focusing on my grocery unloading task. I didn't know her but I'm sure she was shaken. I know I would have been. Had I thought I'd been a good witness I would have stayed, but since I really didn't see anything but the aftermath, I left.

Since this occurred on private property, the police won't have done anything other than referee and ensured that insurance information was properly passed along by each party. At least there would be a paper trail.

***

The other thing that happened yesterday was something that I am occasionally confronted with, and it always makes me uncomfortable.

Someone I know asked me if I wanted to write their life story. 

For free.

I know many people are not writers, and I believe everyone has a story. But I do not want to write someone else's life story, not for free. I know they mean well, but they have no idea what kind of time that would take.

If the person had said, "I'll pay you," or mentioned anything like that - even a barter for services - I would have responded more enthusiastically. Instead, I said, "I think you should write it. Get started on it. I'll be glad to give you advice later on if you need it."

My friend said she wasn't a writer, but I said, "You should try it anyway. That's more real, more in your own voice."

Fortunately, she dropped the topic and we moved on. (I hope she doesn't read my blog.)

Many years ago, a good friend stopped talking to me after I declined to write her life story, so this is tricky. It's not something I want to lose friends over, but it's like asking a lawyer to take your case for nothing. Or asking your doctor to see you without charge. Those are extraordinary circumstances if you have to do that. Writing a life story is not an extraordinary circumstance, and writing has been how I've made my living. I have done enough volunteer work for various causes. I don't need to do free work for other people.

I remember another guy who asked me to write his life story - he had been involved, peripherally, in NASCAR - and he stopped talking to me as well when I declined. These things are not going to make any money, so offering to split the "big bucks" with me isn't going to cut it. If someone writes something, I am more than happy to read it and make suggestions for a meager amount*, but if they want copyediting or involved, in-depth work, then I need to be paid for my time.

*I charged the last person $100 to read through and make suggestions. That is way too little for what I offer, but I consider the circumstances. If you don't want to invest $100 in your creation for a read-through, then you either already know it's no good or know deep down you're not going to listen to my suggestions.

Scammed Over Tic Tacs

The checkout clerk stared at my Tic Tacs like they were from another planet. He put them side by side and frowned.

"One of these isn't ringing up," he announced.

"They came from the same box," I said. I pointed to the display right beside him.

"The bar codes aren't the same," he said.

Eventually, he shrugged, scanned one a second time, and then tossed them both in my bag.

After I had arrived home and put everything away, I settled in for a reading hour. I reached for the Tic Tacs.

One of them had been opened and was half empty.

I looked at the bar codes. They weren't the same. The guy had been right. But he hadn't noticed that one was half empty and opened. I hadn't noticed because he'd had his hand wrapped around them while he frowned at the bar codes.

My guess is someone "traded" out one they'd been eating on for a new one. If they'd simply opened one and eaten from it and put it back, the bar codes would have been the same. I tossed the opened one - who knew what could be in there, or where that had been.

I was out a $1.09. Not much in the grand scheme of things, but still.

These are the days when one must be ever vigilant. Check the expiration dates on every item picked up, examine packaging, ensure that things look right - whatever that means. 

Technically this person did not steal from the grocery chain. They stole from me.

Odds & Ends

The DMV

Last week, I had cause to visit the local Division of Motor Vehicles. In pre-Covid times, this was a nightmare. One set aside an entire afternoon simply to drop something off at the DMV.

After Covid, in the now, the DMV has figured out it can schedule appointments. It has learned how to speed things through. 

I was doing something that could have, in pre-Covid days, taken hours.

I was in and out in less than 15 minutes. I made an appointment for 11 a.m. I arrived early. I was supposed to scan a QR code, but it said I was too early. It was 10:47 a.m. The security guard waved me on in, walked me past a line of people to an information clerk who was not doing anything, and she checked me in. She told me to go to Line 21.

I did. No one was in Line 21. The woman asked me if I was number thus and such, and I nodded. I told her what I needed. I'd already filled out the forms. She took care of what I needed, and as I stepped out the door I glanced at my watch. It said 11:02 a.m.

Fifteen minutes at the DMV. Who'd have thought it 10 years ago?

The Dream

The other night I dreamed that I was on another planet entirely. There were other people there; it was a settled world, but it wasn't Earth. The ground undulated from time to time, for one thing, but no one said a word about it. Somewhere off in the distance, these things with tentacles on them hovered off the ground, and they had a big orange "5" flashing on them. Some kind of native animal, I guess.

I apparently had written an article, and something was wrong with it, for I'd been called before the journalism board. They told me I'd written the story wrong, and I hadn't solved the crime. It wasn't my job to solve the crime, I explained. But since the crime wasn't solved - apparently it was a murder - I shouldn't have written the story.

"Then I'll go solve the damn crime!" I cried out (possibly even if my sleep) and I leapt up. I roamed around and found bits of human remains by someone's outdoor grill.

They had eaten Charles Barkley (the basketball player).

That was about the time I woke.

I know that Charles Barkley came from a TV commercial I'd seen that night, because I'd asked my husband who the man in the commercial was and it was he, but I don't know where the rest of the stuff came from. There is no "journalism board" that I am aware of or apart of; maybe if I actually worked at a newspaper there would be colleagues who would lay such charges, I don't know. Perhaps that came from watching Alaska Daily, which is a TV show about a news reporter in Alaska. I don't know what the big flashing orange "5" means, but it was so vivid in the dream - and so long in the background - it must indicate something.

The subconscious mind is a crazy place.

Another School Shooting

I don't know why we can ban the word "gay," ban books, ban drag, ban foods, ban drugs, ban the statue of David, etc., but can't do a damn thing about guns.

Hating on Myself

Yesterday, I hated every possible atom of my being. I hated my hair. I hated the fact that I can't wear makeup anymore because I've developed an allergy to it (all of it, apparently, even the ones supposedly safe make me itch). I hated the fact that I am fat. I hated that I feel like I do nothing (even though I know that's not true, just today I washed 3 loads of clothes, vacuumed the house, went to the grocery store, made the bed, did the dishes, and will fix dinner shortly). It was just that kind of day.

Unfortunately, it's carried over into today, and at the moment it's mostly aimed at my inability to cook well (it would help if I actually enjoyed cooking), because the pork loin I'd expected to feed us for 3 days at least turned out to be inedible. I cooked it in the crockpot the way I always do, but it was tough and pretty awful.

But so help me, I do not find satisfaction in reading recipes, and there is nothing about chopping vegetables or playing with naked uncooked meats that makes me happy or content. The only thing I like to do with food is eat it.

How It All Went Down - Part III

Part 1 is here.

Part 2 is here.

Christmas morning.

My husband rose before I did.

"Time to do it again. It's like Groundhog Day," he said as he pulled on his clothes. He was thinking of the Bill Murray movie where he is trapped on February 2 for a very long time.

I lay beneath the covers, not willing to brave the chill. I finally pulled myself out from under the covers and grabbed my robe; it was as cold as the house.

Ice had formed on the windows in the bedroom overnight; we were running a small humidifier off the generator. And the water had gathered on the windowpanes, where it froze.

I looked at myself in the mirror and ran a brush through my hair before I went to say good morning. I looked awful.

In the kitchen, I found my husband had placed a Christmas card at my place at the table. We had a breakfast of frozen pancakes heated in the microwave. 

After we ate, he went outside and gassed up the generator again while I rinsed the plates in cold water and put them in the dishwasher.

Then we had Christmas. My husband gave me an autographed photo of Melissa Etheridge and a few other things. I gave him clothes and a small George Foreman grill, because we'd tossed the huge one out a few weeks prior. He'd had a new hip and a new utility vehicle this past year; I didn't need to give him anything more.

It was over quickly, and the circumstances sapped most of the joy out of the morning. He had to bundle up again and head out to check the cattle and unfreeze the watering troughs. I cleaned up the Christmas paper, put the gifts back under the tree, and took another sponge bath at the kitchen sink.

By the time he returned, I was dressed. My chores were done. I was trying hard to find the Christmas spirit, but it was eluding me. This was stressful. This wasn't what we were supposed to be doing. I was worried about him being out in the cold and the wind, afraid he would make himself sick. He looked tired. I looked tired.

He left again, and I spent some time standing at the patio door, feeling the sun come in and offer a small respite of heat. It also brought flies, which have plagued me since November. I removed an empty water bottle from the recycling bin and began to catch the ones buzzing at the patio door - five in all.

I remembered a fairy tale from long ago called "Seven in one blow" where some guy, a tailor by trade, had killed 7 flies in one swat, and he made himself up a shirt that said Seven in One Blow. Everyone took that to mean he had killed 7 people. I think he ended up being a knight.

Nobody was going to make me a knight.

I went back to my chair and propped my feet up on a footstool. I didn't mention this before, as I forgot, but on Christmas Eve, the husband of my best friend who passed away last year brought us a footstool that he had made from the cherry tree from our back yard. I did not see him as he had simply dropped it off with my husband as he was out trying to keep the generator running.

Now I pondered the footstool. Earlier in the week, I had had a talk with my friend, wondering if there was life after death and if so, could she send me a sign that I would recognize as such. Was this my sign?

Several people texted me to wish me Merry Christmas. I texted back, trying to sound cheerful. All the while I was feeling very low.

We ate another lunch of a ham sandwich, and then my husband said he was going back out after more gasoline. By this time, we figured we were spending about $65 a day to keep the generator running. The battery for my car had cost over $200. This was becoming an expensive weekend.

My husband left, and I cleaned up the lunch mess. Then I looked at the wall where I tape the Christmas cards. I wanted to yank every one of them down and then tear the Christmas tree down and put it all away.

Just as my hand moved toward the first card, the phone rang. 

"There's a bucket truck in Lanetta's driveway!" my husband exclaimed. She is our neighbor, and the line was broken not far from her entrance.  "You need to turn everything off, throw the breakers, and turn off the generator. I'm at the gas station."

Our cousin had called him and told him the power company was here, he explained as I raced around the house turning off everything so I could throw the breakers. But which breakers? Out in the garage, faced with a barrage of cords and a breaker box that I never deal with, I had no idea what I was doing. He tried to tell me, and I started to cry.

"I don't know anything about this stuff, you have never showed me how to do this," I wailed.

Finally, I figured out which were the main breakers to turn off, and then I went outside, coatless, gloveless, and hatless, and turned off the generator. Since we were backfeeding the generator into the house circuit breakers, there is always a risk to the linemen if you leave the generator running.

The silence that came over everything when I turned off the generator was almost as deafening as the generator itself. I went back inside to sit and wait. I bundled up in a blanket and picked up a magazine.

My friend T. texted me. "We're coming over with food," she said, not giving me a choice.

She and her husband arrived while the power company was still working. She came in bearing brussels sprouts, mashed potatoes, biscuits, ham, and hot chocolate. She gave me a big hug and a kiss but didn't stay long because she had company.

I was more than touched that she took time out to bring me something to eat - I wept again after she left, partly with relief and partly just because it was that kind of day.

At 2:30 p.m., the lights came on. 

The power was restored on Christmas day.

That night, we heated up the food my friend had brought us, and we ate like a king and queen. 

It was the best meal of my life.

Christmas had come and gone, and it certainly had not been the festive event I'd anticipated. But I was loved and cared for, and safe in my house with the fellow I've been with for 39 years.

I knew who my friends were, and who cared if I froze or not. That was a great gift, wasn't it?

Next year, I will read back over this, and laugh.

-End-