A day in the life…

The sun’s shining, the air’s warming, and my competent young orthopedic surgeon shook my hand twice this morning before officially kicking me out. Celebrating will happen later with Kimmers, and tomorrow I’ll start working on my own rehab follow-up at Rock Chalk Park while he’s playing PickleBall. A heinous winter has come to an end far less painfully than we’d envisioned on our way to the ER, and two of us lived through it. Thank you, universe, your encouragement was highly appreciated, but throwing Maddie’s trek across the Rainbow Bridge into the mix was a nasty twist and you owe us for that.

During one of our final therapy sessions, the assisting tech asked me about retirement – and moaned when I described it as feeling like we have all the time in the world. “Oh, I SO want to be retired!” She hasn’t made it past 25 yet, pretty sure, so I feel for her because time and health are the most valuable currencies in human existence and she has a long way to travel before time is truly her friend. However, I say that knowing she’d be bored, frustrated, and guilt-laden over retirement right now. Having “all the time in the world” also means we’re personally responsible for filling those hours with things that matter in some way – things that add to our usefulness in our immediate world and inspire us to get out of bed every morning. Kim has never had a problem with that – he’s Rise & Shine Guy all the way. The retired girl has worked her way up to that status, in body at least, and is now disappointed if she misses a sunrise. I might not be awake until 10am, but I’m up, dammit, and the world is mine.

Life has gradually taken on a sweet rhythm, the pace has settled into the doable, if not always the desired, and we’re uniquely suited to the lifestyle because continued accomplishment is fun and happens of its own volition, but we’re basically lazy AF and our consciences are easily assuaged by small victories.

Breakfast is an event at least four mornings a week – biggest meal of the day – and for the remaining three we bow to the reality of late-life weight gain and decreased mobility. Mostly speaking for myself – Kim is far more capable and disciplined, bless his manly self. I’m working on it – never doubt what you can do when life goes right every once in a while.

Kim does the things I can’t do anymore, and I do the rest – it’s a division of labor that’s worked for us for almost a dozen years now, and every new day confirms that the naysayers were not only mistaken, but misguided, bless their hearts. If you know something, don’t let anyone rain on your parade – you’ll be scooping up any horseshit that falls, not them, but better than that, you’ll be reaping all the benefits. Unless the rain gods are paying your bills, their opinions aren’t worth the breath it took to blow them all over you, so walk away.

We spend hours every day writing at our computers – I spellcheck him and he edits my stuff for awkward syntax. On weekends our spa soaks are full of conversations we wish we could recreate later, on a full range of topics including politics, religion, sex, marriage, friendship, theatre, all the biggies. We’re hilarious and wise, and anyone else would find us insufferable but they’ll never have that opportunity because it’s all done entirely naked; therefore, it’s snobbishly exclusive, sorry.

After trying out a lot of the restaurants here we eat at home 99% of the time – it’s easier to the budget, and there is no better place anywhere than Chez Kim – at least not within said budget. Best food in town, and kinder portion sizes.

Evenings from 5pm on are balcony time on nice days, and from 5 to 6 no phones are allowed. The more friends out there with us the better, though, so if you’re on that list and within driving distance, get here – open invitation! Text first in case we’re naked.

Bedtime comes when we can’t keep our eyes open any longer…and the next morning we start the game fresh again. Any anger or mini-grudge has a 24-hr. statute of limitations – say what’s on your mind and get the f*ck over it because life is ridiculously short and we started late, so there’s zero time to waste on selfishness.

Sorry so long this time, but our days end up full one way or another. I hope you’re taking notes because unless we step in front of a bus we all end up at this stage of life and it helps to know some stuff going in. You’re welcome.

 

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Update for the faithful…

Happy day – unless tomorrow morning’s x-rays reveal a problem, which is hard to imagine, I’ve graduated from PT! After being around the cool people at the rehab facility for the past couple of months, I’m going to miss them. I’ll also miss 10-minute heat and ice packs, shoulder massage, and people who know how to shame me into working harder. Self-discipline will be called for if I don’t want a flaccid rotator cuff for life – so embarrassing and inconvenient. On to bigger and better things, then!

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Honoring Throwback Thursday

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Casting a long shadow at five years old on a San Francisco street corner, little me in her plaid-lined high-waters and namesake tee, a gift from one of my sweet, hunky uncles. I still have that teeny-beany T-shirt tucked away in a box.

I vividly remember entertaining large-scale dreams early on as my wee pudding-brain started jelling – life as a farm girl was simplified down to its essence, but the world felt limitless and open to me, thanks to my mom and my grandmothers who dropped clues I couldn’t miss. The kernel of all those dreams somehow escaped with its life in spite of everything – adolescence didn’t kill it, marriage and family didn’t smother it, loss couldn’t force it to crawl into a hole and die – and now I get to live the remaining dreams on my own terms.  They no longer seem so big – being a published writer isn’t the point anymore, I simply have to write or expire. Having a summer place in Colorado and a winter spot in California sounds merely exhausting. Kim and I fully intended to own a sailboat, sooner rather than later, but we turned down a prime opportunity last year because…that ship has sailed. He’s Navy and a veteran SoCal sailor, but when you own a boat you never run out of work, which sounded heinous in the light of day. Besides, a nest-egg stretches only so far.

What I remember about this Cali trip with my parents, who’d schlepped me to half the states in the union by this time, is that my sister Susan, nine months old, wouldn’t have anything to do with us when we picked her up from Grandma & Grandpa’s house. Broke my widdle heart, but she got over it, after which I undoubtedly started distressing her again. Aw, I hope not.

Incredibly, this photo was taken almost 64 years ago, which gives it the feel of belonging to someone else, and yet my DNA knows it’s from my lifetime. The hope on that little girl’s face, mixed with just a whiff of healthy skepticism, makes me happy this morning. Hope is hard to kill – it will die a thousand deaths before it reluctantly leaves us, and it has the power to keep us putting one foot in front of the other until things get better. The worst heartbreak is to give up too soon – don’t do that, okay?

 

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P.S.  Turns out I’d know me anywhere. Compare my relatively-new face on the left to my relatively-not-brand-new one in my profile pic to the right – a revelation that provides yet another ray of hope today, and I’ll take it!

 

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Things are all screwed up …

You know, you can be operating in full-scale denial mode and still pick up on things pertaining to precisely what you’re ignoring.  For example, I’m noticing a whole subculture in terminology that hadn’t resonated with me until just recently.  Today in the AARP Bulletin {Hey! The smug grin was uncalled for – the rag was in the mail, who can fathom how or why!} this sentence jumped off the page at me – “People think of ‘elderly’ as this gray plane, as if [older people] are all the same and shouldn’t be seen.”  Wow, cold, dude.

So we have da’ yooths, who so far as we know all think and behave alike, and then ya’ got yer generic interchangeable old farts, which why are they even allowed off the grounds on their own?  In the middle we have The World of Everybody Else, a world which neither youth nor old-fartism is expected, nor particularly welcomed, to grasp.  Nothing personal, most likely, in most cases, just a perception – one that’s always existed and probably always will unless future technology gives us ways to read each other’s thoughts and feelings.  People in the know are pretty sure the young and the old are not part of their ranks, a perception that clearly cheats the world to an astounding degree.

I had two remarkable grandmothers who were as different from each other as chalk and cheese, and each of them managed to get across to me the reality that we stay who we are on the inside all our lives while our bodies go to shit around us.  One grandma, forever young, accomplished that by example, the other through stories.  One night in her 80s, that grandma dreamed she was nineteen again and danced all night in a long flowing skirt and a sparkling-white Maidenform bra.  Advertising in the psyche, man, but it was clear how real it all still was in the light of day.  Her disappointment that it was only a dream was palpable even to a self-absorbed cheerleader-head, but the gut-punch was when she said “It was so wonderful – my body was as young as the real ME again!” That one stuck.

You can’t convince some folks that people under 18 are, indeed, people, and you can’t break the idea that after a certain age we’re all disposable. But you can try.

 

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So healthy it makes me sick …

We live, we learn – mostly we live.  So as it turns out, “twice-weekly PT sessions for six weeks” merely covered Phase 1. Six weeks ended Friday morning and now we try another month.  And then we “see.”  Not a problem – once I graduate, there goes 90% of my outside social life, so what would be the rush?

Health, though – such a ginormous issue in every direction.  Do we possess it?  Do we value it?  What value are other people placing on our health?  Do we take it entirely for granted, or do everything we can to maintain it?  Or realistically, somewhere between?  And if we lose it, can we get it back?

The past few months have shown us that my bones are in far better health than we knew.  And I’ve lost some pounds so my numbers are starting to improve — the dread NUMBERS that cause your extremely caring GP to make sad-panda eyes and counsel you to drop even more pounds and take scary-sounding drugs.  I’m just stumbling along for now, thanks, and trying to beat those numbers into submission by means of personal discipline and other words I avoid.

My preoccupation with health at the moment stems from learning that a cousin is going through a hellish experience.  He’s six weeks older than I am and we grew up more like siblings than cousins, our other siblings nicely stair-stepped or matched up in age, which made extended-family vacations oh so simple.  And now the skinny little boy in the photo is all grown up and overrun by adulthood, and he’s ill and in pain.  That hurts my heart. He’s a kind man who’s “been there” for everyone else.  And life couldn’t possibly get away this fast and our bodies metamorphose so quickly into whatever stage this is that feels suspiciously like a cocoon, while our 60’s-addled brains go right on scheming and dreaming and making plans like a boss.  Wow, whiplash!

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Here, in their natural habitat, are my cousin Bruce, his big sister Vickie on the left, our Aunt Bonnie, who was probably still a teenager, and wide-eyed me, wondering what it was all about, Alfie.  This was just the other day, I’m pretty sure — I remember the shingles on that house — they were a reddish-brown and felt funny under my fingertips.

Bruce will get well I think, and we’ll all go on.  But the knowledge that he’s dependent for now on a wheelchair and round-the-clock help from an only slightly younger brother brings it all home in kind of an in-your-face way.

I mean, today Patty Duke has left the building.  In recent days it’s been Natalie Cole, David Bowie, Alan Rickman, Glenn Frey, Pat Conroy, Garry Shandling, and a litany of others in my generation.  This isn’t going to stop, and I’m not ready for it.  Happen it will, though, that’s how this goes.

We are ALL most definitely playing for time, boys and girls.  Make it count.

 

 

 

 

 

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An ti ci pa tion …

Kim, browsing my Facebook Saved list for recipes:  You have a lot of stuff in here, like really a lot.  What are your plans for all this?

Me:  My plans are to watch the videos, listen to the music tracks, read the articles, and use some of it as a springboard for my blog.

Kim:  Really?

Me:  Yeah.

Kim:

Me:  During lulls when there’s nothing else on my mind and Facebook is boring and I’ve already purged all my email files.

Kim:  

Me:  Seriously.  There are down times.

Kim:  So you save stuff every day because you’re in a rush, but you’ll have time later to go back through all of it?

Me:  Well.  Mostly my attention span isn’t that long, and after the first handful of big-ticket posts I start to drift, but I don’t want to lose them.

Kim:  So they stack up.  Doesn’t that bother you?

Me:  Not much, they’re out of sight.  And I’m waiting for Marky to come along and give me folder capabilities for saved stuff so I can sort and find.

Me:  And delayed gratification is my bag.

Kim:

 

Poor Kimmers.  Clutter, even the thought of it, offends his OCD worse than any other, and in my morally-lax final third I’m an endless trial to him. He’s out of the house most mornings now, so I’m probably working my way through the For Later list, right?  No, not so’s you can tell yet, because there’s another fact of life at work here — one must be IN THE MOOD.

And guess what, bitches, I got IN THE MOOD to compose and handwrite that belated note to Maddie’s veterinary staff.  Mailed it yesterday. Booyah!  I should have taken a picture for you — work of art and worth the time spent agonizing over it, except not really.  Oh, life, I adore your continuing education classes.

A final Easter Egg for the faithful who read to the end:  The Wurlitzer recital in my head, precipitated by my fall on the ice, ended approximately ten days after we upgraded my hearing assists and added a masking track.  I’ve busted it several times trying to make a comeback, and it slinks back under the bed.   Peace is not overrated.

 

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Has to be spring …

… because they’re telling us it’s time to cut the top off the blanket and sew it onto the bottom, thus allowing DST to wreck us once again.  Found comment I can get behind:  Let’s make Eastern & Central one time zone, and Mountain & Pacific another and be done with it.  

If that sounds like an outstanding plan to you, start a petition or a march or something, please?  I’m going back to bed …

Spring_Forward

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And because it’s apropos in some weird way and made me laugh …

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A cry for help …

I’m being a wastrel today.  With a temp of 44º, 25mph winds, and 68% humidity it feels achy cold outside and that’s sufficient to keep me in by the fire, but only because I’m a delicate prairie flower.  I’m just over here trying some therapy for the squirrel party in my head (see Make it shtahp!) by playing nonstop smooth jazz/funky chill-out/trance through my headphones. Success rate after three four six hours = zero%.  Within seconds of removing the input we’re back to the Never-Ending Wurlitzer Dream Concert, and by dream I mean a nightmare I can’t seem to wake from.  No effect is spared, no stop unpulled, no member of the orchestra left partless.  You got your strings, your winds, your muted brass, percussion section, and the random harp or two, did I forget anybody!  It all sounds the way this freak of nature looks and could end up being the tipping point between my continuing to function as a viable member of society or becoming fully unhinged.

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Now I’m employing reverse psychology  “Gosh, I hope the music never stops, it’s so cool to have my own soundtrack, and straight out of my parents’ playlist, bonus!  After all this free entertainment what if I would wake up to silence some morning, oh noooooo!” but nobody is deceived.  This is not our first goat-ropin’.

So the floor’s open, boys and girls, keep those cards and letters coming in.  If you know a proven, or even rumored, method for annihilating an earworm, reach out and touch this one at your first opportunity.  I’m sure I could devise an appropriate and destined-to-be-cherished door prize for the first blogosphere comrade to share a remedy with the juju for this beast.  Please hurry, we’re looking at everything from The Lawrence Welk Show to full-on jazz, every note delivered at dirge speed and with all the intrigue of a stranger’s black & white photos — if you’re not in them and nobody’s having sex, meh.

Desperately yours and TIA,

Wurly Gurl

 

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On cleanliness and opportunity …

Conditions in the broken-bone sector have improved enough that spa-tub soaks are again in the picture and after several weeks’ worth of spit baths, sink baths, and whimper-laden assisted showers, basking in hot water and bubbles up to my armpits is the height of ecstasy.  It’s the shiznit for sore muscles but beyond that it feels wonderful to be clean all over again.

Luxuriating in all that therapeutic goodness makes me acutely conscious of my fellow travelers who lack access to basics like showering, washing hair, brushing teeth, stepping into a clean set of clothes.  Inevitably, after days, weeks, and months on the street they’re cringing inside a filthy threadbare meat suit that reeks of underbelly and in no way represents their spirit, but it’s what everybody sees.  After just a month of enforced immobility and minimal hygiene I’ve been dismayed to find my skin taking on a slightly gritty texture and rejecting its host, namely me.  The nails on my usable hand are constantly grubby simply because I can’t do this right now …

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But because I ordinarily have access to all the soap and water I’m big enough to handle, I can start every new day clean, lotioned from head to toe, wrapped in clothes that smell like fabric softener and fresh air, and that alone means I don’t have to justify my needs to everyone I meet, or fight for my right to exist.  I have the luxury of owning words and concepts like these:

 

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… and it makes all the difference.  Healing happens easier, quicker, better, and it’s a fact that as I roll through life the advantages I enjoy and the possibilities that are open to me are fairly limitless.  It seems apropos to acknowledge that once in a while …

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… because none of it comes with a lifetime guarantee.

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To the bone …

This morning I’m feeling inordinately proud of my skeleton.  I’ve had doubts about it in the past, but this time, when slip came to slide, my little boney bits marched right into formation and got busy.  They were treated to a photo shoot yesterday and the films are gorgeous — all the shattered pieces are in place and getting chummy with each other — what Dr. Pro calls *sticky.*  Sans cast or surgery those little guys shouldered (eh?) the job and did what had to be done.  Part of my personal staff:

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It’s been a sobering month at our house; therefore, good news is primo, and when is it not?  So on a sunny day in February it’s fun to know I’ve still got it, even if it’s on the inside where you can’t see it.  You know why old people are grouchy?  Because they hate getting old, end of story.  We try to grace it all up and pretend to be philosophical … mature, ha! … all the while feeling slightly bereft that not very many people can hear or see the eighteen, thirty, forty-five-ish, never-gonna-grow-up real soul that is us.  We’re having such a good time!  How could the ride be so far down the tracks already?

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That’s why we can’t have nice things and the reason we say shit like “Get off my lawn,” and “You’re one smartass comment away from being bitch-slapped so hard Google won’t be able to find you.”  We mean well.

I just realized today is Whinesday, which explains everything, sorry not sorry.  Enjoy the sunshine — it’s always out there somewhere.

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Dear Diary …

This is one for the record books, my constant confidante — Sunday morning comin’ down, followed by all hell breaking loose.  So what’s new, I hear you thinking.  I guess when you put it that way, not much.

“On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothing short a’ dying
That’s half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.”

-Kris Kristofferson

Lately there’s nothing half as lonesome as the KIMN8R taking care of a one-armed wife and one sick puppy.  It doesn’t stop, and after this morning’s incredible sunrise and half a cup of coffee the day quickly morphed into a slippery slope to the bottom.  Kim’s like a one-legged man in an ass-kicking contest, but the good news is he’s winning.

So, ya’ got your classic Sunday sunrise, great coffee, things are looking up, and before you can absorb all that artistry ya’ got your classic Colossal Sick-Puppy BM-Blowout on a large portion of the new rug, SHAZBOT! just like that.  Wow, we didn’t know she had it IN her.  Haha, turns out laughing at life is often the only honest response there is.

Maddie and I love and appreciate SuperKim (I understate) not least because we both know we’d be up Shit Creek (haha, right?) without him.  He single-handedly — sometimes I crack myself up — got rid of the evidence, wrestled the rug onto the balcony, hit it with the hose (oh my!), draped it out to dry, came inside and made omelets for breakfast.  I’m assuming he washed his hands between operations, but that’s barely worth caring about at this point.

The sick and walking wounded are once again tucked in clean and warm, the house restored to a semblance of order, and SuperKim is out foraging for Super Bowl noshes and libations because we are, after all, Americans.  There’s sunshine above the clouds and the day is cruising along once again, with the additional bonus of friends coming over later. Life is simple, it’s just not easy.

“But easy’s like, who cares? Easy’s like, how much is easy going to get you?”
Anne Lamott, Crooked Little Heart

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The Circus of Life

{For my tribe today at no extra cost — consider it gravy for the mashed potato balls.}

***

THE CIRCUS OF LIFE

Freaks on parade! deck the halls!

let the Big Top glitter! the show must go on!

Be the dancing bear, bestow upon the rubes their money’s worth —

the IOU bears their autograph and a happy crowd is a cash cow —

But avoid the teeth, that tutu will not save you.

Provoked, lesser dancers lash out, abandoned they break.

~jsmithblogger 2016

 

 

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A little perspective goes far.

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We laughed until we cried …

I lost a valuable friendship this week and have been blocked for good measure, so finding out what happened might not … happen.  And that’s regrettable because I could have learned something important from the experience.

So, then, here’s how this works (after we slide into our big-ass panties):

“Cry it out if you must

Bleed a little if you must

But once you’re done, suck it

all up and move on and

never, ever look back.”

–Ali B. Moe

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Of bubbles and bibles and Southern Baptists …

A new friend is graciously letting me share a piece he wrote — the mark of a quality person in my world, especially as there was no hesitancy and he doesn’t know me from a ton of coal.  All I know about him so far is that he has a gift for saying things that need to be said — and read — and that’s sufficient for the time being.  And that he’s good people.  I hope my friends will be as struck by the truths he’s delineated as I am …

“I hate to burst anyone’s bubble, but we don’t live in a Christian nation founded on Biblical principles. 

We live in a secular nation founded on the U.S. Constitution, which protects your freedom to be a Christian if you so choose, and to live by Biblical principles, whatever you interpret those to be. 

It also protects the freedom of those who choose otherwise. 

It’s kind of a beautiful thing.

If you’re a Muslim, no one can make you eat pork. If you’re a Christian, you can load up on the bacon and ham with a big greasy grin on your face. If you don’t subscribe to any religion at all, the world is your buffet.

It even works well within Christianity.  Southern Baptist? No one can make you say a Hail Mary. Catholic? No one can keep you from wearing your “I love the Pope” hat to the mall.

Do you think gay marriage is a sin? Ok, fine. Check your fiancé’s genitals before the ceremony and everything should be a-ok. Just remember it’s not your place to peek inside the pants of other people’s partners. So you can go your merry way and let others do the same.

See how that works? You get to live YOUR life according to your beliefs. You don’t get to force others to live THEIRS that way. And they don’t get to force you to live their way either.

This is how our funny little government works for everyone. This is why it’s a handy dandy thing to remember that, should you seek an office or a job in government, YOU ALSO WILL BE WORKING FOR EVERYONE when you clock in each day.

It’s also good to remember this is why the courthouse lawn and other taxpayer-funded facilities are not churches or temples or mosques. 

The Ten Commandments may look lovely hanging in your church or on your wall at home, but unless you want to allow symbols of other religions including nine-foot bronze statues of a half-man-half-goat with curly horns from the Temple of Satan to greet you when you go to the DMV to get your plates renewed, it’s really best to leave those things up to the private individual to display. 

Any Pentecostals cool with a shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe at your state Capitol building? No? Well, then maybe you get my point.

Your church, however wonderful it may be, has not been appointed to govern those who don’t wish to attend it. Your holy book, however full of wisdom you find it to be, has not been passed into legislation. 

And if you ever study what happens when any religion is given a pass to govern with that kind of power, you’ll thank God it isn’t that way here.”

by Ken Robert

{Follow him on Facebook:  https://www.facebook.com/writerkenrobert?fref=ts}

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