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It’s the Most Unwonderful Time of the Year

Michael 12 Comments

It’s time for my annual “Woe is me” party. I figure I have lots of reasons to celebrate my misfortunes. A rare weird disease, cancer, blood clots, lack of mobility, dialysis. Too much plaid in my wardrobe. The list goes on. But those are everyday disasters and things that almost everybody else will go through. Maybe not all of them or the ones you someday experience not all at once. But these are the things people deal with. And I deal with them pretty well. I have good family and good friends and a good medical team to help me along.

But all the help and support from family members and dialysis nurses won’t change the fact that on Wednesday I’m going to wake up alone. There will be no card taped to the bathroom mirror, they’ll be no second place setting at breakfast (and that’s a shame because I’m planning on a traditional Eggs Benedict with my own Hollandaise), there’ll be no impromptu dancing in the living room in front of an open window for the world to see that old people can still love.

I suppose old people still love. I see them. I know some who are seemingly doing all the right things. Maybe that’s it. Seemingly. In my experience, getting old did not help in the still loving department.

Broken_Heart_Pose_(1)First there was the ex. Forgive me for being so old fashioned here but by “ex” I shouldn’t have to explain ex what. It kills me when people refer to someone they dated three times as their ex. That’s a “guy or girl I dated.” Or someone they saw for almost a year. That’s an “old boyfriend.” By the way there is no “old girlfriend.” Just someone “I used to spend time with” accompanied by a wistful look into nowhere. But no, these people aren’t exes. There has to be something that existed to be exed out of. To me “ex” will always and only be an ex-wife. Or husband depending on your point of view.

Anyway, first there was the ex. We weren’t that bad when we were. We had our moments but then we also had our moments. It was hard getting together in the 70’s. Things were expensive. Money was expensive. It was not a time of destination weddings and yearly two week tropical vacations, new cars, new houses, or new tires no matter how much the mechanic whined they weren’t going to pass inspection next time. We’ll worry about it then. And that was pretty much how we got though out first 10 years. Worrying about it then. And then by the next 10 years we didn’t have to worry so much. Cars were newer. Houses were big enough that the daughter could have her own room with lots of space to spare. Plans were made and met and new ones thought up. One plan that caught us off guard was that I planned on turning 40 and she didn’t. So when I did and she should have soon followed there was lots of holding back and plans changed. Eventually my 40 turned 45 and her never ending 39 regressed to 30 and the 15 years difference was too much for her.

comforting__hearttle_6__by_domobfdi-d7186dwYears went by and I would meet a somebody now and then in between being dad and homemaker. Single parenting isn’t much fun for the male set either in case you’re wondering. Eventually a new she entered and if she wasn’t perfect, she was just right. Right enough that space could be made for her. We danced and swam and festivaled. We visited places from northern falls to tropical islands and enjoyed time in farm markets and art studios. Plans were made and met and new ones thought up. One plan that caught us off guard was that I planned on getting cancer (well, part of me did but didn’t bother to tell the rest of me until it was too late) and she planned on me always being the same. So when I did and the cure necessitated removing some parts of me, and some of those parts were the parts that impart a certain amount of masculinity to maleness, and plans changed. We struggled a bit until the phone call that spoke of things wanted and things able and they weren’t the same things. And then sometime in our 8th, maybe 9th, could have been 10th year, the new she began to become someone I used to spend time with.

So twice bitten I’ve had no will to risk adding even a girl I used to date to my record. The desire, yes. The will, no. I’d love to have someone warm to hold close at night or to slog through mud tracked roads leading to the demonstration area at the maple festival. Someone to see the old ships of New England and the old houses of the Old Country. Or someone to sit next to and read a book for the fourteenth time and for the thirteenth time to explain that it’s OK to reread a book. Or someone to share an Eggs Benedict then dance with in front of a window

Nope, not the most wonderful week of the year for me. But that’s ok. There are 51 others to amuse me. I’ll be back to normal sometime next week.

 

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Timely yet Priceless

Michael 2 Comments

Have you changed your clock back yet? If you’re somewhere where that happens, of course. If you’re not, then you shouldn’t have, so don’t now. I’m of two minds when it comes to these twice yearly time changes. Now the two minds aren’t I like it but I don’t like it. It’s the rule so I’m going to do it and not let my personal feelings intrude on my appropriate completion of this task. Like coming to a complete stop before making a right turn on red, particularly in the face of oncoming traffic. I might not like it but it’s what we’re supposed to do and not liking it out loud isn’t going to change that.

I don’t understand why Arizona doesn’t follow Daylight Savings Time. Hawaii, Guam, Puerto Rico, Samoa, and the US Virgin Islands don’t either but they’re isolated from the rest of the country so if they want to follow what their closest neighbors do, that makes sense. Arizona doesn’t. Oh sure, Arizonans didn’t have to wonder should I change my clock before I go to bed on Saturday or after I wake up on Sunday, but is that a fair exchange for being out of sync with their border state neighbors all summer long and tuning in for the 6:00 news an hour early for six months?

SlowClock

Anyway, my two minds are when to actually make the change. Nobody in their right mind is going to wake up at 2:00 am just to reset various timepieces. I certainly wouldn’t and I’m not necessarily that right in my mind. Besides, I not only wouldn’t but I couldn’t. I have other things to do when I change my clocks and I need to be alert which I certainly am not in the middle of the night. So that leaves the day before or the day after.

Typically I change my clocks before I go to bed. But not right before. If I waited till then I’d forget. So I change them when I think about it or hear or read a reminder. Usually that’s around 5 in the afternoon. That’s what time I changed them 2 days ago. Then for the next 6 hours I wondered every time I looked at a clock what time it really was. Since the computers and phones magically change themselves in the middle of the night I didn’t touch them. That meant that none of the clocks in the room matched the times on my cell phone and tablet which are my ever present recliner companions. And worse than that, the TV listings didn’t match the clock next to the TV. I’ve been changing my own clocks for over 40 years and I go through this dilemma twice a year every year. Next year I think I might wait until I wake up on Sunday to change them and see what happens.

By the way, tomorrow is a noteworthy if not outright special day for The Real Reality Show Blog. On November 7, 2011, I posted the first of now close to 600 posts. Except for a few months when I was in the intensive care unit at the local get well center, I got a post out every Monday and Thursday for six whole years – with an occasional off schedule day tossed in to keep you on your toes. And during all that, this amazing feat has been brought to you for nothing more than your energy to connect and your desire to read.

I want to thank you for your support and continued readership. It is only with that support that this blog is and always will be free. And worth every penny.

 

Happy Birthday! (Offer valid in the continental United States only. Void where prohibited.)

Michael Leave a comment

Last week was my birthday (thank you) and among the cards, letters, and gifts I received a plethora of greetings from a host of retailers than I have bought from. They were all particularly generous. For example:

One restaurant would be happy to celebrate with me by offering me a free dessert! (Offer good for any single serving dessert item up to $5.00 with entrée purchase, guest must pay any sales tax, cannot be combined with other offers, not redeemable for cash or gift card.)

Another restaurant was celebrating my special day by giving me a free entrée (with the purchase of a second entrée of equal value or greater value, dine-in only, excludes daily special, maximum value $19.99).

Yet a third was willing to part with 25% off the regular price of any breakfast to ring in another year for me (as long as I also bought a beverage, didn’t select any combo meals, stayed away from the breakfast buffet, didn’t dine on Sunday, and spent less than 8 dollars on my choice, otherwise my maximum savings was capped at $1.99).

And still a fourth eating establishment was going to remember my special day with a full 10% of the total check for me and as many guests as I care to include in this raucous fete (excluding alcoholic beverages, market based priced items, pasta and salad bars, discount not to exceed $10.00).

Among the non-food offerings, an e-retailer wanted to commemorate the day of my birth with free shipping on any on-line purchase (minimum $34.99, enter code at checkout).

Or another on-line or in-store savings just for me during my special birthday month of 10% OFF ALL MERCHANDISE (excludes designer, clearance, super-saver, or special purchase items, plus sales tax and shipping, must present coupon at time of purchase, no facsimiles accepted, please enter special 15 character code (“selected just for you!”) before check-out for on-line purchases).

Even the state lottery got in on the festivities offering me a dollar off any $5.00 instant game (coupon expires 30 days after printing).

At least Publishers Clearance house wanted to celebrate with me by offering me a special extra chance to enter their sweepstakes on my birthday only for a prize I may have already won with no purchase necessary! (Don’t ignore this opportunity being made only to special individuals born this month like you!)

And you thought that gift card from Aunt Ella was impersonal.

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

 

Desperately Seeking Closure

Michael 1 Comment

Did you draw your mother’s ire when as a kid you left (or if you still are a kid, leave) the door open when you came in from outside? Or let the refrigerator hang open? Or had an array of dresser draws intrude into your room, socks spilling onto the floor? Well, I didn’t. Not back then. Oh, I wasn’t perfect either. I probably had a door stay open to the elements on an urgent run from outdoor playing when all the trees were taken. (What can I say? The rest of the neighborhood kids weren’t perfect either.) But now I’ve turned into a man with seemingly not enough strength to get a cupboard door closed all the way.

If you were to look into my kitchen after I cooked up a good healthy breakfast you would find the refrigerator closed but not quite completely, the silverware drawer open, the cabinet where the oatmeal resides with its lid half-cocked not shut quite all the way, and the dishwasher where the used plates and tableware have been carefully placed quite uncarefully left ajar. Certainly the cabinets where the plates and glasses are stored would be similarly left agape except that those items are stored in racks on the counter. There are even times when the under-sink cabinet chemicals remain unshielded when I take the time to wipe down the counter after enjoying my healthy if a bit harried morning meal.Door

This carelessness isn’t restricted to the kitchen. In the bathroom drawers and doors are more likely to be open than closed upon entering. (I am good about lowering the toilet seat. Years of living in predominantly female households will do that.) In the bedroom the dresser drawers are almost always opened just a crack. Somehow even the roll top on the desk that now qualifies as my longest lasting relationship never quite makes it all the way to the writing surface, even with gravity helping along my now apparently feeble shutting action. The front door manages to get closed but on a nice day with the patio in use that door stands as great a chance of being as open during the night as it was during the day since I’ll often go to bed and simply forget there is a door there. (Note to potential local burglars, there’s nothing behind that unlatched entrance worth taking except perhaps the aforementioned rolltop desk which is much too heavy for one person to handle. Especially if that one person has a strong desire to maintain a certain level of stealth. And baby making ability.)

This failure to get doors, drawers, and other front pieces into their fully secure positions can’t be age related, can it? Certainly it’s not because I forget to secure the offending openings, patio access notwithstanding. I’d not think it’s a strength issue since I seem to do well enough with car doors which are certainly heavier than veneered particle board cabinet doors. I’d say perhaps it’s a laziness thing but does it really take any more effort to push a drawer that last quarter inch than not? Could it be that I’ve developed this propensity to leaving things standing open sometime after adolescence and just had a sufficiently active adulthood that I didn’t notice I was leaving doors and drawers open until recently now that I have more time to hang around the not closed openings? That seems doubtful in that you would imagine at some time I would walk into a hanging drawer front or notice the milk had soured from a refrigerator left open for an entire week’s worth of work days. No, age doesn’t seem to be a factor here other than one of coincidence.

I think the culprits are the house fairies that I had been hoping would have shown up during those years of weeks’ worth of work days to do things like clean the counters and match the socks tossed haphazardly into the dresser. They finally got around to me on their list of houses to work on and when they got here found that everything they had been dispatched to do is now being dealt with. Since house fairies are notoriously reticent to leave a place once they have been assigned, they are obviously looking for something to do, cook, eat, write, or wash, and they leave the room within which they are so searching somewhat hastily upon my entrance. The doors and drawers are left open just a smidge because, let’s be blunt about it, fairies don’t take up that much space and can get in and out of places through just a crack. That clearly explains the cabinets and dressers and even the desk doors and drawers that seem to never make it completely closed.

There. I feel better about it already. All except for that patio door business. I think I might have to take the blame for that one.

That’s what I think. Really. How ‘bout you?

Oil’s Well that Ends Well

Michael Leave a comment

There’s a new ad on TV for Country Crock margarine that makes note of that it is made from plants. I never thought about it that way but, yes, margarine is made from plants in that it is made from some vegetable oil and indeed, vegetables are plants.

Now this revelation didn’t have much of an impact on my life. (And to be honest, neither did the ad but I really can’t bad mouth ads much more in these posts as most of you know that advertising is my daughter’s bread and butter and that it’s probably ad money that will determine if my retirement village (and/or nursing home) will have an all-season pool and hot tub. (Probably not the nursing home.) In fact, I basically put it out of my mind as soon as that ad gave way to the next ad when uppermost in my mind was how many ads until the show comes back on.) (But, as so often, I digress.)

I really hadn’t thought at all about margarines and oils coming from plants until I was cleaning the kitchen counters and took a good look at the array of oils hanging out next to the stove. A couple of olives, a corn, a canola, a nondescript vegetable, a few favored with basil, thyme or some other herb, and one in an unlabeled bottle that I didn’t even remember pouring or flavoring. (Tasting it didn’t help much so it became the one eventually discarded making me feel good about having undertaken that whole particular chore.) But all that did make me think about where all these oils come from.

Olive and corn are pretty self-explanatory. But what is a canola? And just what vegetables are in vegetable oil? Since I also as so often have that kind of time, I looked them up. Canola is kind of scary in that it’s a genetic manipulation of rapeseed and those aren’t the kind of words you want in a sentence describing what ingredients you used in supper. Vegetable oil has no standard makeup but most have palm oil. Coconuts come from palm trees so where does palm oil come from? Apparently from a palm tree that doesn’t grow from a coconut which technical grows up to be a coconut tree.

Once I was done with the oils and moved onto the spices it didn’t get any better starting with old fashioned pepper. I have black, pink, and white. It seems that two of the three, black and white, come from the same plant which also gives us green and red (but not the red pepper that ends up as crushed red pepper – that’s a chilI which are the source of the peppers you slice, stuff, or otherwise turn into or in to tasty meals). The pink is some other plant all together. I got pretty confused by then and forgot what plant but I figured I really didn’t need to know.

Seeds opened up a whole new can of confusion. For instance, did you know about the caraway seed? It’s also know as Meridian Fennel and Persian Cumin, two spices that taste nothing alike. And it’s a relative of parsley even though they don’t look alike. But cilantro which grows from coriander seed does look like parsley but they aren’t related. Who know?

The whole thing made me happy I mostly stay out of that corner of the kitchen when I’m not cooking.

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

It Just Happened

Michael Leave a comment

You wouldn’t think Dr. Seuss would come up when a 60 year old is looking back on the year almost gone by. Being just out of the hospital for but a few days I actually haven’t gotten all the way home yet. Since I live alone and am still a little while away from taking care of myself with a greater chance that I end a day in the emergency room rather than the bedroom, my sisters have opened their house to me so I can be pampered in the style an only son should be pampered…even at 60. But I digress. I think.

I was sitting alone in a corner pondering how I got to this place in space and time while the younger of the two siblings, the one still working the poor dear, was modeling the many holiday themed hats she was planning on bringing to work with her on the next day. You know the kind you see this time of year. The baseball hat with antlers that reads “Oh Deer,” or the one decked out in gingerbread cookies saying “Oh Snap!” As she dug deeper into her bag of headwear I got a greater memory sense of a story about a boy with a never-ending collection of hats.

It didn’t take too much more reflection that I recalled the hats indeed did end. The young man was Bartholomew Cubbins and the tale was Dr. Seuss’s “The 500 Hats of Bartholomew Cubbins.” If you don’t remember it, it is the story of a young boy who cannot bare his head to the king. Every time he removes a hat another appears in its place. Finally at the 500th reveal he doffs the yet finest example and presents the highly decorated hat to the king and is rewarded with a bag of gold.

So, how do we get from a child’s story from the 1930s to my consideration of all that happened to me this year? The last line of the story tells the tale. Though they could never explain how it happened, “They could only say is just ‘happened to happen’ and was not very likely to happen again.”

And isn’t that really the tale we are all told?

That’s what I think. Really. How ’bout you?

But a House is Not a Home

Michael Leave a comment

We aren’t rich.  Barring a hit on the PowerBall we’ll never be rich.  Our investments taken together aren’t very interesting.  In fact the only interest bearing accounts we have are our televisions on account of we’re interested in old TV shows and cable has them.  We like little extravagances like motoring in the countryside in He of We’s little convertible but it’s 15 years old and was bought used 12 years ago.  We have some spectacular accessories in our houses because we were able to buy them in remainder shops, on sale, or on sale in remainder shops.  Our most recent extravagances are the little fountains we bought for our respective decks.  On sale.  Our wealth is in each other, our families, and our friends.  And we’re happy with that.

But boy we’d love to be rich some day.  For whatever reason we have taken to Sunday afternoon drives in said little convertible through the said countryside which is really the wooded borders between affluence and more affluence.  We like to look at the big houses and the way they aren’t as well landscaped as ours which we do ourselves.  It was on one of these drives that we sort of got lost.  We almost always have a good sense of where we are.  Whether it’s in a subdivision or an unincorporated township between hither and yon, we know how to read legislative route signs, can tell east from west, and have lived where we live for the better part of our adult lives.  The best part of our adult lives has been since we met each other but that’s a different post.

On this trip we were lost.  We knew from the signs that we were closer to more affluence rather than your garden variety affluence and when we drove past the horse farm we finally had most of our bearings back where they belonged.  In fact, it was just past the horse farm that He of We turned left onto a road we had never even heard of yet alone been on.  To the right of the car was a garden variety Mini-Mansion (not to be confused with a McMansion which isn’t one at all and yet again a different post).   And that’s when He or We mumbled, “Oh.  My.  God.”

“It nice, isn’t it?  A little plain though,” She of We responded.

“No, not there,” He of We literally stammered.  “Up ahead.”

And up ahead was just the peak of a roofline that screamed castle.  As we climbed the little knoll, more of the roof, or of the roofs came into view, then the stone, and the windows with their beveled glass and cross-shaped mullions, and the second floor windows, and the first floor cap, and the doors and fence and the biggest house, by far the biggest house we had ever seen.  There was a fountain in front that wouldn’t be out of place in front of a Las Vegas casino.  As we drove past we saw appendages angle from the back corners and out buildings larger than most of the Mini-Mansions that shared this short street.  We were in the land of million dollar houses and this made them seem small, very small.

We really needed to find out more about this building that was larger than most country club club houses in the area.  And find out we did.  Later, when we got home, the county assessment site obliging told us that we had been parked outside a 34 room, 30,000 square foot home with 12 bedrooms, 21 full or half baths, sitting on 6+ acres and valued at $9.5 million.

But back on that road, as we rounded our way around the cul-de-sac, another car approached.  A dark car.  A black car.  With dark windows.  Black windows.  The kind of car that would make you think Guard Patrol.  He of We did think it and thought it out loud just as She of We was saying “Slow down, I want to take pictures.”

“But it’s a patrol car,” He of We said.

”No it isn’t.  And if it is, what can they do.  Stop here, I have a good shot.”  And we stopped.

The black car circled behind us, stopped, then slowly pulled alongside us.  Slower still they passed us, pulled in front of us and stopped.  The heavily tinted window slid down.  And then the passenger leaned out the window and snapped some pictures of her own.  Just another sightseer in the land of more affluence.  Right there, in front of us.

And in front of that structure, among the million dollar houses, in our little car, we looked at each other and said, “Nice fountain.”

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?

 

Three Little Words

Michael Leave a comment

We’ve been thinking about this for a while and have come to a conclusion.  There is only one instruction in the English language that people actually pay attention to.  It is not:

Speed Limit = (XX) MPH.  Speed limits are barely suggestions anymore.

Not dishwasher safe.  Everything is safe in the top rack.

Capacity = 20 People, particularly in an elevator, particularly at 9am

Cook at 350 degrees for 45 minutes which really means cook at 450 for 20.  We’re hungry!

No Turn on Red and other traffic suggestions that control movement at intersections. 

Allow to stand for 20 minutes.  Nothing good happens after the first 5 minutes.

Inflate to 23 PSI Front, 21 PSI Rear.  Tires, right?  Just blow them up till the pump stops.

Coupon Expires January 31, 2012.  If you tear it at just the right angle across the top…

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.  Really?

Tools required: Adjustable Wrench, Allen Wrench, Sultry Wrench.  What, no hammer?

Do Not Use After: xx/xx/xxxx.  Come on.  Yogurt is already milk gone bad.

Hand Wash.  Then why do they put a delicate setting on the washer?

Do not mix batteries.  Does anybody even know what this is supposed to mean?

Bulb max = 40 Watt.  For what?  Night blindness?

No, it’s none of these.  Yet there is a rule, a law, a regulation, an instruction that puts fear in Americans.  The one instruction the American public actually follows is:

Dry Clean Only.

It’s on the only clothes that people actually sort on laundry day.  It’s the only instruction that parents pass on to their children when they move out into the world on their own.  In fact, we know people who have actually not purchased clothes because of this instruction.  Although we hesitate to admit it, She of We has actual personal experience that Dry Clean Only means Dry Clean Only.  (In fairness though, she does prefer to send out white blouses and shirts to a Dry Cleaner because they always come back so nice and crisp.)  

Yes, these are the most powerful three words in the English language.  Dry.  Clean.  Only. 

Now, that’s what we think.  Really.  How ‘bout you?