Category Archives: humor

I Love People. No, Really.

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“Now, wait a minute” (I hear you cry). “You don’t even like people. I’ve heard you complain when you have to go somewhere, and it’s ‘too people-y’ out there. I know you avoid being in large groups. You are perfectly happy alone in your study. Maybe you like people, but you love cats.”

Yeah, well. All that is true. I couldn’t deny it if I tried with both hands. But while I dislike large groups of strangers, I love individual people. I even love groups of people when they are doing something interesting, like playing music and singing. Even then, I prefer my groups of people small. Sometimes I’ll brave larger groups of people to be somewhere with people playing music and singing. (I did it for Emmylou Harris, for example, and am going to do it again for The Stray Cats.)

The truth is, I love certain kinds of people. They’re not limited by age, race, religion, ethnicity, handicap status, gender orientation, or the usual dividing lines. I love different people in all those categories, from people I interact with in my daily life to people I know only online or admire from afar.

The people I love have several things in common. I love people who…

Improve

People who improve are those who put in the work, practice, and get better at what they do. I met a man years ago who played the guitar. He was having trouble with barre chords, a specific technique he needed to play his music. When I saw him, he was struggling. He could have given up and used a capo to get a similar effect. Instead, he kept at it. Years later, he’s known in certain circles as an excellent songwriter who skillfully accompanies himself on his guitar. Sometimes I remind him of what he was able to do when we met and how far he’s come since then.

Try new things

These people take a leap of faith in matters large and small, not knowing in advance what the results will be. They try sushi for the first time. They start writing a short story or a poem or a novel, just because they want to. As a friend of mine says, they leap and trust that the net will appear. I know a woman, an artist who has experimented with many different media and techniques over the years. She has worked in fabric arts, stained glass, and jewelry. She has settled into her career of painting in oils, but she still tries different styles and schools like cubism. Now she is exploring the possibilities of colored pencils.

Have a checkered past

I love people who have had many interests and experiences over the years, even if not all were successful or even positive. I knew a man who had gone to seminary, become a police officer, and worked in parks and recreation. He got past a difficult period in midlife, including problems with alcohol, and eventually turned to helping others. His multitude of experiences made him a fascinating conversationalist and a compassionate listener.

Keep an open mind

My mother is my example here. She was a very religious woman. One day, her fellow believers were discussing other religions and brought up the question of whether they would ever visit a synagogue or a mosque. All of them said no, until they got to Mom. She said that, of course, she would. When asked why, she replied, “If I didn’t listen to them, how could I expect them to listen to me?”

Have a sense of humor

It largely doesn’t matter what their sense of humor finds funny. Bad puns. Song parodies. One-liners. Musical comedy. Satire. Witty wordplay. Politicians of all stripes are fair game. And religious jokes are welcome. Most of all, I love people who find humor in everyday life. The world needs more people like that.

It occurs to me that the qualities I love in other people are ones that I aspire to. I want to live a life that is varied and full of humor. I would like to think that I have an open mind and a willingness to try new things. I want to improve. The people I love are inspirations and role models for me. I just hope I live up to them.

Home on the Suburban Range

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My father had a thing about cowboys and the Old West. He loved Western movies, Zane Grey and Louis L’Amour novels, and Marty Robbins’s Gunfighter Ballads album. He did Western-style crafts like working leather. (Once his car blew a gasket on the road. He just happened to have some leather in the car and fashioned a new gasket from it with his pocket knife. But I digress.)

He wasn’t an authentic cowboy, of course. He only ever lived in Kentucky and Ohio, neither of which has any cowboys to speak of. (Kentucky has lots of horses, of course, but they need trainers and jockeys, not cowpokes and wranglers. But I digress again.)

Through most of his life, Dad (we called him Melvyn, though his name was really James) worked in a government job as an Industrial Engineering Technician. (I never quite got over the fact that I was never going to be able to write a country song that went, “I was born an Industrial Engineering Technician’s daughter.” But I digress yet again). He did time and motion study and had a clipboard with a stopwatch, and also a slide rule, which he tried to teach me how to use. Fortunately, he kept his work at the office and never tried to improve the family’s efficiency.

But he was a cowboy at heart. When the family was on a road trip, he liked to pretend that we were in a covered wagon or buckboard pulled by horses. He’d shout, “Get up, Smoky! Yah! (whip-cracking noises and whistles)” and similar encouragements, particularly if we were going up a hill. As kids, we loved this and played along. He sometimes called my mother “Old Squaw,” which she didn’t take as an insult, though these days it would be considered culturally inappropriate.

(My husband sometimes calls me “Old Boot,” which is a term of endearment between us. We have many other peculiar ways of referring to each other, like “Thing” or “Doodle,” which we tend not to do when there are other people around. But I digress some more.)

When he retired from his government job, Melvyn went back to (or invented) his cowboy roots. He wore Western or plaid shirts, old jeans, and a cowboy hat wherever he went. (Once, when he was thus arrayed and leaning on a cane, he went into a Ponderosa restaurant and a little boy looked at him and asked, “Did you get shooted by an Indian?” Dad loved to tell that story. But I digress even more.) For some reason, he never got cowboy boots, preferring sneakers instead.

Dad was a gun collector who bought and traded pistols and rifles with his buddies over the years. He left them to me when he died. (Once, when I went shooting at a gun range with some of my fellow martial arts students, I brought along the revolver. All the guys (who had automatics) wanted to try out “the cowboy gun,” but only one, who knew me well (my eye doctor), dared to ask me directly. But I digress still more.)

Even with all that, my father wasn’t the oddest member of our family. That honor belonged to Uncle Sam (yes, he really was named that; we also had an Aunt Jemima). Sam was a sharecropper in the hills of Kentucky, and it was said that he was a moonshiner. I don’t know if he made the stuff, but he used to keep a jar of it hidden in his barn.

There aren’t any horse thieves in the family. At least not that I know about.

Could You Repeat That?

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It’s been said that when a couple is old, their primary form of communication is being in separate rooms, yelling “What? What?” a lot. My husband and I do it multiple times a day. So, yes, we are old.

We’ve determined that Dan needs hearing aids. (I probably don’t. Since Dan can’t hear well, he talks softly, imagining that he’s speaking loudly enough and that the other person can hear him. I can’t. But I digress.)

Years ago, he had a hearing test that said his hearing banana is rotten enough to be covered with fruit flies. Since then, he has struggled along until we reached the “What? What?” phase. (The “hearing banana” is a measure of your ability to hear. Your results on a graph look something like a banana. Where the banana is located determines which pitch of sounds—high, low, or medium—are problems for you. Dan had trouble with midrange sounds. But I digress again.)

Now that his hearing is a bad banana with a greasy, black peel, I began shopping around online for hearing aids. And let me tell you, there are many different brands and kinds available. All sorts of price ranges, too, from $99 to nearly $2000.

Shopping online is one of my family responsibilities. I know enough not to pay attention to the ads that say a product is a fabulous innovation at a low, low price. Even online reviews are iffy. Some companies invent their own comparison sites and rate their own products highly. Eventually, I decided to buy a subscription to Consumer Reports. I figured that the savings on the hearing aids alone would make the cost worth it.

The Consumer Reports article on OTC hearing aids didn’t even rate the $99 ones. There was a large chart that compared the choices in different categories. (I once had a job that required proofreading large charts. We had to print them in sections and tape them to a wall. Then one person read from the manuscript and the other checked the printout. It was beyond tedious, especially all the yes/no columns. But I digress yet again.)

The device (devices?) I chose cost $250 and had pretty good ratings. They included features I liked, like a rechargeable recharging case (if you can follow that) and different-size “cups” to accommodate fat and skinny ear canals. (There were also features I ignored, like the ability to control the devices from your smartphone. Dan uses his for phone calls from exactly two people (me and his mother). But I digress some more.)

Dan won’t even look older because of wearing the hearing aids. The little piece that goes behind the ear, and indeed the piece that goes in the ear, will be pretty much invisible. With Dan’s more-than-ample locks of Jerry-Garcia-like gray hair, they will be completely hidden from view.

The hearing aids won’t be delivered until the end of the week, so it remains to be seen—or rather, heard—what effects they will have on both Dan’s hearing and our relationship. I know I won’t miss the shouting from room to room or having TV shows set to window-rattling volume. Those are my goals—not to restore Dan’s hearing to preadolescent levels, before he started going to large rock concerts and cranking the sound on his stereo to 11 and yanking off the knob, but to cut down on the yelling from room to room. Our cat seems to have gotten used to the cacophony, but I worry about his sensitive ears. The cat, at least, has a fine hearing banana.

On the other hand, I most likely won’t be able to sneak snacks without Dan hearing me rattling the packages. This will lead to a more equitable distribution of cookies, of course, but every advance has its drawbacks, and I suppose it is simply one of the sacrifices I must make.

My Journey Through the Vast Wasteland

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I used to read a lot of books. I still read more than the average or even above-average American (though that’s not saying much). But increasingly, I’ve been journeying through what F.C.C. chair Newton N. Minow in 1961 called the “vast wasteland” of television. It’s only gotten vaster and waste-ier.

I’m not going to hold up my TV viewing habits as lofty and noble. What I watch is easily scoffed at, and you may do so if you choose. If you do so quietly, that is. I don’t need to hear how I’m disgracing my two English degrees. Think of it as my “Dare to Be Shallow” phase.

Reruns

These shows are what I call my “comfort shows.” Sometimes I actually watch them. More often, I just have them on in the background while I write. I think of them as my “emotional support noise.” (My mother used to do this too when she lived alone after my father’s death. She put on baseball games, but didn’t watch them. I’m not sure what she did after baseball season was over. Game shows, I think. But I digress.)

Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I’ve already seen every episode dozens of times, so I don’t have to actually watch them, just glance over when a particularly interesting bit comes on, like the musical episode. (Oddly, my husband got me hooked on Buffy. I don’t know why he was hooked on it. But I digress some more.)

Forged in Fire. I like competition shows where the contestants actually make or do something. On Forged in Fire, they make knives and swords from scratch (or scrap). I can even put up with Project Runway. But cooking competitions are my go-tos: Chopped, 24 in 24, Top Chef, and such. (I never make any of the recipes—except once when I made Ina Garten’s Triple Ginger Cookies, as I’m a ginger freak. But I digress yet again).

Medical, legal, or medico-legal shows. House. Bones. Forensic Files. Mystery Diagnosis, Monsters Inside Me, and Dr. Pimple Popper (another show hubby got me hooked on).

Science fiction series. Star Trek, of course. Firefly, even though there are few episodes. And Babylon 5, which is eerily relevant even now. (See the “Nightwatch” episodes if you don’t believe me. But I digress even more.)

New-to-Me Shows

Recently, I was burned out on the shows I was watching and needed something new, so I asked a dear friend for recommendations. (We used to watch Simon & Simon, Magnum, P.I., and MacGyver together, back in the day. Simon & Simon was particularly good, as we each lusted after a different Simon. But I digress still more.)

My friend recommended Will Trent, High Potential, The Rookie, Matlock, Elsbeth, and Sheriff Country, which, alas, I had to explain to my husband as “Inara in khaki.” Unfortunately, these are all shows that, while I like them extremely well, have only one season or so. I have to wait months now for new episodes.

Dexter and NCIS are shows I’ve never seen before. NCIS, at least, has plenty of seasons, so I don’t expect to get caught up on it any time soon. (Dexter is particularly interesting, in that he kills people who kill people because killing people is wrong. But I digress yet again.)

One new-to-me show that I tried to watch for a little comic relief was How I Met Your Mother. I had to stop watching it, though. After the first season or two, it became “All About Barney,” and he’s such a misogynist-sleazebag-horndog that I can’t bring myself to watch.

(Let’s not even talk about my husband’s viewing habits. Suffice it to say that when I go to bed, I have to remind him not to watch the S&E Channel (Screaming-and-Explosions). And that’s enough digressions for one week.)

Where Do Novels Go to Die?

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“The last day of ten-year-old Nicky Fontaine’s life was nothing special.”

That was the first line of a mystery novel I once wrote. I thought it was a damn fine first line, but apparently the next line and the next and the next and so on weren’t. It was a book about death that was fated for death itself.

(It was the second time I had tried to write a mystery novel. The first one I wrote mostly in order to kill off My Rotten Ex-Boyfriend Who Almost Ruined My Life. I figured if that didn’t satisfy me, I could kill him again in a sequel. There never got to be a sequel. There never even got to be a novel. It was written for the desk drawer, as they say—really a file folder in a computer that died, too. But I digress.)

The mystery manuscript I quoted above, titled Cold as Stone, died in an extended, spectacular fashion. I worked on that novel on and off for a couple of years, alternating between spells of despair and rushes of enthusiasm. Then, one day, I declared the novel done, mostly because after rereading it, I couldn’t think of anything else to do to it. It was, I thought, time to seek out an agent and/or publisher. I was, of course, deluded.

I went through an online database that said what the various professionals were looking for. In a fit of—let’s call it hubris—I sent queries and samples to more than 100 professionals who dealt in mysteries and waited to hear back. (I fantasized getting a call from the Mystery Writers Association telling me that I had won Best First Mystery Novel. I told you I was deluded (or having a fit of hypomania). But I digress again.)

The response from each was a resounding empty silence or a politely worded but resounding “no.” Finally, one agent added to the rejection slip a sentence or two about what I had done that sent the manuscript from slush pile to scrap heap in 100+ different offices.

The naysayers were right, and I could see it as soon as that lone agent pointed it out. (My beta readers had not been prose pros and had enthusiastically said the first chapters were fine, except for a quibble or two, like overuse of the word “and,” which I couldn’t deny if I tried with both hands. But I digress some more.)

Even published novels have places they go to die—the thrift shop, secondhand bookshop, and the dreaded remainders table of books with yellow $2 stickers. (There was once a musical supergroup called Rock Bottom Remainders, formed by Dave Barry, Amy Tan, Scott Turow, Stephen King, Barbara Kingsolver, and a cast of other famous writers. Their music has been described as “energetic, if sloppy.” I never got to hear them perform, though I’ve read many of their books, which are often energetic but never sloppy. But I digress musically.)

The ultimate place where novels go to die is Hollywood. Oh, there are books adapted for the screen that produce a movie that’s better than the book. Hopscotch and Three Days of the Condor, I’m looking at you. Repeatedly. But for the most part, filming a book produces something heinous. I could name a lot of titles here, but let’s stick with one—The Hobbit. Sleigh bunnies and three films from a slim children’s book. Feh.

The sad truth is that most novels (or attempted novels) go somewhere to die. The odds against a new writer making that big breakthrough are astronomical. But we keep trying. I’m starting research for a sequel to Cold as Stone right now. (I know it sounds silly to have a sequel to a book that doesn’t exist. Stop me before I digress again.) I hope the hypomania holds off this time.

The Line: Who’s Next?

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I’ve heard it said that the last three people waiting in any line—at a bank, at the DMV, at the deli counter, or wherever—are clinically depressed. They simply lack the wherewithal to move to a shorter line or the determination to abandon the line and come back later.

(I don’t know if that’s true. At least nowadays, everyone has a phone to distract them while waiting. But I do know that waiting in line is a universal experience, one that anyone can relate to. But I digress.)

But how do lines form? At the grocery store, lines are defined by the number of checkout lanes that are open. A line for an ATM couldn’t suddenly become a jumble of people crowding around the one resource, though they do that in other circumstances, like when standing on a corner waiting for the “Walk” light.

In college, three friends and I tried a little experiment. There was a theater on campus that showed movies weekly. We had noticed that while waiting for the doors to open, people followed the jumble philosophy. One evening, though, the four of us were the first ones there.

There were two doors, side by side. Instead of forming a jumble, we aligned ourselves in two lines of two each. When other students arrived, they automatically lined up neatly behind us in our two lines. This continued until the doors opened, and we all filed in. So we determined that as few as two people could cause a crowd to form lines. It was an example of groupthink, we hypothesized.

(While we waited for our fellow liners to arrive, we had a discussion on whether the correct phrasing was to stand in line or on line. (This was in the Olden Days, when the word “online” was not a thing.) It was linguistically interesting and led to a game we called “Gee, You Talk Funny.” Other debates featured “change for a quarter” or “change of a quarter.” We examined “My hair needs washed,” “My hair needs to be washed,” or “My hair needs washing.” And don’t get me started on what we called the things in supermarkets that you push around and put groceries in. Our choices seemed to be regional variants, governed by where we grew up. But I digress again.)

But back to lines. There is also great debate as to whether someone can save a place in line for someone else, and what to do if someone crashes the line. In the case of waiting at an airport, you can hold a place in line at the ticket counter line for someone you’re traveling with, but when the plane is beginning to board, the jumble in the waiting area becomes a line, or ought to anyway, when the airport employee calls row numbers.

If someone does cut the line, there are two possible responses: side-eye and quiet grumbling if in a more formal situation, and shouting “Hey! Back of the line! No cuts!” in a casual one. (I once tried to yell “Back of the line!” in Spanish at an airport when a Hispanic couple performed an end run around the baggage line. I doubt my high school Spanish held up. They kept going. But I digress some more.)

The premiere of Star Wars or tickets for the Rolling Stones going on sale used to result in lines around the block. People would bring lawnchairs, snacks, and sleeping bags; get to know their line neighbors; and share the anticipatory thrill. As annoying as it was to have to get someone to watch your stuff while you sought out a restroom, buying tickets online just isn’t the same. The most positive parts of the line-standing experience have disappeared—the connection, camaraderie, and linguistic debates. No wonder all that’s left for line-standers is depression, frustration, and doomscrolling.

Luck in the Library

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Jimmy Buffett wrote a song called “Love in the Library.” It’s a little disconcerting to hear a Buffett song that includes the name “Flaubert” instead of the word “beach” or “sailboat.” But he did, and I love it. It belongs in Buffett’s oeuvre along with other songs he’s written, like “He Went to Paris.” Gentle, reflective, and nothing at all like “Cheeseburger in Paradise.”

I may not have fallen in love in a library, but I’ve gotten lucky in plenty of them. (No, not that kind of “getting lucky.” What do you think I was doing during all those hours I’ve spent in one library or another? Canoodling in the stacks? But I digress.)

I was lucky that my parents, who didn’t read much themselves, valued reading enough that they took me to the library often. Sometimes the library would come to me—or if not directly to me, to the parking lot of a nearby shopping center. It was the bookmobile, and I loved it dearly. When I was very young, I would visit the marvelous vehicle and check out Green Eggs and Ham, still one of my favorite all-time books by one of my favorite authors. In fact, I would check it out on every visit. My mother made a rule. I could check out Green Eggs and Ham every time we went to the bookmobile if I wanted to, but I also had to check out something else as well. (It was a good thing that I learned to read when I was four, or I would have kept her reading it to me every day. But I digress again.)

I was lucky when I cruised the “New Arrivals” section of the big library and found something new to me and unexpectedly fascinating. It broadened my reading enormously.

I was lucky when Ms. magazine had an article on women mystery writers. I went to the library with a copy of it, burrowed into the mystery stacks, and fell in love with Sue Grafton’s and Sara Paretsky’s works, which have stayed with me for decades.

I was lucky when I went to college and got a job in the graduate library, fulfilling requests. (People filled out little slips of paper, which were sent to the upper floors where I worked via vacuum tubes. I located the books and sent them downstairs on a sort of dumbwaiter. When there were no requests, I spent my extra time delving into the stacks. Most of the time, I was on the history/sociology floor, where I learned lots. (The antiquated system of vacuum tubes is still used at the pharmacy drive-through where I pick up my prescriptions, if nowhere else. But I digress some more.))

One day, however, I got really lucky in the library. As I browsed the shelves, looking for my next read, I picked up a book that had a bookmark in it. People use all kinds of things for bookmarks. Some use proper bookmarks and forgetfully leave them in the library book, but others use anything at hand: business cards, envelopes, postcards, playing cards, ribbons, ticket stubs, sticky notes, receipts, the cards that fall out of magazines (these actually have a name: blow-in cards), and even photos.

On the day I got lucky, I picked up a book and noticed someone had used a lotto ticket as a bookmark. And whoever had used it for a bookmark had accidentally used a winning ticket! Going on the venerable, ancient philosophy of “finders keepers,” I cashed in the ticket, which was worth a whole $2.

Naturally, rather than buy something useful like gum or mints with “my” winnings, I decided that my lucky find was meant to bring me even more luck. So I used it to buy another $2 lottery ticket.

It was a loser. But at least that lucky library find had given me a momentary thrill and a soupçon of hope for a million-dollar payout. And that’s in addition to all the books I checked out that day!

The Daily Snorgle

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Sounds like the title of a newspaper in a small town or a cozy mystery, doesn’t it? But it’s not. It’s not even worthy of being reported in a small town newspaper. (I could see such a newspaper in a comic novel, though. After all, I’m using it in an amusing blog post. But I digress.)

What it is, is a daily interaction between Dan and one of our cats. Right now, the snorgler is Toby. And that makes Dan the snorgle-ee.

Dan has had peculiar interactions with some of our other cats. There was one (aka “Sir Boinks-a-Lot”) who tried to have carnal knowledge of Dan’s elbow. There was another (aka “The Gallic Strumpet”) who would writhe sensuously whenever he cooed her name.

But it’s different with Toby (pictured here, with Dan, basking in the glow of Toby’s love). Toby loves to put his arms (okay, front legs) around Dan’s neck and knead. I maintain this is a sign of deep affection. Dan claims that Toby is trying to strangle him or pierce his ear. (It is true that sometimes Toby’s claws do get entangled in the hair at the nape of Dan’s neck, and he needs to be rescued. (Toby needs rescue. Dan is basking in Toby’s love, as you can see.) But I digress again.)

That’s not a snorgle, however. A snorgle is when Toby gets right up in Dan’s face and rubs his nose all over Dan’s nose, for minutes at a time. It’s a sign of affection, but also a little disgusting when you think of where that nose has been (Toby’s, not Dan’s).

I never get snorgled. The most I usually get is a dainty nose-to-nose touch, if I’m lucky. (I once got nipped on the nose by an over-excited cat while I was asleep. I … escorted her out of the bed, let’s say. (The word “yeet” also comes to mind.) But I digress yet again.) Sometimes, Toby drapes himself across my capacious bosom and sleeps. Apparently, my boobs resemble a pillow. Or maybe a waterbed.

Dan was also the subject of repetitive and unasked-for grooming by our calico, Dushenka (which means “little soul” in Russian or, colloquially, “sweetheart”). She found his beard and moustache irresistible and adorned them with copious amounts of warm cat spit as long as he would put up with it, while I said, “Aw, she loves you” in the background. (Frankly, I think she was just hinting that he needed a trim, a point of view I’m totally in sympathy with. But I digress some more.)

I’ve learned a thing or two about cats since we’ve had them (various ones over decades). We had one tortoiseshell cat named Laurel who had to have an operation. When we got her back from her convalescence, her shaved belly was beginning to grow a lovely, almost invisible, coating of tender fuzz. I learned that I could zerbert her and feel the warm, barely-there fur, quite a captivating sensation. (You can also zerbert a fully-furred cat, but it only makes a “foof” noise. You have to have a cat that will allow you to touch its belly, of course. But I digress even more.)

I guess Dan is just lucky that none of our cats has had the habit of presenting him an up-close-and-personal view of its butthole, as some cats are wont to do. It’s supposedly a sign of affection, but I just don’t know. Doesn’t seem very friendly to me.

Finding Your Inner Weirdo

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The New York Times recently published an article encouraging those of a certain age to embrace their inner weirdo. They explained it in terms of not being afraid to find your authentic self and not worrying about what other people think. In my opinion, it’s not just a matter of finding your authentic self and embracing what’s weird about you. Nor is it tied to not caring what other people think, though those are all good reasons to explore your own weirdness.

To me, it seems that the NYT is redefining “weird.” When you reach that certain age, you no longer think of “weird” as a pejorative. You either accept it as a fact of life or wear it as a badge of honor. At a certain point in life, you’re allowed to be weird, and it’s a shame if you don’t give in to it. When a woman reaches old age, she tends to become invisible. People’s eyes slide right over her. And many old women make themselves smaller because of it. Being weird is a way to fight back.

I didn’t wait until I reached the age I am now. I’ve always been weird. I was a weird kid. Then I was a weird teen. I was a weird collegian. I was a weird adult. In point of fact, I’m still weird, even at my advanced age.

Call me goofy, silly, or peculiar. Strange. Unusual. Bonkers. Bizarre. Odd. Outré. Crazy. It won’t be anything I haven’t been called before (well, maybe not outré). I won’t mind. In fact, I own it. My friends are weird. My husband is weird. Even our cats are weird. (We had one that would play fetch, and another that liked to throw toothpicks across the room. But I digress.)

So, what have I done to merit the description of weird? Well, there was the time my husband and I cooked naked while doing Julia Child impressions. The only rule: no deep frying. There were times I ate ruffled potato chips with cream cheese and M&Ms. I still quote Star Trek, Star Wars, and The Pirates of Penzance.

My sister thought I was weird when I made lasagna or ratatouille or ordered in sushi for Thanksgiving. I once was able to use the old line, “If I could walk that way, I wouldn’t need a knee replacement.”

I have a weird t-shirt collection, and I wear them in public. (Once, Dan and I went to the bank, both wearing t-shirts with pictures of winged cats on them. The teller said, “I know I’m going to regret this, but what are those t-shirts about?” I replied, “On weekends, we go to the park and fly radio-controlled cats.” But I digress again.)

I have bacon earrings and a sushi necklace. I have earrings of planet Earth, and when I wear them, I like to shake my head violently and cry, “Earthquake!” I had a purse shaped like an armadillo and named her Erma. Many people responded to the weirdness, and Erma sparked many interesting conversations.

I guess all this hearkens back to Jenny Joseph’s poem “Warning.” You know the one: “When I am an old woman, I shall wear purple….” The one that inspired the Red Hat Society.

I may not wear purple with a red hat. I prefer to wear a Deadpool t-shirt and bacon earrings. But I won’t give up my weird or go gentle into invisibility. I don’t think I could, even if I wanted to. I have so much practice being weird.

The Eye Has It

etc., health, humor, , ,

My knees have been taking up so much of my attention for the past year that any other medical needs have fallen by my mental wayside. (My knees are still in play, as it were. My other knee is bone-on-bone and will need to be replaced at some point. Today I received the good news that our insurance will cover the gel (not jello, darn it) shots that will postpone more surgery for a while. But I digress.)

In the meantime, we get to consider Dan’s eyes. He’s been complaining for quite some time that his glasses are all scratched up and he needs new ones. Imagine our surprise when we went to an ophthalmologist and were told that his glasses lenses were fine. It was the lens of his eye that needed replacing. What he had assumed were scratches and fog on his specs were actually specks on his cornea. (Some time ago, he had a problem with his retina that resulted in a massive flash of light, followed by a large “vitreous floater” in one eye. Ever the wit, he named it “Freddy the Free-Floater,” a joke you have to be of a certain age to get. But I digress some more.)

So cataract surgery is in his future, most likely in August, he thinks, because it will then be too hot to work outside in the garden. Sweat rolling down into his eyes likely won’t help his vision any, either. (No, I will not be repeating the racist joke about cataracts, though (of course) I will be thinking it. But I digress yet again.)

The whole notion gives me the willies (or “wiggins,” if you’re a Buffy fan). I find the idea of anything touching anyone’s eyeball nauseates me. That’s one reason I could never wear contact lenses. Thinking about a sharp instrument like a scalpel poking Dan in the eye is my idea of a horror show. The only thing worse I can imagine is said pointy object (“Mr. Pointy,” if you’re a Buffy fan) approaching my eye. (I’m so squeamish about my eyes that I chose an ophthalmologist who was a black belt in the martial arts class I attended. I figured if I freaked out when being given eyedrops, he could subdue me. But I digress even more.)

For a couple of days after his operation, Dan won’t be able to drive. (In point of fact, he’s having trouble driving now, so it won’t be much more of a handicap.) I’ll get to help him by driving him around (now that we have a car with power steering) and also by putting in his eye drops (and throwing up afterward).

Personally, I hope they’ll make him wear an eye patch. I have this thing for pirates (of the Caribbean and of Penzance, in particular). The day I met Dan, he was wearing a patch over one eye because the lens had fallen out of his glasses, and he looked appropriately piratical. (He also had on a t-shirt that said “Dr. Demento,” which was another point in his favor. The rest is history. (This is the Reader’s Digest Condensed (or “clean”) version of how we met.) But I digress nostalgically.)

Dan, obviously jealous of all the attention my knees have been getting, had his own x-rayed the other day. Merely arthritis and some torn cartilage, so no fun with operations, infections, PT, and other indignities in his near future. Now we just have to arm wrestle over who gets the next operation, my knee or his eyeball. Frankly, I think the odds are ever in his favor at arm wrestling. Maybe I should hold out for a round of rock-paper-scissors-lizard-Spock.