Category Archives: humor

My Journey Through the Vast Wasteland

books, cooking, etc., food, humor, television, , , ,

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?

books, etc., humor, literature, writing,

“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?

etc., funny things, humor, language, , ,

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

cats, etc., family, humor, pets, , , ,

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.

Fun at the Laundromat

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First of all, laundromats are not fun. (That title was meant to be ironic.) Unless you are mesmerized by pounds of fabric whirling in suds, you have to make your own fun.

When I was a kid, there was a laundromat near our house called “Astronaut Village.” (I have no idea why. Maybe because the space race was underway at the time. Maybe because it made the laundromat sound sexy. (It wasn’t.) Maybe because the town had an Air Force base that probably did some aeronautical work. But I digress.)

Astronaut Village was high-tech for the time, which is to say that they had a side room with a TV. Moms could park their kids in front of the TV and watch them through a glass window at the same time they watched their clothes spin. (Or the moms could watch the TV if they didn’t mind the possibility that someone would dump their clothes into a rolling basket and swipe their washer or dryer. Or their unmentionables. Dads were never present. But I digress again.) Eventually, we got a washer and dryer of our own, and visits to Astronaut Village ceased.

When I got to college, I found that there were a few washers and dryers in the basement of the dorms. These were the old-fashioned kind. (The kind that took quarters rather than debit cards, I mean. Not the kind that used wringers. How old do you think I am, anyway? But I digress yet again.) When we had to leave the lounge to go put the laundry in the dryer, we called it “turning the laundry” (like you would say “I have to turn the steak” while cooking).

When I moved out of the dorm, I found a laundromat within driving distance, if you define “driving distance” a bit loosely. That laundromat was not as high-tech as Astronaut Village, which is to say there was no TV. I spent my waiting time imagining that the guy from the commercials would come in, offer me $50 for a t-shirt, cut it in half, and demonstrate the comparative superiority of one detergent over another. This never happened.

At last, I got an apartment of my own, and again the laundry machines were in the basement. (I had not, at that point, read enough true crime books to realize that basement laundries in apartment complexes were death traps frequented by serial killers. But I digress some more.)

Now we live in a nice house and have a washer and dryer on the second floor, which is where most of our clothes live. (This arrangement is better than at my friend Beth’s house, which has the washer and dryer on the fourth floor and her bedroom on the first floor. Naturally, since it’s an old, old house, there’s no elevator (or even a dumbwaiter). Her legs are definitely toned. But I digress even more.)

As I mentioned, my husband and I have a washer and dryer, the compact stacked kind (not the full-sized stacked kind). But right now it’s on the fritz, and we lack the funds to get it repaired. We do, however, have the funds to get rolls of quarters, so again it’s the laundromat for us. The one we use is called “At Your Service,” presumably because they will also wash, dry, and fold your clothes for you—for a price that we also can’t afford. And they’re open 24/7. But they have industrial-sized equipment, so you can wash your comforter if you need to. No TV, but now I have an e-reader, so I can amuse myself.

Actually, I plan to open a combination laundromat/bar that would dispense canned beer from a drinks machine right next to the one that reluctantly coughs up small packages of detergent. I’d call the place “Duds and Suds” (or vice-versa). Not as puzzling as “Astronaut Village” or as classy as “At Your Service,” but it’s definitely catchy. And descriptive. I could franchise it. I bet I’d make a million dollars. And finally, at last, people really would have fun at the laundromat.

Welcome to the Jungle!

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I can just picture my husband dressed all in khaki, hacking his way through dense undergrowth (and overgrowth), battling anacondas, and adorned with a pith helmet. (Whatever that is. I can only assume it’s a hat full of pith.)

That’s my vision of Dan as an eco-warrior. None of this chaining himself to construction equipment, living in a treetop for weeks on end, or throwing himself between a harpoon and a whale.

He’s a kinder, gentler eco-warrior. He carries a trowel rather than a machete and a watering can instead of a canteen. Dan never met a plant he didn’t like. (Except for thistles. He had an epic battle with thistles one year, and I’m still not sure it’s completely over. The thistle is the creeping definition of an invasive species. But I digress.)

In fact, Dan never met a weed he didn’t like. In yet another fact, he’s never met a weed at all (unless you count the aforementioned thistles). To him, as he often says, sometimes at dinner parties, a weed is just a plant that grows where you don’t want it to.

Unfortunately, the city disagrees. To them, a weed is a plant ten inches tall or greater. (Thistles are generally taller than ten inches.) They’re not quite as bad as a Home Owners’ Association, but they get pretty snippy if you don’t snip plants off where they think you should. I try not to get involved in the epic battles this clash of cultures leads to. (I don’t always succeed.)

Anyway, Dan has changed his strategy. Instead of planting flowers or shrubs that get mistaken for weeds, he’s planting trees this year, which are supposed to get over 10 inches tall. (He’ll never see the fully grown trees, of course, but he wants to leave a little forest in the sloping space that would be impossible to mow anyway because it’s so steep. Not that he’d want to. But I digress again.)

He’s also given to making a small jungle inside the house. He regularly brings home plants from Meijer when they’re about to expire (or be dead, reduced in price, or thrown away). He has night-blooming jasmine, shamrocks, and some long-legged things that I fear are going to strangle me in my sleep someday. He brings me orchids for my desk, for no reason. He’s also very fond of hanging baskets of begonias and ferns.

Every year, he makes a wish list of plants that he wants for spring or fall. (I get to research them on the internet and find the money to pay for them. Then he (reluctantly) prunes his wish list down closer to the figure that I came up with. He always forgets to add the shipping costs, which are pretty high for live plants. I also get to check with the companies to see which plants are out of stock and which are available only as seeds rather than live plants. Dan wants me to be involved in his gardening, and I’d have to say I am, even if I don’t dig in the dirt. But I digress at length.)

These internet-and-catalogue expeditions occur regularly twice a year, in spring and fall. And spring is often defined as January, so that the plants he wants won’t be out of stock. Then comes the waiting and the pleas to check my email to see if the greenery has shipped yet. (All the correspondence comes to me since I am the one who does the actual ordering. My plant catalogue email list is as prolific as a spider plant. But I digress some more.)

Back when he lived in Pennsylvania, Dan had a small greenhouse attached to his parents’ house. I don’t think he has ever gotten over it and wants to replicate it here, which we can’t afford. (He had a “dwarf” banana tree in the greenhouse. When it touched the roof and started to bend over, he dug a hole in the dirt floor and sank the pot down into it, so the tree would have extra room to grow. He seems to have a visceral objection to pruning. But I digress yet again.)

This year for Christmas, I think I’m going to buy him that pith helmet, if I can figure out his size and find an online supplier. Maybe one for me, too, just so I can be involved in the eco-wars.

Gravity, Like Karma, Is a Bitch

etc., health, humor, , ,

Gravity and I have quite a history. We’re not friends, to say the least.

Some of our disagreements resulted in little more than damage to my dignity. (Not that I have much of that to begin with.) I land on my amply padded ass and sustain no physical injuries.

My head, however, is not so lucky. When I was a kid, I liked to hang upside down on the monkey bars by my feet. (Yes, by my feet.) As you might guess, my feet slipped, and I succumbed to gravity, landing on my head. I remember thinking falling wasn’t so bad, but that was before I hit the ground. (This was back in the day when playground supervision was less rigorous, and playground surfacing meant asphalt. I didn’t even get rushed to the emergency room afterward. But I digress.)

Over the years, from childhood to my adult years, I have honed my falling skills and my disagreements with gravity to a fine point. I have fallen off a horse and off cross-country skis. I have fallen out of car doors and tripped into a chair I was carrying. (Gravity snickered at that one and gave me a fat lip the day before my ballet recital. The ballet was supposed to make me more graceful. That worked well. My parents should have gotten their money back. But I digress again.)

It was almost exactly one year ago that I went “under the knife” and got a bionic knee, or at least a snazzy chrome one. My adaptation to new ways of standing, sitting, balancing, and walking took rather a long time. At six weeks, when my friends who’d also had their knees replaced were ready to get their other knee done, I was still falling down. A lot. Eventually, I admitted I needed help, and the emergency squad took me to the ER, where they did imaging to make sure the robo-knee was still firmly in place. (It was.)

One of my gravity fails, however, was spectacular enough that I broke the two little bones that stick out on either side of the ankle. (That day, I learned a lot about controlled substances. The EMTs gave me fentanyl to get me to the ER, and the ER personnel gave me ketamine to “reduce” the fracture (put the bones roughly into place before pins and plates were inserted to keep them there). But I digress some more.)

I don’t remember any untoward effects of the fentanyl. (The EMTs and I joked about prices for it in various parking lots around town.) The ketamine had definite psychedelic effects. Everything began to look like various colored blocks and cubes, as if I were in the Minecraft movie. Everything returned to normal fairly quickly, and I was whisked off to surgery to get my new hardware.

Let me tell you, if you’ve ever thought wearing an arm sling was awkward and annoying, it’s nothing compared to using a walker with a knee sling, if you’re not allowed to put any weight on the damaged foot. It involves flinging yourself up from a chair onto your one good foot and lurching with your other knee towards a piece of fabric. Even ballerinas would find it lacks grace.

Right now, I’m at an awkward, in-between stage when it comes to walking. Travel requires a good deal of planning and switching among mobility aids. Until this past week, to go out, I needed to take a wheelchair down a ramp to get out of the house and to the car, and a walker to get from the car to the destination’s door. Now, the wheelchair and the ramp are gone, but I need a cane to negotiate the front steps and then the walker to get to the car. And I can’t carry one while using the other. I’m trying to figure out how to manage the process on my own so I can travel independently. It’s frustrating.

But by now my motto is the old saying: Fall down seven times. Get up eight. And gravity can go to hell.