As the “worst” year draws to a close I struggle to find something profound or remotely poetic to say in this here space. Alas kind four readers, I’ve got nothing. I am weary to the bone from the events of the last ten months. And, as if Covid, insanity politics, riots destroying cities, cancel culture, friends who have unexpectedly passed and loved ones who have lost so much, the life-quake still residing in the basement, and a host of other little p.i.t.a. issues…as if those weren’t enough...
….my “rock” gets pink-slipped. How on earth does that happen with years of rave performance reviews?
Indeed, this year has been one Stink, Stank, Stunk after another.
Full disclosure; it’s not as if my husband didn’t see this coming months ago when a reorganization literally dumped him into the wrong division. He’s been clamoring to get out of said division and back into his areas of expertise since, even as desks and business units played musical chairs with people’s livelihoods. But now, at the wise young age of sixty-three he’s considered a “pale stale male.” I probably need not elaborate. Still, he never envisioned getting a pink slip. And, although inching ever closer towards contemplating the nextchapter, we weren’t quite ready to make big changes.
Now, along with trying to navigate the life-quake and other family issues, we are trying to figure out what IS next. We’ll sail through it and land on the other side says my rock. He is ever the optimist and I am thankful for those reassuring words even If I struggle to believe. Covid of course continues to make it quite difficult to investigate options. Plans to travel this year and check out potential places to hang ones’ hat for a spell have been dashed of course.
Last year this time we were spending the day with sis and family. In her cozy basement family room we ate ourselves silly and raised bottles of champagne to the new year as we danced jigs and blew on our party horns like little kids. This year we’re laying low in our own abodes. I tell sis I’m probably not going to watch the ball drop with Ryan Seacrest. I get that he aims to bring “fun” into our homes but honestly, I’m not up to listening to President-Elect Biden incoherently blather on about healing and unity.
So, today as I scrolled through Facebook over early morning coffee I see this meme by self-help guru and blogger Mark Manson. I’ve not read his books but occasionally I stop and read his insights on FB in an effort to find something (anything) useful to impart on the man-child residing–OH SO TEMPORARILY– in the basement. Like I don’t know this already…but yes, It speaks to me in my present state and of course, gives me pause.
So here we come 2021. I’ve got a few more hours to wallow in my little pity party and then, as the ball drops– as God is my witness– I endeavor, with every fiber of my being, to move the F**K on, even if I have to fake it.
Seriously folks, I am praying for an infinitely better year ahead. From my heart to yours, may 2021 bring you peace, love and joy and keep you in the best health possible.
It’s a sunny day in my neck of the woods. The winter sky is a stunning blue with wisps of white clouds here and there. I’m thinking of a multitude of things as I walk at a fast clip in a effort to stay warm. Still, the cold penetrates my mittens and I find myself constantly trying to stave off numbness and tingling in my fingers. Oh how I dislike the cold but honestly, with Raynauds, I could be living in 105-degree desert heat and walk into an air-conditioned building and the cold effects on fingers and toes would feel just like a walk in the woods on a crisp-cold winters’ day.
Principally, more than usual, thoughts turn to my mother on this day which would have been her 84th birthday. She left us four years ago and yes, though ours was a messy complicated relationship, I miss her. She was an unusual flower–belonging really, in a totally different universe…on a different planet perhaps. She added distinct bursts of color to a somewhat drab world. She certainly did not fit into the world she found herself in when she married my father. I’d venture to say my mamma (nor my father, for that matter) should never have had children…or, at the very least, she should have waited until her thirties. I’ve definitely got some baggage from both parents. But as God is my witness, though it took over forty years, I’m ever so grateful for my scars. It’s made me who I am and given me a resilience to which the snowflakes of this generation (and those past) could not even begin to hold a candle.
Mamma was a force of nature and mighty opinionated. I’ve lost count of how many times she’d say something inappropriate or cringe-worthy, and often in public, and yet sometimes I secretly admired her unabashed directness. She didn’t care a wit about political correctness or what the “Jones’s” might think. I’ve thought a great deal about my mamma during this past year, one that has been fraught with violence, cancel culture, pernicious woke-ness, deep political divide and all topped by a global pandemic. I’ve held many conversations in my mind with mamma as to what she’d have to say about Trump or his often ridiculous tweets or all the destruction and mayhem in cities across the U.S. I think we’d surely disagree with each other on some topics as she would be all-in for Trump, as opposed to my more measured (dare I say, balanced) opinion. I imagine too that some conversations would surely get a little heated and would end, as often would, with a dismissive wave of the hand, an eye roll, and a “whatever.” And, oh boy….I just cannot envision mamma wearing a mask even if her life depended upon it. She’d likely would have spit bullets and forgo doctor appointments and the like rather than don a mask to go out. I almost feel it’s a Godsend that she left us well before the world turned upside down with such venomous discord and tribalism, as well as the devastating effects of a pandemic. She would have listened to the news non-stop and it would have only served to heighten her agitation, and those around her. I could be wrong in all of this; she could be looking down on us from above in horror as to how the world seems to be teetering on its axis or she could be blissfully unaware sipping a martini on the rocks before playing something lovely on her white baby grand piano.
I struggle to erase the last vision I have of mamma. Unfortunately it was in a hospital and she was on a ventilator. Her face was terribly bruised from the fall she had suffered the day before in her apartment. She never regained consciousness from that fall. I often refer to one of my favorite recent photos of her but still…the image of her connected to tubes in a hospital bed superimposes on anything that I look at. I keep hoping that this will pass as the years go on.
Mamma gave me a love of classical music so on my walk this morning I listened to a few of her favorites–Chopin, Albinoni and Beethoven, just to name a few, as I walked down the path leading to the small neighborhood lake. I looked for beavers and was disappointed again. The family seems to have found new digs this year; we haven’t seen them in ages. But a heron has come back to grace the banks of the lake and it is there that I paused this morning, with eyes teary and a body weary from all that has happened this year. I love you mamma I say aloud as I looked out over the water and took in the quiet majesty of the heron.
I think of words by a young poet:
“Some broken vases can still hold beautiful flowers”.
Even with a relationship marked by voids, I hold that unique flower that was my mother in my heart and soul and yes, I miss her dearly. So I say: Happy Birthday Mamma. Tonight we’ll raise a glass to you.
Martinis, with three olives, were her favorite. I’d like to think she is enjoying endless martinis in heaven as well as colorful conversations with her favorite personalities.
Lord have mercy! More draconian shutdowns just in time for the holiday season. Whilst those governing from their power towers order us to stay home, they are dining out at $750-a-plate dinners or hopping on private jets to vacay in Cabo or some such place. Personally, I absolutely do not begrudge fun times for anyone, the well-heeled included, but imposing what is not okay for me but fine for thee…well, it’s such hypocrisy. Hey, that kinda rhymed!
Still, could 2020 get any worse? Ah yes it can!
I say this as not one but both cars are in the shop today, one needing major repairs.
2020 keeps on giving.
So yes, I’ll admit that these days I’m finding it increasingly difficult to find five degrees of bliss, let alone ten. I know I am not alone in this. All over the world, no one has made it through 2020 unscathed, unless of course they were living in an ice-cave, in say the Antarctic. Many folks have experienced profound loss in one form or another this year. One friend, for example, will spend her first holiday without her husband by her side. Another friend of some thirty five years is undergoing, literally as I write, an extremely complicated thirteen-hour surgery (yes, mind-boggling, you read that correctly) for a rare form of cancer.
I am waiting to exhale on good news.
Yes, I should feel a bit peppier, after all, as I have said a hundred times, I’ve a nice roof over my head and plenty of food in the pantry. But, I am—as I have also said a hundred times—only human. I acknowledge it’s all through a lens of perspective (others have suffered, sadly, far more than I) but while I am trying not to view 2020 as the worst year ever, it certainly has been the most challenging in a while. The past eight or so months have been, and continue to be, a roller-coaster ride and not the thrilling kind. From shingles to an unplanned dental implant to the stress of not being able to visit a loved one languishing in a memory care facility. Add to that a multitude of unplanned expenses that certainly didn’t produce one iota of bliss as well as an angry flare-up in both knees.
Ah yes…I’m back to scouring the internet for total knee replacement details (as if I didn’t know enough already) in the form of blogs and YouTube videos, which only (shockingly) serves to depress me further. I had managed to sail through spring, all of summer and even some of autumn with barely a twinge in these deteriorating joints. In fact, a bicycle vacation was on the books for early autumn though of course we know COVIDsquashed that. Fortunately, walking outdoors in the fresh air everyday between five and seven miles through these COVID months has been my salvation from all the madness going on in the world, and at home. Rain or shine, I’ve so enjoyed time on the trails with my “old man” Poodle-love (who turned twelve last month) and then, once leading him back to the comforts of his bed, continuing on, back down into the woods around the lake or around other trails that wind through peaceful, lovely neighborhoods.
Since we were in an election year I made use of time spent walking trying to make sense of political events and the insanity going on in various parts of the country, though I’m not certain I’m any smarter–or healthier–for it! Nearly every day I took to listening to various political podcasts, eschewing main stream media (I’m sure I need not explain). I venture to say this constant streaming of politics and attempting to digest alternative facts and viewpoints–sifting fact from fiction– daily for months on end hasn’t been altogether healthy for my headspace, nor has the stress of an ongoing family crisis–our 2020 life-quake– (which I acerbically refer to as our 2020 shit-storm). And, the plot just thickened with potential life changes in the year ahead. Holy-Molly! Suffice it to say, I’m been mighty upside-down these past few months.
Fear not. In time, I’ll bounce back…to a new normal. We all will…right? Tree decorating helps…along with wine, chocolate and Hallmark Christmas movies. Just saying.
I think of a passage I read recently from The Book of Awakening by Mark Nepo:
We are all made delicate. The hard things break. The soft things bend. The stubborn ones batter themselves against all that is immovable. The flexible adapt to what is before them. Of course, we are all hard and soft, stubborn and flexible…and so we all break until we learn to bend and are battered until we accept what is before us.
So, I am back to listening to music now and thankfully lots of Christmas tunes are keeping my spirit light and hopeful. I danced jigs around the Christmas tree while decorating, managing to send The Poodle nearly running in the opposite direction. I still muster up enough energy to sit on my meditation pillow for about fifteen minutes a day although it must not be nearly enough as I can turn into a head-exploding purple minion on a dime when trying to get my adult son to wake up from his twenty-year stupor and face the music. And trust me kind readers…I’m pleading inside, like you must be too, for a far better year ahead (dare I dream, a mask-less and COVID-free one) and I’m praying for the peace, happiness and health of friends and loved ones, near and far.
God does not give us more than we can handle….so the saying goes. Break, bend, accept what is before us… (to which I add kind-of because I’m stubborn that way.)
It is my hope that my own spirits continue to lift despite our continuing life-quake and even as I believe our country is headed in the wrong direction. The fact that some 75 million folks feel somewhat like-minded is oddly reassuring, although frankly, I’m not sure there is much bliss in all of that either. But more than anything, it is my sincere hope that spirits lift for all who are experiencing a certain bending and breaking; may we all make it through to the other–brighter–side of things with grace, humility and hearts full of kindness, love and hope.
And yes, Virginia… there is heart-warming bliss in those bear hugs I still receive from my nephew (even though he’s shy of being a teenager), in the pretty pink poinsettias adorning my hearth, in the warmth of rocket-man’s embrace, from my poodle-love curled up by my side, and yes… in the glow of tree lights on a cold December evening.
Autumn typically is…almost…one of my favorite times of the year.
Typically? You ask. Well, it is 2020 after all.
Almost? you ask.
My kind “four” readers know the answer to that. What follows autumn is winter and this ole’ gal is not a fan of being chilled to the bone. It’s not that I’ve always felt this way. I truly loved my seventeen-plus years in Colorado and obviously there is, most winters anyway, a lot of snow on those majestic Rocky Mountains and certainly enough in the mile-high city of Denver to make one who is averse to winter to permanently seek Caribbean climes. For me though, the difference between winter in Colorado and winter in northern Virginia is humidity. Colorado winters are, in my humble opinion, infinitely more tolerable due to its arid climate. Simply put, the lack of humidity makes cold temperatures feel less so.
I suppose I should simply live in this moment which is a beautiful autumn day full of sunshine and swirling colorful leaves just beginning to pile up in yards and on street corners. I should enjoy the chrysanthemums blooming, their rich bursts of color competing with pumpkins and Halloween decorations in lawns all around the neighborhood. I should be thinking about pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce…cozy nights on the sofa wrapped in my favorite Pendleton blanket…and new Hallmark Christmas movies sure to come despite Covid up-ending the world.
Ishould. But I don’t have the energy today….
Alas, the life-quake that has shaken our neck of the woods continues to keep me in both a state of perpetual sadness and unbelievable stress. As I try to remain positive during this new crisis, involving…you guessed it…my son, it’s all I can do to “just be” one moment at a time. It seems impossible to think of the upcoming holidays and the joys that they are supposed to bring while dealing with yet another crisis. We’re navigating through this new storm–which I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy–as best we can; whacking my Dammit Doll repeatedly against my desk helps but man would I give anything to have an MMA heavyweight punching bag hanging in the garage right about now.
So yes…I am decidedly not in a positive headspace at the moment and regrettably I cannot pretend, as I often do, to be otherwise. I struggle to find an ounce of fun and frivolity…anything to snap myself out of this shit-storm (no better word at the moment!). As I watch the leaves fall and pile at my feet I feel the weight of our up-ended world heavy on my shoulders. Though I know it is not a panacea, even my simple meditation practice has not eased the pressure as much as I had hoped. I know this too shall pass…I know that change is the only constant…but still…
Uncharacteristically, I have a list a mile long of what I dread as winter approaches (and don’t get me started on politics!). I dread, already, the teeth-chattering cold and fierce winds that will make it impossible to walk around the block without getting frostbite. I dread less sunlight, shorter days, and ice-storms. I dread, silly as it seems, the probability of not being able to spend long lazy weekend mornings over coffee and a good book at the local Starbucks due to ongoing Covid restrictions. But most of all, I dread that this madness will never end.
Argh! I know…aren’t I just a ray of sunshine?!
But hey, tomorrow is another day kind reader and with it promises of less bleakness from me. So….there is bliss in that!
Alas, my kind “four” readers…there is not much to get excited about in this here neck-of-the-woods. It’s hot and humid in Northern Virginia and stormy weather is headed our way once again. The Poodle will be a mess when the thundering begins and my hair will frizz into another zip code (at least those strands are “going” somewhere I whisper to myself.)
Yes, I’ll admit it…. this present funk is lasting longer than I care to admit. It doesn’t help my psyche one bit either to see neighbors packing their vans and heading to beach vacations and other adventures. Yes…the green monster of envy has taken hold of me but just for a moment. I am only human. Still, abysmal is the only word that springs to mind in my present moment though thank goodness there is– always– this that follows….
…And this too shall pass.
Ruined vacations and social isolation aside, we’ve also missed out on pool fun. Though our neighborhood pool opened late in the season this is the first year we have not visited our swimming pool. It’s not that I am worried about catching the Corona virus (really, I am not). It is just that there’s no fun in having to schlep your own lawn chair because the pool deck has been cleared of all furniture and swim-related accessories for safety (after all, pool employees should not be required to spray down pool equipment every hour. Note: not without a bit of sarcasm). Nor is it thrilling, in an effort to minimize pool patron numbers, to have to sign up for a 45-minute slot at the pool (we’ve tried three times and have yet to get a two slots, so effectively, we have given up). Additionally, If we managed to snag a spot we’d be required to wear a mask to enter the pool deck (and, when not in the water), maintain six to ten feet distance in and out of the water from our neighbors and…oh, yes, “it would be great if you could refrain from using the facilities as much as possible.” I suppose I should be happy that masks are not required while in the water! Sigh. Even pool fun has been sucked out of this summer.
So, in an effort to control the degree of doldrums in my little world I walk like a mad woman, arms pumping vigorously, everyday between five to seven miles. It fills, of course, time in the day but it gets me some much needed vitamin D, not to mention a sanity break from all the stress of Covid madness and more. While I power walk I listen to politically themed podcasts or a wide variety of music. Listening to the former this morning made me shake my head in agreement but also filled me with despair and a degree of hopelessness that I have never felt before.
No dear reader, I shall not share what I was listening to. I’d be an idiot to do so in the age of cancel culture and hate-filled vitriol. Just saying.
It did occur to me however, some time later in the morning whilst enjoying coffee on my back deck amidst the calming sounds of my tiny water fountain and the serene pose of my sweet Buddha, that in light of my recent cholesterol and blood lipid panels that perhaps I need to scale back –or perhaps discontinue altogether–listening to anything about politics. For some four decades–through thick and thin and loads of stress here and there–I’ve had optimal cholesterol and blood glucose numbers.
Sorry China, I blame it on you. You’ve ruined 2020!
Come on old gal….you must not throw in the towel just yet. Eight months down and just four to go. 2020 WILL END!
On this morning, life is deliciously sweet (for some) and oh so symbiotic.
Take this bee. For a moment I marvel at it and, due to my current state of affairs, even wonder how lovely it must be to not have a care in the world on this hot and humid summer morning. Yes, I know. It’s quite absurd to think a bee hasn’t a care in the world. And, obviously, this bee does have a pressing issue: It is laser focused on food. But it doesn’t stop there. The bee “knows” that flowers are its life-source, in the form of the flowers’ sweet nectar and pollen. These are carried back to feed the family, or to be more specific, the entire colony of bees.
But what of flowers? What’s in it for them? Ah…yes of course! Bees are their life-source too. Without them, flowers and many plant or vegetable species wouldn’t be able to propagate.
I continue to admire the work of the bee as I snap a few photos of it with my iPhone. Sweat drips from my brow, stinging my eyes as I continue walking. I stop to wipe my eyes and catch sight of more bees. Perhaps it’s the heat taking affect but I start to wonder: Hmm… what if the bee and the flower were to have a conversation what would it be like?
“Well….hello beautiful,” the bee says buzzing with a dizzying delight. “And how are you on this fine morning? As you can see, I am dragging a bit and therefore am in need of a pick-me-up via your sweet elixir.”
“I am only too happy to oblige you my friend,” says the flower as the bee’s long proboscis sinks into it’s glorious color.
“Yippee! All is right with the world,” hums the bee. In fact, it practically does somersaults of joy as it happily flits from tree to tree before returning to the garden of flowers.
“One more go of it before I leave your sweet embrace,” says the bee landing back on his chosen beauty. ‘I’ll just be topping off the tank, as it were. I hope you’ll oblige me just a wee bit more. And, you know it is not just for me. I’ve got a colony to feed after all.”
The flower is grateful beyond measure. “Thank you for spreading my pollen around Mister Bee. My numbers were starting to dwindle and I needed some help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”
Perhaps life would be sweeter if more people would understand that we are all in this crazy life together. We need to work together because we need each other. Beyond that, a heavy sprinkling of gratitude would be most appreciated as the cherry on top.
Okay. So, The Poodle is over-the-moon grateful on this particular day. And why wouldn’t he be? He’s just been given his favorite treat of all time by the neighbor who loves him so. Bacon.
As I approached the front door from my long morning walk I spot, once again, a fox scurrying down into the creek bed behind our house. I stopped for a moment, hoping that the scrawny fellow would come back out again if I stood still, long enough.
Hmm. Not today. So…Let’s admire my geraniums instead.
Opening the door I was met with wild fervor from The Poodle. Almost immediately his snout got tangled in my ear buds. What a pair we were as I bent down, attempting to pet him, untangle, and take my shoes off all at the same time.
“Yes, yes….I’m back….I see you old boy.” I say as I finally manage to get my ear buds off. “and thank you for this exuberant display of poodle love!” Since he’s getting to be quite the slow poke in his advanced years I had opted for a solo morning walk. In fact, I needed to pound (and I mean pound!) the pavement…alone…in search of a modicum of escape–relief really– even while sifting through a storm of thoughts and tumultuous emotions.
Hubby was already at “the office” (in his study) preparing for a conference call. “How was your walk,” he asked.
“I’ve decided to pull the plug on Twitter,” I replied. Given the state of our current situation, I am sure he did not expect this reply.
“Really? Why?” he asked looking up at me from behind his computer monitor.
“You have to ask me that?”
“Ah, I get it.” he said. “Well, you can elect to simply not read it.
The past couple of months have just about done me in with all social media. I’m ready to throw in the towel because, in my humble opinion, the world has gone completely bonkers. The vitriol, shaming, finger-pointing, labeling, virtue-signaling, distortion of facts, division, destruction…etc. etc. has left me feeling profoundly discombobulated…and, more than any time in my life, hopeless. Every media platform seems to be aimed at the most egregious group-think. If one dares to think or question differently the knives come out; you risk being cut to ribbons publicly. We cannot seem to have reasoned, calm, discourse on any topic anymore. Even my meditation practice has done little to ease the pain and heaviness in my heart.
But, for the record dear readers the insanity of the world isn’t what has upended me in this given moment. Simply put, it helps not one iota that once again my world has been thrown into complete chaos due to my adult son. There I was happily enjoying a cycle ride with my husband on a sun-filled beautiful Saturday morning four and a half weeks ago…and then we get THE call.
Here we go again. How bad can it be?Say what?!
So now, we find ourselves in a nightmarish shit-storm. I cannot go into details in this here space…not at the moment anyhow. Honestly, I would take flying snakes right now over what life has thrown us. But dare I ask; is it possible that 2020 gets any worse?
Wait…forget it! Talk to the hand….I do not want to know!
Suffice it to say….there is no bliss in any of this.
I don’t know about you all…specifically my “four” kind readers….but some days I feel like I am standing on the edge of an enormous cliff–the Grand Canyon comes to mind– ready to simply set myself free now before a zombie apocalypse takes hold and we all descend into irreversible madness. Don’t mind me, chalk it up to postherpetic neuralgia pain from shingles. In fact, I still have what I term (a la The Pink Panther) a “Commissioner Dreyfus” twitch of the left eye. It’s just that there seems to be no end in sight more than two and a half months into this Covid-19 madness. Hotspots are still raging and headlines even warn of a second, more dangerous wave later this year! My modest meditation practice has not been enough to calm the waves of anxiety and not being around people much isn’t helping either.
Just the other day I braved going to Target for the first time since March. I needed an item or two–nothing absolutely essential mind you. Mostly, I needed to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE and see someone other than The Poodle and my husband. Don’t get me wrong, I love them both dearly but…24/7 has had some tense moments. And yes, I pinch myself daily because my husband can work from home…bills are paid and food is on the table… and we are (knock on wood) doing remarkably well as opposed to so many other souls worldwide.
Although I am loathe to wear it…of course I donned a mask for my Target outing. It’s a pretty little thing actually, one that I found online via Etsy and certified as made in the good old U.S.A. I try to find the bright spot in putting the damned thing on–as in, my eyes look bluer than usual when wearing it and I can skip applying lipstick–I still detest it worse than pineapple on pizza. I feel like I am being suffocated with each breath I take.
As I got out of the car in the Target parking lot, I inhaled fully and exhaled slowly, thoroughly enjoying the miracle of that breath before I donned the mask. I honestly had a skip in my step as I headed into Target, eager was I to be among people…doing something routine…normal.
Let’s just say the experience left much to be desired. As I pushed my cart through various aisles I felt as if I was in a science fiction/horror movie. Save for one or two folks, everyone wore a mask. Yes, I know: That isn’t new…of course this has been a common sight pretty much since the beginning of April. What was so disheartening was the dead quiet in the store. And I mean dead. The absence of people chatter and even background music was almost otherworldly. The atmosphere was thoroughly joyless. In fact, there was a tension in the air that was palpable as people pushed their carts–eyes downcast or looking away when passing another cart-pushing human and, despite being appropriately masked, physically distancing movement was sometimes so exaggerated as if it were me who was infected with viral hemorrhagic fever and was covered with oozing boils from head to toe. One guy practically overturned his cart in an effort to physically distance himself from me. Even the checkout experience was completely devoid of pleasantries. In fact, the woman who checked me out didn’t say one word (I kid you not) even when I inquired as to how her day was going.
Well that was a thoroughly unsatisfying experience.
Taking the SOCIAL out of our daily lives is bound to turn us intoZombies I thought as I practically ripped my mask from my face as I neared my car in the parking lot. Once in, I sat for a moment with eyes closed, enjoying the sound of my breath. Inhales and exhales that were easy and calming…
Yes, I know. What a luxury to breath…so lucky, am I.
Still, it’s hard not to get my head bobbing in wonder –or my knickers in a twist–when I see so many folks driving in their cars, alone, wearing masks and gloves. Really? Or the gal checking me out at the local grocery store behind the large plexiglass wearing a full face-shield AND a face mask under it. That just seems to me…excessive. Or being told by the lovely scheduler over the phone that doctor’s offices will be requiring mask wearing during office visits through the end of the year and into 2021.
Enter expletive of choice here […..]
I try hard not to get caught up in the unknown. So much IS unknown and it’s taking a toll on all of us. Even, dare I say, The Poodle. He’s wondering, I am sure, when his humans are going leave the house so he can slumber in blissful tranquility. Not to mention what COVID information (and who) to trust. The politics, polarization, finger-pointing, fighting and sheer ugliness of it all has made me terribly sad…not to mention imbibing much more than usual.
I suppose that the only thing that is for sure is that none of us are getting out of this world alive. So, yes…my “right” brain says I simply need to “roll with it” and be better at living in the moment. This too shall pass. Still, I know that I am not alone in wishing for a light at the end of the tunnel. A return to even a new normal would be perfectly fine with me at this point. A visit to Wegman’s just yesterday granted me that wish. Instead of being corralled into one insanely long check-out line that wrapped around the store twice we were able to follow the regular BC (before corona) check-out process along with maintaining a six-foot distance.
Seems like a silly thing to get excited about but even with wearing the mask, how blissfully normal that was!
Now, it we could get toilet paper, paper towels and Clorox wipes back on store shelves….
Things were going on as swimmingly well as possible, even as this global pandemic still has us sheltering-in-place.
Until….yet another challenge presents– in what seems as another mountain to climb– to get to the other side of a semblance of normal (whatever that is anymore.)
And yet, mine is minuscule compared to many stories with devastating outcomes.
That said, still…in the middle of the night, when pain was shooting through my left eyeball, I found myself whispering that if I didn’t have any bad luck I’d have none at all.
To recap the last month: first there was the root canal less than a month ago. Peachy keen fun that was. Then there was a tooth extraction and bone graft a week later in preparation for a dental implant. None of this planned of course! The silver lining in all of that was four days of being face down in mashed potatoes. I honestly thought that was rather lovely as eating bowls of mashed potatoes is not normal fare for me.
I even sailed through the post oral surgery stuff quite nicely, without the need of taking strong painkillers.
I’m so badass!
Until this weekend.
It began with strange headaches…quite unusual for me…progressing to pressure and tingling. Then Saturday morning I wake up with a rash on my forehead.
“Lord have mercy this hurts,” I tell my husband in passing just before leaving the house on our early morning walk with The Poodle.
“What hurts?” he asks.
“I’ve got this stupid rash that showed up overnight.”
He takes a look and his response is immediate.
“That looks like Shingles.”
I thought my head was going to explode….and not just from a bout of shooting pain. Shit! Why now?! Why at all?! And, why on my face of all places!
“For the love of God what’s next?!” I yelled, as I chugged down a glass of water and Tylenol.
“Well…It is the year of the cicada.”
In fairness, he was immediately consoling and understandably worried too. You’ve got to get that looked at before it gets closer to your eye.
My thought in that exact moment?
I need to make a trip to the store for Bob Evans garlic mashed potatoes.
So kind reader….This morning I had my first ever virtual doctor’s appointment. It was surprisingly pleasant though admittedly, for this 62-year old, surreal.
“Yes…it looks like shingles is what you’ve got alright.” confirmed the lovely young doctor. I tell her I had received a shingles vaccination six years ago but, after a quick Google search, I learned that particular type vaccine was only good for about five years. The new vaccine, Shingrix, I learned, works wondrously better but it is not always easy to find. The doc this morning confirmed this.
Hopefully, as soon as this bitch of a development clears up I will be able to get the new vaccine.
Lest you think I might be ready to throw myself off a tall mountain, fear not! Yesterday, for the first time since March 14th I was thrilled beyond belief to able to purchase this much coveted item. I am, over the moon with gratitude.
Who knew toilet paper could elicit so much joy and excitement?
…and no, I do not refer to a narrow spade for cutting the roots of plants and weeds.
Rather, it’s the lovely potato that I refer to. The deliciously starchy root vegetable that I once proclaimed–as any silly five year-old might–I would marry because I loved it so much.
So…six days ago I had to have a tooth extracted (a molar…number 31, to be precise). No…not the best thing to have to do in any circumstance, for sure, but even less so during a pandemic. I have to say the oral surgeon’s office was excruciatingly thorough in following Coronavirus safety protocols. I couldn’t get into the building without answering basic questions on my health and travel status (travel? Are you kidding me?) and my temperature was taken with a nifty digital thermometer that simply hovered over my forehead. Every office staff member was masked and someone was wiping down every counter, pen, chair and magazine stand literally every ten minutes. It was so exhaustive that I was surprised that the staff weren’t attired in hazmat suits.
Two hours later, the extraction complete–which included a bone graft (a synthetic material packed into the extraction site) as the first step in preparation for a dental implant–I was on my way home. I exited the building, out into the bright sunshine and crisp-cool breeze, with the right side of my mouth packed in gauze. My cheek was already beginning to swell significantly, and my head was pounding but I was so thankful to have that “little” ordeal over with. After a stop at the pharmacy for pain medication (which seemed to take forever) we were homeward bound. Once there, I plopped myself into my favorite chair and welcomed The Poodle who remained in my lap for hours until throbbing pain forced me to get up and take a pain pill. Still, I was happy to read, finishing Lisa Wingate’s emotional story based on true events Before We Were Yours and then starting former U.S. Ambassador to the United Nations Nikki Haley’s book: With All Due Respect…and even happier dozing with the warmth of my poodle-love curled in my lap.
It would be close to eight o’clock in the evening before I felt the first pangs of hunger. I hadn’t eaten anything in twenty-four hours.
“Do you want chocolate ice-cream or mashed potatoes?” asked my husband.
I’ll try the potatoes was my reply.
Not even ten minutes later I was presented with a small bowl of Bob Evans garlic mashed potatoes. I ate those first small spoonfuls in a painfully slow and hesitant manner as the swelling (despite icing the area) was still significant. But, Oh My God dear reader, let me just say….
…those spoonfuls sent me straight to heaven.
“God these potatoes are amazing” I said groaning with pleasure. I could eat this for the rest of my life and be happy.
And indeed, for four days straight, following the soft food regimen necessary after oral surgery, I ate heaping bowlfuls of Bob Evans mashed potatoes. Loaded, garlic mashed….sour cream and chives mashed….or just plain mashed….
I was…and still am…in spud heaven.
If you’re looking for something new to soothe your soul during this pandemic, I highly recommend going face down in mashed potatoes.