Adult Daycare

Thursday, April 2, 2020

Today I am grateful for our Adult Daycare.  I don’t know if any of you who follow my blog have noticed that I’ve been posting a video on Facebook, too, but if you haven’t seen any of them go to my page.  What a hoot!  I’m sure having fun and I hope you are, too.


This morning I was awake at 5:30, but feeling great so I started ruminating about what I’d say on the video versus what I’d write my blog about.  I have to keep that video short, but I can’t get wordier in the blog. . . as you know.  I can also go back and edit here, but not there.


I decided we are not social distancing.  We are physically distancing, but I think we’re more social now than we were before.  Just not in person.  For example, a few minutes ago a dear friend who I met in Jakarta, but haven’t seen for years, just sent me a connection to Marco Polo.  Yeah, I never heard of it, either, but I installed it and she and I sent videos back and forth until we were laughing too hard to continue.  Talk about the best medicine!


I thought since we’d be “in” for weeks and weeks, that we’d get so much done.  I have a storage room upstairs that hasn’t been attended to in, well, 15 years when we moved here.  Yeah, that didn’t happen.  Yet.  We keep saying, “Not today.  Maybe tomorrow.”  Almost in unison.


We also have a full basement and when I say “full” I don’t just mean it runs the length of the house, although it does.  I mean FULL with magic and Christmas stuff and memorabilia and toys and decorations and baskets and a shit load of crap we probably don’t need and should get rid of.  It really needs a thorough cleaning out.  That didn’t happen, either.  Yet.


Usually I don’t like a lot of clutter strewn about because it stresses me out.  Yet right now, from where I’m writing this in my living room, I can see two putters, a box of golf balls and an indoor golf hole; a thousand piece dragon puzzle that is impossible and supposed to relax me, but might wind up like a Monopoly game and be tossed against the wall, except then I’d have to pick up all of those pieces; my backpack full of markers, colored pencils, gel pens and coloring books, etc.; and a table in the sunroom full of marble games I bought in Indonesia.  That’s just right here.  Doesn’t bother me at all.  I kinda like having any given toy at my fingertips.  What?  Next I’ll be on Hoarders!


The kitchen table now not only has the growing basil babies, but also the Perquacky and Scrabble games and newspapers folded to the crossword and puzzle page.  That’s just on the main floor.  Himself goes UP to play his baseball game and watch Merlin on Netflix.  He goes DOWN to paint creatures and lay out games with boards and pieces he’ll never use because I hate those kinds of games and have to draw the line somewhere.  I can only lose games to him so much and maintain my dignity.


All of the experts on this nightmare say it’s best to keep things normal.  As if!  We try though, so we do have a schedule here at our adult daycare.  I get up earlier than Himself, have breakfast, shower whenever, get dressed whenever, make the bed (after he gets up, otherwise it’s lumpy) and watch some news.  Lately I’ve been recording and posting my silly video first thing in the morning, before Himself comes out and starts asking questions, although that might make for a fun one.


Then later in the morning I grab a cup of coffee and a treat (😊 and watch The View, which I record.  I know.  Don’t judge.  But at least they tell it like it is.  I thought I hated the cross-talk when they were all in the studio!  Now that they are all streaming in, it sends me over the edge.  But I watch anyway.


We eat lunch, maybe take a walk for some fresh air, have a nap, maybe watch a movie and maybe I’ll color or we’ll play a game.  We have more snacks laying around here than Lays and Keebler, so there is also “snack time”.  Like Tea Time if your British!  Later we eat dinner, watch World News and Jeopardy, (also recorded), watch a movie or go our separate ways.  Tucked within that high-stress day, I spend way too much time making Facebook comments and also call family and friends.  I might color or work on the evil puzzle and then it’s time for bed.  This is a lot of work!  Like a job!


My new watercolor tablet and paints aren’t far away, but I’m still to terrified to tackle that new project.  Besides, I don’t have time.  Social/personal distancing in our Adult Daycare is keeping me too busy!

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a hair pic

Wednesday, April 1, 2020

Today I am grateful for hairdressers.  I used to be one, so I guess I’m grateful for me today, too.  Look, let’s face it!  When things open up and we are able to go shopping freely, go to the pool or gym and eat in a restaurant, we’ll be very happy.


But if our relatives and/or friends come in for a long sought-after hug, they better step back!  Because we’ll all be racing to our phones to get a hair appointment!  Seriously!


Some of us will have an outgrowth almost three months long, which gives the hombre look a whole new meaning.  There is supposed to be color, not white!  Others of us will wonder if that was our picture flashing across the screen to send money for poor helpless animals in various states of distress.  I’m beginning to look like a basset hound.


Things are rough out there.  Some days I don’t even want to shower, not to mention style the locks.  My hair potions and lotions have gone the way of my bra.  Neglected and useless.


I was scheduled to get a haircut yesterday.  In order to stay spiky and perky (hair anyway) I make appointments for every five weeks.  I already have my next one, which is a good thing.   Because by next week I’m cutting this mop and I’ll need her to “fix” it for me.  No way can I contort enough to get the back correct with it being this short.


Who cares?  I don’t see the back.  And I’m not going anywhere.  The back will do just fine on my pillow or on the back of my recliner, so I’m cutting it.  It will be a major pain, which is why I’m scheduling it for next week.  I need to think about where I’ll line the mirrors up and whether I’ll be brave and use a razor or smart and use a scissors.  I don’t feel much of either these days, brave or smart.


For the full three years we lived in Jakarta, Indonesia I did my own hair, including perms and cuts.  No way was I going to a salon there and try to explain what I wanted.  But remember I’ve been trained and I’m good at it.  The only thing is my hair was longer then, so it was easier to work with.  Now I’m going to be cutting a bunch of sputnik spikes that are as difficult to grab hold of as a Russian in space.


Back in the dark ages, when I worked as a hairdresser, I was on 50% commission.  The country was in a recession and I was a single mom.  Some folks look at hair appointments as luxuries so they were the first to get cut when times were tough.  Pun intended.  But when customers didn’t come in, I didn’t get paid.  Just like your hairdresser isn’t getting paid now.  They might be able to get unemployment, I’m not sure about that, but it won’t be the same.


I got to thinking about how it would feel if it were me working as a hairdresser and wondered how I might help.  Kind of like the great suggestion to buy gift cards from restaurants you frequent, in order to help them out right now.  But if I do that with the hair salon it would help the shop, which is also cool, but not my hairdresser personally.


I very much appreciate her flexibility to work me in when I’m desperate.  And she doesn’t balk at me getting my fingers in my hair to check it out before I leave, so that’s worth a lot.  Cutting a hairdresser’s hair, former or not, is a challenge!  I’m also sure there have been times that I’ve been a little short of cash and tipped less than I should have.


So, I’m sending her some cash!  Today.  Not a ton.  But some.  We can call it tip-ahead!  Or if that doesn’t work for you, just another pay-it-forward.  I hope everyone reading this will share it. . .and then do the same for their hairdresser, because soon we will be more grateful for them than any other individual on the planet!  You’re not sure if you should?  Go look in the mirror!  That oughta convince you.

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a mayo bottle with an x

Tuesday, March 31, 2020

Today I am grateful for being spoiled.  But my milk isn’t.  Yet.  I just got notified that my on-line shopping order is completed.  Except it’s not.  Because they don’t have many of the things I ordered.  Including milk.  Poor me.  Am I on a respirator?  Nope.  Is Himself on a respirator?  Nope.  Lucky us!


But the problem with not being there in person is that I would find a substitute.  I mean I don’t NEED the Chex Mix of that brand, it could be a different brand.  But no.  Just no.  They don’t have it.  End of discussion.  Talk to the hand.


It’s maddening because I planned to make certain recipes, but some of the ingredients for the recipes is not available.  You have NO flour in the entire store?  None?  I’m getting enough apples for the end of time, but now I’m not sure I’ll have enough flour to make Himself an apple pie.  Poor him.  How’s that for a first-world problem?


Today Himself said to me, “You should put that on the list again.”  Great idea.  Duh!  As if I haven’t been doing that for over three weeks.  Every time.  Each thing I didn’t get, I put on the next list.  It’s like bringing coals to Newcastle or asking your ex to finally pay child support.  Not gonna happen.  There must be an incredible run on Olive Oil Mayo!  Really?  Everyone is buying this?


And don’t get me started on toilet paper.  I didn’t hoard toilet paper when this began.  Stupid me!  We’re down to our last package, which isn’t an awful problem because we do have tissues.  But why has there not been ANY toilet paper for over three weeks?  Did they stop making the shit?  Well we can’t.  We’re still making the shit and we’re starting to save our newspapers from recycling. . .just in case.


I refuse to think badly of whomever is shopping for us, because I can imagine how swamped they must be.  I’m sure they get calls all day long telling them what they “forgot” to send, even if they don’t have it on the shelves.   I spent yesterday warning my mom that she might not get her entire order and the screams of “Why NOT!?” expletive-expletive, are still floating like an angry cloud over Lake Michigan.


I’m sitting here, in the comfort of my house, expecting them to pick my brain.  And so are the nine gazillion other people who are now ordering on line.

“You’re out of Wheaties?  How can you be out of Wheaties?  Why aren’t you reading my mind and knowing that if you’re out of Wheaties I’ll take one of the four thousand other cereals you have on the shelf?  What’s wrong with you that you don’t know that?”  Times umpty-thousands of people.  Or more.  Shame on me(us).


I’m not getting my full order.  Boo Hoo!  Poor me.  Poor Himself.  Before you start playing your finger violins, just know, that on further checking, it seems those Reese’s Thins (for me) and Hershey’s Chocolate Bites (for Himself), made the cut.  They’re coming.  So, there won’t be an international incident.  Yet.


But I really need to shut the hell up and be grateful that ordering on line even exists!  People are scrambling around other people scrambling around so that we can have cheese!  I am so spoiled!   I’ll do better.  I will shake this off and adjust my attitude.  I promise.   I can’t promise vodka won’t be involved!  Yet.

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Making My Bed


a bedroom-bed

Monday, March 30, 2020

Today I am grateful for making my bed.  I always make my bed.  Every day.  Even if I’m sick and going to be heading back there, which is rare, because I do sick from the recliner usually.  So even in coronahell, where it’s just Himself and me and no chance of visitors, I’m making my bed.  Okay, our bed!  Geeze.


Sometimes Himself makes it and I always oo & ah at how wonderful it is that he made the bed.  And I don’t unmake it and “fix” it because that’s just rude and he’d never do anything for me again if I did.  I wait until we go to bed and when he’s in the bathroom I straighten it out.  I’m fussy about the bed, just like The Princess and the Pea.


This is not to be sanctimonious by any means, because although my bed is made, I’ve spent the last three hours totally screwing off doing virtually nothing but messing with the computer on line and figuring out how to work the video camera feature on my laptop.  Some of you might have already seen the top-quality-total-nonsense-video I already posted on Facebook.  I look like I’m choking from the scarf I threw around my neck but. . .full disclosure. . .it seemed better than my nightshirt.  My sister already called me out on it.  Gotta love sisters.


Oh I stuck a load of laundry in early, but it’s still sitting at my feet waiting to be folded.  I’ve eaten breakfast and emptied the dishwasher and, of course, made the bed, but not much else except listen to the drone of the TV news, which I’m going to have to get rid of soon or I’ll need to get the sock drawer out for ammunition.  Did you hear that they government has now declared gun sellers to be “necessary” businesses and they can remain open?  I hope they sell balled up socks!  Are we in the process of culling the herd?  Okay, that was mean spirited but I’m not taking it back anyway.


But why do I make my bed?  Didja see how I got back on track there?  What a gal!  I make my bed because of all the things I do during these days of social distancing it is the one thing I do that makes me feel normal.


I only shower at home once and a while, because I go to the pool three or more times a week, so even a shower feels a little foreign at home.  Having puzzles and toys and games and coloring books laying around isn’t normal for me, because I usually don’t have time for them.  Because I’m meeting with friends.  Outside of my house!


I rarely clean because with just the two of us and no pets, it doesn’t get that dirty.  That’s my story.  So that’s pretty much the same, too, although I did dust off the dining room table when Himself put the dragon display away.  The Pledge is still waiting on a chair, with the old T-shirt and a promise to dust something else.  I’m pacing myself.  Doing nothing.


But my bed is made!  I made it during 911 and sometimes I even made in in Jakarta, even though I had a houseman to do it for me.  Because making my bed makes me feel as close to normal as I get.  What works for you?

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Moose Safety Precautions

Sunday, March 29, 2020

Today I am grateful for moose safety precautions.  I have had several friends who follow my blog tell me that the large, wooden moose I’ve written about in the past, was wearing a mask to protect him from the coronavirus.


I didn’t tell Himself because he likes to be surprised by what “Nacho” is wearing.  He’s been pretty disappointed by the boring scarf the poor guy has had on all winter.  It was brown and not snazzy at all.  I think I should crochet him one and throw it on him, but Himself thinks that would be pushy.


Besides, Nacho lives on a very dangerous corner.  One of those curve-then-curve places, where it’s impossible to slow down too much because someone coming around the other corner could crash into you.  Especially if they are trying to get a look at the moose.  So, of course, I need a picture.


I surprised Himself after our coronawalk and we drove past the moose.  He was tickled at the mask and sign. . .until I told him I wanted a picture.  No one was behind me so I tried doing one while driving.  I know, I know.  But I was barely moving and there is less traffic now than ever before.

Except I wasn’t sure if I got anything, so we went past, turned around, and came back again, only this time I wanted Himself to take the picture out of his open window.  Not a stellar idea.  For the love of all things holy, I swear. . .


“Just wait until I stop,” I say.  “I deliberately let all of those cars go past us back there so I know there is no one behind us.  As soon as I stop, take the picture.”


He starts clicking something before I stop.  So far the plan is in place, like our usual plans.  I stop.


“Did you take it?” I ask.


“The stupid thing isn’t working!” Himself is shaking my phone like a maraca, as if that’s going to help.


“Well what did you do?” I ask.  “You must have touched something.”


“I don’t know.  If I knew I’d undo it!” He was not happy.  Me neither.


I told him to check if he got the picture but he couldn’t, mostly because with any cell phone, he shuts down like a broken garage door, so I drove to a block where I could park and put my reading glasses on.  No.  No picture.  Of the moose.  The dashboard of the car, yes.


“We’ll just go around again,” I say, pulling out of the parking space after I’ve set the phone up for another picture.  “Remember, wait for me to stop!”


He’s sitting with that phone at the open window like the Boston Marathon is going to pass any second and knows the lead runner.  I stop.  He clicks.  A picture of us.


“What did you do, now?” I ask, in my not so friendly voice.


“I don’t know!  The stupid thing is reversed and I swear I didn’t touch a thing.”  He rants on about how much he hates technology and phones and me and his which-away-fingers that don’t cooperate and now even the poor moose.  It was very flowery language, yet flowers were wilted in the process.


“Okay, are you all done?” I asked, when the blue cloud lifts.  He was.  “We’ll just go around again.”  And again.  And again.  And after about the fourth try, with me in hysterics and him ready to sneeze on the moose out of spite, we get a useable picture. . .and a bunch of clinkers.  I had to crop and edit it a little/lot.  I’m not going to share the video he took of me grabbing that phone out of his hand, with my also salty language, but I am sharing the others because you need a visual.  Or torture.  Or a distraction.


I’m so glad we got a picture of the moose exercising safety precautions.  We’re really stretching for entertainment these days, but I’m sure not lacking in stories.

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Old Movies

a marilyn monroe in slih

Friday, March 27, 2020

Today I am grateful for old movies.  Some of those old black & white movies like “Casablanca”, “Citizen Kane”, “Gaslight”, etc. are just the best.  The lighting is incredible in black and white films.  It had to be, because it’s very tricky to light the dark and not wash out all of the contrasts.


Himself and I were watching the old classic, “Some Like It Hot”, with Jack Lemmon, Tony Curtis and Marilyn Monroe.  I spent some time talking about how much I love the lighting choices, varying shades of highlighting and gray spots. Himself not so much.


“Just look at that lighting,” I say, as the light sparkles off of Marilyn Monroe’s almost-not-there-dress.


“There’s lighting?” he asks, unable to take his eyes off of “her”.


“I know this is a classic, but some of the dialogue is really cheesy,” I say, as Tony Curtis is checking out the tonsils of Marilyn on the steps of the hotel.


“There’s dialogue?” he asks.  I don’t think he’s heard a word of dialogue and I almost can’t either, what with the deep-throated grunts and groans over her. . .um. . .beauty.


“That is an amazing dress,” I say.  “It’s so flimsy.  I wonder how they even sewed that thing?”


“There’s a dress?” he asks, issuing so many grunts and groans it sounds like he is trying to change a tire and the lug nuts are on too tight.


I try to converse on the architecture of the Hotel del Coronado, which we stayed at back in the day, but Himself isn’t having any part of it.


When Curtis and Monroe were on the boat, when that “dress” was the third character in the scene, I say, “I can’t believe the censors let them get away with that back in 1959.  They wouldn’t even let Lucy and Ricky share a bed!  They had to have twin beds.  But she looks like someone spray painted that dress on her naked body.”


“Who are Lucy and Ricky?” he asks, grunting and groaning again, like he is trying to get up from the floor, or into his seat belt.  “What?  Did you say something?”


His eyes were glazed over with Marilyn sparkles and I knew there was no reaching him.  Gotta love old movies.  They are a real distraction in times of social distancing.  Himself can’t peel his eyes away!  Groan!


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New Growth

a basil growth

Thursday, March 26, 2020

Today I am grateful for new growth.  Nope, I’m not talking about my hair. . .or yours, which could probably use a mowing by now.  And I’m not talking about hips, either, which seem to spread incrementally, just like the nasty corona virus.  I’m talking about seeds growing to actual plants.  Like basil.


Several people gave me little basil kits for Christmas last year.  I confess I forgot all about them until about four weeks ago, when I decided to read the directions and see if I could manage to not kill them in their infancy.  I succeeded.


Just before the major social distancing order was put in place, we bought potting soil, so I could transplant the tiny shoots, allowing their roots to grow.  Now they are spreading out and getting taller by the day.  If we ever see actual sun and I can keep Himself from drowning them with over-watering concern, I should be harvesting a crop in a couple of weeks.


Believe me I know how stupid it sounds, but those little things coming to life, in the front window at the end of my kitchen table, are giving me energy.  I love watching new growth. . .as long as I’m not sitting on it.

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