A Propensity for Stemware

If you know me, you know how much I loved wine. I loved everything about it--the color, the smell, the taste, the glass from which it's sipped. And I loved the funny wine posts you've shared on my facebook timeline. My favorite:


Wife--I adore you. You mean the world to me. I can't imagine how I could ever live without you.

Husband--Is that you, or the wine talking?

Wife--It's me talking to the wine.


Alas, the love affair is over. I've had to give up many things because of my poorly performing lungs. Now, in order to get new ones, I must give up wine. Alcohol. I just turned my back and walked way one Saturday in February, and I've never looked back. It's as I've always insisted--"It's not that I need wine. I just like it."

I used to like it every day, in fact--sometimes twice. When the psychologist at Duke asked me during my evaluation how many days in the last month I had not had wine, my answer was "Less than one."

But I dumped it. It was a sacrifice, yes, but one worth making. The anti-rejection drugs I will be taking after transplant will be harmful to my liver, and they aren't going to need any help from alcohol. I understand, and Wine understands. It was an amicable parting.

But it turns out that Ido have a drinking problem...

The other day I found myself explaining what's so special about a wineglass to the same psychologist who caused my breakup. Just the sight of one of those fragile, elegant beauties signifies that it's time to let go of the day's troubles, to breathe deeply, sip and relax. She was concerned that I had replaced wine with "dealcoholized" wine--wine from which the alcohol has been removed by a special cone spinning process. But she was even more concerned when I assured her that I would quit that too--that I'd be happy to sip ginger ale or Ensure (see photo above) from my wine glass. She doesn't get it. I understand; she's young. But I don't see how my choice of glassware is a problem. I feel like my back is against the wall right now, but I don't think I'm going to let this one go. I will happily follow all the rules and regulations, all the dietary restrictions, all the exercise guidelines. I will take every single pill at the exactly prescribed time for the rest of my life. But I feel that I have to stand up for my right to choose my own glass!

Please vote for the wine glass!

Thank you!

One of Those Days

I don't know what made today different. I'd started getting the calls yesterday--the ones from Sterling, Virginia, telling me that my Apple security had possibly been breached through my cloud account, blah-blah-blah. Several identical messages were left on our answering machine. After the third call today, I decided to return the call from my cell phone. When the helpful guy with the accent asked what he could do for me, I reminded him that he had called me. He said "On this number?" rattling off my mobile number. "No," I said. "On my land line."

When he asked me what that number was, for some reason, I snapped.

I said, "I'm not going to tell you what that number is, but if you don't stop calling it, I'm going to hurt you! And don't you dare call me on this number! I swear to God, if you do, I'll track you down and hurt you! Now leave me the fuck alone!"

Yes, those were my actual words. I have no idea where they came from. They just squeaked out in the croaky, broken voice that I'm stuck with now.

Then, to keep myself from thinking that I might be crazy, I started obsessing about how mean I'd been. The poor guy was just doing his job. I didn't know what set of circumstances had put him in his position, but I was pretty sure that "Scam Artist" hadn't been his first career choice. I really could have been nicer...

I called back during the next commercial break.

It sounded like the same voice, but I played along, explaining that I'd just spoken with someone, and had been very rude, and I would like to apologize. He asked me if I knew the name of the person I'd spoken with. I didn't, so he asked for my name, saying he would see what he could find out and call me back. I told him I didn't want to give him my name, but I would like to know what he was doing. He explained that my Apple account might have been breached. When I told him I didn't have an Apple phone, he said, "Well, Ma'am, you should just forget about it then. That's what you need to do. Just forget about it."

But I couldn't. When I got the next call from Sterling, Virginia, I picked up the phone and pressed One to be transferred to Tech Support. And there was my friend again. He told me my Apple account had been breached, and did I have a computer or laptop? He wanted to know if I knew how to connect my phone to my computer. I told him I didn't have an iPhone, but that my husband did. He said I should have my husband call him when he got home. He said he should ask for Victor. (Aha--I had a name now!) I told him I would do that--have my husband call--knowing that would never happen.

Within a half-hour, Sterling VA was calling again. I picked up and was transferred again--to Victor. Once more, we ran through our lines...how can I help...you called me...security breach...This time I asked if I could have his name. At first he hesitated, then told me it was Victor. He asked my name, so I told him Kate. That's when it got weird--er.

"How old are you, Kate?"

Getting bored, I said "18," thinking What the hell?!! Does this dude not recognize my voice by now?

"You're 18? Do you have a boyfriend?

Okay. This was kind of fun.

"No. I don't."

"Can I be your boyfriend?"

"I don't think so. Where do you live?"

Again, the hesitation. Then "Cupertino, California."

"Wow." By now, I was sorry I didn't have an iPhone so I could hit Record or something.

He asked for a number where he could call me, and I acted coy. I told him I'd call him. He said I couldn't use the number I had, because someone else might answer, but he wanted my facebook identity so he could friend request me.

Ha! I was almost tempted to give it to him--not!

Anyway, I think he was starting to get suspicious, because when I asked for his, he said, "RV. That's all. RV."

Like I said, just one of those days. Gotta go now...Sterling, Virginia is calling...again.

Pranksters in My House

2016 has eased into 2017, and I've done my traditional reflecting. The popular feeling seems to be that 2016 was a year we'd all rather forget--unless, as my nephew, Brad, pointed out, you're Laurie Hernandez. Not only did she win Olympic Gold in Brazil, she also took home the coveted Mirror Ball Trophy on Dancing with the Stars--go, Laurie! While I may not have won any shiny medals or trophies, I still feel like 2016 was pretty good to me. (Okay, there's that whole election debacle, but that's another blog entirely.)

Awesome Greg's and my "Borrowed Baby," our "Imaginary Granddaughter," Jordyn, came to stay with us in June, and she's completely changed the dynamics in our previously empty nest. We couldn't be happier!

Ever since she was tiny, Jordyn has loved to play tricks, and Greg has always been a favorite target. She used to delight in sneaking up behind him while he was working at his desk, and scaring the hair off his head by yelling "Boo!" then giggling uncontrollably. What is astounding to me is that no matter how many times she did it--sometimes twice in one day--he never expected it.

But now she's older. She has better skills, and a larger repertoire of pranks. She likes to bake. Especially cupcakes...

This one was from the last batch she made. When Greg saw that there were sprinkles involved, he said "Leave one without sprinkles for me, please."

"Okay."

I then watched as she hollowed out the top of a cupcake with a spoon, filled the crater with sprinkles, and then frosted over it. I wish we had a picture of Awesome's face when he bit into that mouthful of crunchy sweetness, but I'm afraid we were both laughing too hard to be concerned about capturing the moment.

But Greg likes pranks, too...

Jordyn planned her 14th birthday party in November. One of her primary activities was going to be making s'mores over a grill. She enlisted her buddy, Greg, to help her find suitable marshmallow-roasting sticks in the woods behind our house. Greg, however, had other plans for his Saturday, and they did not include whittling and carving 20 sticks--if they were able to find that many. He slipped out of the house while Jordyn and her friend, Kinsley, were still sleeping. A quick trip to Lowe's, and he was home with five packs of clean, beautiful sticks. Not wanting to deprive the girls of the thrill of the hunt, though, he went out and taped the packages randomly to trees, then came in to wake them. They donned boots and jackets and willingly headed out...

"Hey, what the...?!"

"Look what we found!"

And the real chocolate on the graham cracker was that during the party, which was held in the parking lot of an apartment complex, a neighbor (another prankster, perhaps?) called the Fire Department. A truck arrived, lights flashing and siren blaring. Fortunately, the guys just laughed when they saw the group of kids and a couple of adults roasting marshmallows over a grill.

Happy birthday to Jordyn--one I'll always remember with a smile.

Old School

Misener School in Lapeer, Michigan, where I attended Kindergarten in 1957. Like me, the building has faded, but the memories surrounding it are as vibrant as ever. (Photo by Holly Smith)

As I grow older, I find my thoughts being pulled more and more to the time when I was young--or just younger. In my reveries, there are never any problems that I can't handle. I am strong and smart, and all of my powers are intact. Oh, and cute, too--I'm always cute. My hair looks great, and my outfits are awesome.

Now, most days are like this photo, reminding me that I'm not what I used to be. I need my glasses to find the buttonholes on my shirt, and I often start my sentences with "Stop me if I've already told you this." Then I will proceed to tell you anyway. The other day I picked up the alarm clock to see who was calling, lost the corkscrew between opening the bottle and taking my first sip, and realized at the end of the day that I'd been wearing my leggings backwards. It didn't even matter.

In the big picture, those are all just minor hiccups--life letting me know that I need to hold on a bit tighter. I'm sure tomorrow or the next day bring more bumps in the road. But you know what? I'm happy to be here with my memories. In Retrospect--where I love to dwell--I've had something to be happy about every single day that I've lived. I hope that won't be taken away from me, but if it is, I think I will still find a way to be happy. Does that make sense? More and more, I'm finding that I don't. Make sense, that is...

No One to Blame But Myself

Earlier today I spent an hour writing a post called "Blaming Donald Trump." I left it posted for about an hour, then deleted it.

I remember being told "If you haven't got something nice to say, then don't say anything at all." Saying nothing at all has always been difficult for me, but I could usually get by with saying something else entirely. Lately, however, I have completely ignored that sage advice, saying whatever I felt, whenever I felt like saying it. Well, maybe not in person, but certainly on facebook, and in this blog.

But this morning it wasn't my intention to be nasty. I thought I had written a witty, self-deprecating explanation of why I've wanted to unfriend myself lately. Then, as I was showering, I was "convicted." Not only was my post not very funny, it deprecated a lot of other people besides myself. I realized some people would have already ready read it, but I couldn't wait to get back down here and hit "delete post." Of course once I've hit "publish," that's about as easy as unsaying something you hope no one heard.

Now I would like to give blame where blame is due. I'm taking full responsibility for being a person that I don't like very much. (It was tempting for me to type "for becoming" that person, but I realize that I haven't become anyone that I haven't always been.) I don't want to be that person anymore.

No, I'm not accepting any kind of bullying or discrimination as okay. I will not tolerate it when I see it, and I will do whatever I can to ensure that it doesn't happen. But instead of putting out any more of the kind of negativity that is choking our hearts, I want to make an effort to embrace the beautiful words of Michele Obama--"When they go low, we go high."

A lofty goal, I know, but goals are good to have, right?

Missed Calling

I think I missed my calling. I don't know why this never occurred to me before, but I think I was supposed to be an advice columnist. It became as clear as a bell this morning as My Awesome Husband Greg was reading to me from our local paper...

Dear Annie: My husband and I have been having an ongoing conflict about when to go to bed at night, as he insists we go to bed at the same time...

He insists? Honey, I wish you had written me before the wedding! The man is clearly an ass hat! Where does he get off insisting that you go to bed at a certain time?!

The writer then goes on to explain that she is a night owl, and sometimes wants to stay up until 11, either because she's not tired, or wants to watch something on TV. He, on the other hand, wants both of them to go to bed at 10 because that's the only way they can get enough sleep before the dog wakes them up at 6.

Okay, Sweetie. It's not like you're going clubbing after he goes to bed, right? I mean you're going to be right there in the den, reading or watching Netflix or something? Tell him the amount of sleep you need has nothing to do with him, and he needs to get over that crap right now!

But there's more...

He apparently whines that she wakes him up when she climbs into bed after him, and he can't get back to sleep.

Have you considered separate beds? Separate rooms? Separate houses?

I think this woman had already worked out the answer to her problem on her own. She just needed me to tell her she was right. Let's see how I did. Here's what "Annie" said:

Dear Tired: Don't let your husband treat you like a child. It sounds as if he has a bit of a controlling streak (ya think?) and it will only grow bigger if you take his demands lying down. (Clever--see what she did there--"lying" down?)

So Annie and I were on the same wavelength. She didn't use "ass hat," and she did suggest compromise--like going to bed early a couple of times a week just to appease the ass hat. I guess I could learn to be a little nicer. This was my first day on the job, after all.

The second letter was from someone wanting to know a good way to let visiting guests know they should limit their teeth-flossing activities to the bathroom, and not perform them in the TV room, leaving their used floss on the sofa. I mean. A good way? Annie suggested politely telling them that they should do that in the bathroom. That might work, but I prefer utilizing a "significant emotional event," such as walking into the room and screaming "Oh my God! What in the hell are you doing?! Were you raised by wolves?!" Just different ways of saying the same thing, right?

I definitely think I'm trainable.

Crime Scene

The shapely blond lay face-down on the hardened ground next to the parking lot. Rigor mortis was in and advanced stage. She was wearing clean white underwear--no holes or overstretched elastic--which would indicate that she had come from good breeding. Or at least that she listened to her mother. The only other garment to be found anywhere in the vicinity was a filmy pink something or other. Could have been a skirt or a pair of wings for all I could tell. She had both shoes on, but no stockings or socks. Her hair was clean, but slightly disarranged. Come to think of it, that might have been by design--best not mention that.

Closer examination showed no bruises or abrasions, no sign of blunt-force trauma or strangulation. I was able to pick her up and check her out completely--she was only about four feet tall and weighed just a few pounds--and put her back in the exact same position in which I had found her. (I know I shouldn't have done that, but I just had to see if I could.)

The only indication that she had been mistreated was the lack of warm clothing to ward off the chill night air. But who can tell what goes on behind closed doors? Perhaps there was an argument, and some kid decided to throw her out the window as the family car backed out of its space. Or maybe she jumped, thinking she could make it to the store and find something warm in the toy department.

Of course there's the always the chance that this was all just a tragic accident--that she was on the edge of the seat when the car door was opened, and fell to the ground without anyone noticing...I left her where she lay, hoping that was the case, and that the family would return to the scene in an effort to silence what surely would have been their child's deafening wails.

When I returned this morning, she had vanished.

Case closed. Sort of.

Why I Drink

1. Because I'm listing toward a funk.

1. Because there's just too much teenaged angst in the world today.

1. Because there's just too much angst caused by teenagers in the world today.

1. Because everyone is pissed off.

1. Because technology befuddles me.

1. Because it feels like the people who are in charge do not have our best interests at heart.

1. Because it feels like the people in charge might not have hearts.

1. Because I really wanted to not put any more negative energy out into the universe, and now I feel like a failure.

1. Because red wine is beautiful and it tastes good. I also like the way it softens the edges.(White wine and pink wine are beautiful, too.)

2. Because beer comes in so many flavors. I'd like to sample them all.

3. Because although liquor is expensive, it's still cheaper than therapy--and works faster.

Ommmmmm?

Maybe I need a mantra. The concept of meditating appeals to me, but I've never been able to achieve that cross-legged position where you place your feet on your inner thighs and keep your back straight at the same time. Don't you need to be able to do that to open up your chakras or something? I can get my legs crossed with my feet under my calves, but then they fall asleep and I have to stretch them out.

Still, I might like a mantra...

Focus...No, that seems too obvious. Besides, if you say it softly a bunch of times in a row, it sounds like you're saying something else.

One thing...Maybe. But again, it's the multiple repetitions that trip me up. Try it. It kind of makes your lips stumble. Besides, it makes you look like a fish.

I discarded Concentrate right out of the gate because it has too many syllables. And it's sibilant. That makes is distracting for people like me, who lapthe into lithping occasionally. (See what I mean?)

Words like Pickle and Flicker are fun to say. I'll keep those on the list, but I feel like I need something with more depth. What is the purpose of meditating, after all, if it's not about getting deep?

So while I may not be able to assume the position, I have decided that I definitely need a mantra. One that I can say as I move from task to task--something to help me stay "on task." You know, where you finish one thing before you start another. I've heard that there are people who do that. I feel like they must know some secret tactic that I'm not privy to. Perhaps it's the mantra.

Half-hour. Half-hour. Half-hour.

That's it! Two easy, soft-sounding syllables. Half-hour. Do it with me--it's almost like breathing! And a half-hour is the amount of time it took me to write this. I think I'm on to something. I'll let you know how it works.

Light

Not always, but today there was a procession of thoughts that came before my writing...

On waking, I started to think about how I wanted this day to be. I decided that it was time to let go of the anger I've been feeling about our President Elect. I can be still be sad. The sadness comes in manageable waves, and likely will for a while. But the anger is self-destructive. I want it gone.

I wondered if I was ready to write an honest post about where I hope to go from here. I don't want anything I say to be construed as acceptance of things that Mr. Trump has proudly proclaimed he stands for. He has used his words to viciously attack and strike fear into the hearts of half of the people in this country--people he claims he wants to represent. That is not okay. But can we give him a place to stand so he can start anew? I decided I want to try.

At that point, I logged onto facebook and saw that a friend had forwarded me a picture of hands holding light. She said it was the light of peace, and it was to be shared. I told her I was going to try to use it in my blog today. Alas, my limited grasp of technology will not allow me to post an HTML file here. I did, however find a photo in my archives that I am now calling "The Light of Peace."

So here I am. I am ready to open my heart to light and peace. I want to stop following--and sharing--posts that dwell on the ugliness of this election. While I never supported Donald Trump during his campaign, I am going to support him as President of the United States. I feel like we all need to do that in order to keep America great.

A lot of damage has been done. I am going to keep hope in my heart that if we all work together, some of it can be fixed. We can heal. While we must loudly voice our opposition if he resorts to bullying, we need to support our new President in the good that he will surely do. I am ready to give him a chance.

But Not Today

Maybe tomorrow I'll be ready to jump on the "Okay-it's-over-so-now-let's-just-all-unite-and-support-this-great-country-of-ours" bandwagon. But not today.

Today I'm all like Nope! Not my president! He will never be the boss of me!

Maybe tomorrow I'll be ready to acknowledge that God is in this somewhere, and that maybe, for reasons we can't begin to fathom, we needed this. But not today.

Today I'm all like This system is rigged! I demand a recount!

Maybe tomorrow I'll believe that he was being sincere when he said "I want to be president for all of you...To those of you who were against me--and there are some--I reach out and ask you to tell me what I can do for you." But not today.

Today I'm all like Jackass, please! Spare us any more of your frickin' lies!

Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to put aside my panic and hysteria, and remind myself that there are checks and balances in place--that not even his followers will be as surprised as he is when he realizes that he alone can't fix anything. But not today.

Today I'm all like Just wait until you deplorable idiots realize that you've bought yourselves a passel of empty words and promises, and that your savior is made out of cheddar cheese!

Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to calmly ask "Will you please at least keep the part of Obamacare where insurance companies can't refuse to cover you because of a pre-existing condition?" But not today.

Today I'm all like If you repeal Obamacare, you will have essentially screwed me, so you might as well go ahead and touch me inappropriately! What's that? I'm not your type? Well then call me Lucky!

Maybe tomorrow I will be mature and keep my childish remarks to myself. I know that what this world needs is not more ugliness and insults. Maybe tomorrow I'll be able to "go high." But not today.

Today I'm all like Hey, this is my pity party, and I'm allowed to say whatever the hell I want!

Today. But not tomorrow.

Tomorrow is another day.

Catholic School

Bishop Kelley Memorial School, Class of 1966

I went to Catholic School in the 1960's. Those years are a huge part of who I am. My first friendships were formed there, many of which have been renewed and recharged through facebook. We learned reading, 'riting and 'rithmetic and, of course, religion. But there was more. We had music and art. We put on plays and had talent shows. Occasionally, we had gym. And we learned Latin.

A quiz on facebook recently asked "How many Catholic words do you actually know?" A multiple-choice test of Latin phrases. All of my school buddies who took it--including one Episcopalian--got 100 percent. Most of the answers would have been easy to guess, but back in the day, we knew them all by rote.

Et cum spirit tuo--And with your spirit.

Ave Maria--Hail Mary.

Sanctus, sanctus, sanctus--Holy, holy, holy.

True, most of them were words to songs, but the Sisters made sure we knew what we were singing.

We went to Mass every morning before school. The kids who rode buses had to walk a couple of blocks from the junior high to the church. If we were going to receive Communion, we brought toast in our lunch boxes, which we were later allowed to eat in class. (There was a three-hour waiting period between eating and receiving the Eucharist then. It was eventually shortened to one hour.) To this day, eating cold buttered toast reminds me of my school days.

The girls had to have their heads covered in church, so if we hadn't brought a hat, or one of those little doilies called a "chapel veil," we would fold a piece of tissue into a band and fasten it to our head with bobby pins.

We played outside at recess and lunchtime. The playground had all of the necessary equipment, some of which I understand is no longer allowed at schools--too dangerous. Of course there were occasional accidents--we were kids. But I don't think anyone thought of taking away our fun. Someone would bump the teeter-totter too hard and send a playmate flying. Someone would absentmindedly wander in front of a swing and get knocked off their feet. Once, I saw a boy being led into the school with blood pouring from his face. He'd been swinging on his stomach, leaned a little too far forward and dragged his face through the gravel--an image I still can't "unsee."

The girls of the Class of '66 at our trip to the Dominican Academy in Oxford.

There was an American Flag flying from a tall pole in front of the school. Sometimes the entire school would go to the church to attend a Funeral Mass for a parishioner. We lined up outside the school, and then filed in by class. On one such day, while waiting outside, I began making conversation with some friends. Sister roughly yanked me from the line and told me to stand beside the flagpole until she came back to get me. This was punishment? I was going to stand outside and miss part of Mass? Ha.

I stood under that flag for an hour.

Sister was a little "scattered." I figured she had forgotten me, but I didn't want to risk getting into more trouble by trudging into Mass late and alone. I was rewarded for my stalwartness when Sister, upon coming out of the church and seeing me, fell all over herself apologizing. She was so sorry for forgetting me that I felt bad for her.

Members of the Class of '66 who made it to the Lapeer High School Class of 70's 45th reunion (2015).

I have always loved school. If I could go back now, I would. Those eight years I spent as a "Catholic School Kid" are in my soul. They are what I remember when I think about my childhood and say "I was happy." My sisters and brothers were there, too. It was part of our family. I wish every child could have what I had.

Messed Up

Yesterday was unseasonably warm--the kind of day that makes you uneasy because you know you're going to have to pay for it later.

I already had my window down as I drove around the back of the dry cleaner's. I turned Emmylou Harris off so I would be able to give my full attention to the tiny Asian woman who owns the shop. There was one car parked by the door, and I could see there was no one in it, but through the open door, I could hear shouting. Loud shouting. Shouting I couldn't not hear. It was verbal abuse shouting. The f-bomb was being dropped as an adjective in front of every word that was being said shouted.

I suddenly felt on high alert, waiting to hear gunshots. I grew up in a home where yelling and cussing were common occurrences (although not gunshots), but it still unnerves me when I'm not the one yelling and cussing. (When I am, I just feel guilty...later.) Someone was bludgeoning someone else with their words, and I hoped it wasn't my sweet little friend. I thought about calling 911. I pictured myself in a shiny spandex outfit with Bully Buster emblazoned across the chest getting out of my car and going in to investigate. I couldn't imagine that ending well, so I pushed the thought away.

Eventually a stubby, bald, very angry man came out and threw some stuff in the back seat of his car. He looked right at me. Now he knew he had an audience, yet he continued his tirade.

"I don't care if you have to tear the f---ing place apart! Find that f---ing coat, you f---ing moron! I'll be back at 5:00!"

When he walked back inside, I could hear another voice--a man's voice--saying something about never being treated that way by a customer. Then the mad yelly guy returned, opened his car door and shouted "I'll be back, and you'd better have that f---ing coat!" Then he was gone.

I was shaking as I pulled up. I wasn't surprised to see no one at the desk, no one rushing out the door to see how they could help me. I didn't want to honk my horn, so I sat for a few seconds before squeaking "Hello?"

First one, then two Asian men walked out to my car. They were both smiling as if they had missed all the screaming.

"I am so sorry for the way he treated you," I said. "There is no excuse for that."

They laughed.

"I am sorry for you," one said.

"He's not normal," said the other.

"Maybe you should have the police here when he comes back," I offered.

Again, the smiles. "It's okay."

They brought me my clothes, took my money and brought me change. With smiles.

I watched the local news later to see if there had been a shooting at my neighborhood dry cleaner's. I tried to imagine what it was about the guy's coat that had him so messed up at the prospect of losing it. What kind of a day/life had he had? Did he hate his job, his wife...? Even more puzzling was the way those two gentlemen were able to shrug the horrific incident off--with smiles--and continue on with business as usual.

November

The first day of November...

On this day last year, I committed to writing in my blog every day for a month. This year, I'm not saying I will. But I might.

I only work when someone is watching. Outside of that, I tend to flit from one distraction to another--sometimes for an entire day--without ever accomplishing anything that makes me sigh "there" at the end of the day. Deadlines are my only boss. So If I do decide to post every day, that commitment will be my boss. I will have a job to do, and a sense of accomplishment when it's done.

If I decide not to blog, I will probably knit more, read more, watch more TV. I most certainly will not scrub, dust or vacuum more. But the laundry will be done. I'm good at laundry.

I have always talked a lot--some might say too much. I still do, and they still might. Now, however, my voice sounds like a lace doily on an dusty table would sound if it could sound like something. (That's a stretch, I know, but I think it gives a nicer visual than saying that I sound like a croaky old lady now.)

I like to drink, especially wine, especially Shiraz and Malbec. But I don't drink as much as I used to. I don't know what that qualifies me for, but there must be something.

I gave up any interest that I had in cooking years ago. Actually, after the first dinner I prepared for My Awesome Husband Greg, after our honeymoon. He said "I don't grip on raw chicken," which was unfair, because the chicken was not raw. It was just boneless and skinless. It may not have looked delicious (or even edible), but believe me--it was thoroughly cooked. Anyway, not cooking was a relief. My meals never looked as good as the pictures, and my messes looked like natural disasters. But recently, what with all the amazing-looking recipes I see on facebook, some complete with tutorials, I have renewed my interest in creating delicious dishes for whoever will eat them. Unfortunately, my creations are still ugly, and my messes are monumental, so I don't know how long this phase will last.

There.

I have blogged on the first day of November. Now maybe I'll go early-vote. I have a feeling this is going to be a good month!

My Untold Story

Since last week. the media has been rife with stories of sexual assault victims coming forth with information that is sure to be--finally--the beginning of the end for a certain presidential candidate. Amidst speculation as to why these women waited until just a few weeks before the election to tell their stories (some of the incidents took place more than a decade ago), there have been accusations that their stories must be false, since they didn't share them immediately. It was infuriating to hear the candidate say that these were "horrible, horrible lies," and claim that "Believe me--she would be not be my first choice." As if victims were required to meet certain standards of beauty.

Why did they wait? Why didn't they rush to tell their stories? Surely someone who has been shamefully mistreated by a powerful celebrity should be eager to defend herself against accusations that she's a liar--and worse.

It got me to thinking...

While nothing as horrible as Donald Trump has ever happened to me, I do have a story about a creepy incident that took place 45 years ago. I hardly ever think about it anymore, but when I do, the images in my mind are as vivid as when it first happened. The only other person who knows is My Awesome Husband Greg, who was My Awesome Boyfriend at the time. The reason we never told anyone else was that we were ashamed of our shared naivete.

I was 18, and I was asked if I would like to do some modeling for a photographer that Greg had met through the college theater group he was in. Flattered, I said yes. I was to bring my own clothes, but was given guidelines--mostly casual, sporty clothes, including a bathing suit, and one nice dress. Greg dropped me off at the guy's studio. The photographer said he would drive me to the theater when we were done.

Sounds like the makings of a cheap horror movie now, doesn't it?

My shyness made me awkward, and although no one else was there, I was unable to relax in front of the camera. I could tell the guy was pissed, but he stuck it out. I felt sorry for him because I was wasting his time. I wanted nothing more than for Greg to pop in and say, "Hey, I just happened to be in the neighborhood..."

Finally, we were finished. The room where I had been changing was a tiny cubbyhole at one end of the studio, but at least it had a door that locked. As I was buttoning my blouse, getting ready to leave, I heard a noise. Looking up, I noticed, just above my head, a knothole the size of an eye--with an eye in it! Always a quick thinker with a ready remark, I said, "Hey--get away from there!" He moved away from the peephole and I packed my things in my tote bag, wondering what I should do or say next. Wanting to be prepared, I kept one of my wooden clogs in my hand,in case I needed a weapon.

Not a word was said on the way to the theater. (I'm sure he was intimidated by my wooden shoe.) I told Greg, who was furious, and felt responsible because he had arranged the "shoot." I felt dirty and stupid and wanted my mom and dad to never find out.

Through the years, I've thought of many alternate endings for my story, none of them as anticlimactic as the actual one. As it is, my embarrassment is nothing compared to the shame and humiliation those women must have felt--and still feel. I understand why they would hesitate to share their stories. I am grateful that they have shared them, and hope they feel proud of themselves, and will not be further shamed by that predator/bully.

I still cringe when I remember that day, but I entertained myself by writing about it. Thank you for "listening."

School Bus

'Tis the season of the bus.

I hear them every morning. The first one stops in front of my house at 5:45 to pick up Jordyn. Hearing the lumbering yellow machine screech to a stop--apparently squeaky brakes are standard equipment--its engine idling loudly, seeing the red warning lights come on and watching Jordyn disappear into its dark interior takes me back...

When I was older, I looked forward to the social opportunities being a bus kid afforded me. The chance to really experience the changing of the Michigan seasons as we awaited its arrival, sometimes excruciatingly. The thrill of being entertained by the kids who thrived on entertaining--like my son, who was suspended from riding for a week when he was in first grade because the kids laughed when he jumped up out of his seat with every bump. He enjoyed their laughter so much, he couldn't stop, even when the driver told him to knock it off. Yes, I would have been one of the ones laughing.

But in the beginning, my stomach churned with anxiety as I said goodbye to my family and climbed aboard that big yellow monster. I'm sure I saw myself as a sort of "bus pioneer," forging a trail for my younger siblings, who, in a couple of years, would be able to ride fearlessly because of my presence.

Back then, all grades rode together, first through twelfth, and I was enormously intimidated by the "big kids," who seemed so large and in charge. I don't know what I thought they would do to me, a nearly invisible first-grader, but my fear was real. Mom appointed one of the older boys in the neighborhood to be my guardian bus angel. Thankfully, he was there the day I needed him.

That afternoon I was riding quietly in my seat, being the quintessential rule-follower, when a boy behind me decided to place his chewed up wad of bubble gum right on top of my pony tail. Feeling something, I put my hand up, and came away with a sticky pink mess stringing from my fingers. Billy had seen it happen, and he sprang into action on my behalf. Other kids were laughing, but Super Bill (as I like to imagine him now, his shiny blue cape flapping in the breeze from the open windows) yanked the clod out of his seat and hit him right in the face. Amazingly, the bus driver acted like he hadn't seen a thing in that big rearview mirror he was always looking into.

When I got home, our elderly babysitter took it upon herself to cut the chunk out of my hair with Mom's sewing scissors, leaving me with a patch of short prickly stubble right in the middle of my head. Mom probably had to buy new scissors. I don't remember if the thug ever rode the bus again. My hair grew back, of course, and I grew up and out of my fears. I take comfort in knowing that while many things have changed since my youth, school buses are are still much the same.

Words

The candidate is both offensive and defensive.

He is reactionary and cautionary,

Reprehensible and indefensible,

Obstreperous and obtuse.

He is vainglorious, vituperative, volatile and vengeful.

We must not allow him to also become victorious.

New Tricks

Maybe, as they say, you can't teach an old dog new tricks. Well, then I'm glad I'm not a dog. I need to believe that I'm still capable of learning a trick or two. If not hope, then what have we?

This morning, sipping coffee and planning my day, I thought:

Hey, I have a laptop now (thanks to my darling friend, Lynne, who sent me hers since she was no longer using it)! And I have a memory card for my phone, which, if not quite a smart phone, is still marginally brighter than my old one in that it takes pretty good pictures. Maybe I can figure out how to use the memory card to transfer photos from my phone to my laptop...then I could write a blog showing off my new skills. I could call it "New Tricks!"

With the memory card in place, I snapped my first photo of the day -- my bedside lamp, its light reflected in the window behind it. There's something about that lamp that I love--maybe the fact that it belonged to my mom. I've taken pictures of it before. I've even attempted to draw it on my if-not-quite-smart,-then-somewhat-resourceful phone...

I removed the card from the phone, figured out how to insert it into the adapter, then slid the adapter into my card reader. So far, so good. It fit right into the little slot on the side of the laptop. Yes! I was even able to figure out how to access the information on the card. What?! All the files were "empty."

My in-house techie, Jordyn, is away for the weekend. That means that project is on hold--for now.

But wait! I do have a little something up my sleeve...

Having dropped my oxygen canister onto my beloved Little Red Digital Camera earlier this year, rendering it broken, I naturally assumed ownership of My Awesome Husband Greg's digital camera. He rarely uses it now, because his phone is so smart it should be in Mensa. It takes awesome photos.

And although my relationship with my "new" camera has yet to become intimate--there will never be another Little Red for me--I have figured out the basics of snapping photos. I can also use the card reader to transfer the photos to my computer. Hence, the photo below, which I have decided to call "Reflected Light."

So I can new learn new tricks. It just takes longer than it used to. I'll have to get back to you on that phone/photo/computer trick...

Adaptation

I used to love being with my friends on the tennis court, feeling my energy surge as I charged after that yellow ball, the pleasure being more in running fast and hard than in actually connecting with anything. Except, of course, my friends--sometimes literally.
I thought I would really miss that,

But I've gotten used to it.

I remember getting up in the morning, tying on my shoes and heading out for a run, no matter what the weather.
There was a special joy in starting out on a frigid day, feeling my body create its own heat as I ran, breathing in rhythm with my feet hitting the pavement.
Now I rarely sweat and I barely breathe. My feet are quiet as I walk.
I thought I would hate that,

But I've gotten used to it.

Although it never came naturally to me, I used love to dance. If there was music, I was moving.
Dancing--and wine--made me not care what other people think.
How freeing it was to move in (perceived) sync with whatever was playing, untethered by cares and supplemental oxygen devices.
I was sure I would mourn the loss of dancing,

But I've gotten used to it.

I've always believed that when God closes one door, he opens another, but I never imagined that I would be a person who could find happiness in a recliner, a pile of books, a basket yarn and a remote control.
Sometimes I still move--just not with as much gusto as I used to,

But I've gotten used to it.

Besides, I still have friends and family and wine and cheese and crackers, and life is still greatly pleasurable. I could definitely get used to this...

"Putin Thinks I'm a Genius."

I'm not writing about politics. I would never do that to my blog. It's just that my mind is about to explode, and I have nowhere else to put all the flammable objects floating around in there.

Putin thinks I'm a genius.

What a lovely compliment. I'm also a sucker for a compliment, and I can see how something like that would turn one's head. If Putin said I was pretty, I'd probably want him to be my best friend, too.

I know more than the generals.

Said with complete confidence. Why would anyone question the veracity of that?

I'm going to build a great wall, and Mexico will pay for it. Believe me. Mexico is going to pay for that wall."

And the crowd cheered.

I must be missing something. The people who are under his spell must have something that I don't--some little chip or gem--something that sets them apart from me. I watch and I listen and I, who have always prided myself on being a fast learner (until computers, that is), cannot comprehend.

I alone can fix it.

There's that unadulterated confidence again. Where does it come from? My God, is it possible that he actually believes the things he's saying? Does he listen to himself and think, "I'm a genius?"

Of course he does. I was just hoping that he was the only one, a rare deviant, placed here for our entertainment. But he's not. He has followers--an adoring crowd of rabid believers. They follow his example, trying to make him look like a viable choice for President by pointing out the missteps of his opponents. It's as if they've never met their own candidate.

I have a plan, but I'm not going to tell you what it is, because I like to be unpredictable.

Maybe if it's last call at the bar, and I have a death wish--maybe then that would sound appealing. But unpredictability is not on my list of presidential qualifications.

Like I said, I must be missing something. I hope I never find it.