When we’re home, we host happy hour on Mondays on our front porch, and we cheer on the runners of the Pelagic Run Club, which is associated with a bottle shop that’s less than a mile from our house.
Since we’re in Vienna, we didn’t have it today, but we did check our web cam that shows our front yard at the time they pass by and caught a few shots of them going by.
Update: Our friends Sam & Neal picked up the slack by putting signs out at their house, which is one street over from ours.
On the way to checking out, we created this image as a visual pun.
What is it?
Click here for answer.
Shoofly! Webster’s definition is:
shoofly noun
shoo·fly ˈshü-ˌflī
1: a child’s rocker having the seat built on or usually between supports representing an animal figure
2: any of several plants held to repel flies
My friend sent me this image saying, “7’s for me. Is it 12 or 13 for you?”
She’s not wrong:
She’s a lot like Bob (my husband); he picked #8.
To me, 12, 13 & 14 are great.
13 looks perfect to slice and put atop some cereal that could use a little natural sweetener.
14 would be good mixed in some vanilla ice cream.
And 15 is approaching one that we’d put in the freezer for when Bob makes my annual Best. Ever. Banana. Cake.
This reminds me, Bob knows me so well that one time when I was still working, I wanted a banana for lunch, but he knew the ones we had weren’t ripe enough for me, so he doctored one up with a Sharpie and packed it in my lunch.
Recently, “The Flintstone’s purple pet” was a clue in one of the crossword puzzles I do. I hadn’t thought of Dino in a good long while.
Then lo and behold, yesterday at the grocery store, I saw these chunks of chicken.
So many questions… not the least of which is: “Why is that dinosaur on the package green, and are they purple on the inside at least?” And just in terms of making them at all: “Why??? It seems very, very arbitrary to me.”
There are a number of songs whose lyrics include “I can touch the sky,” which makes me wonder, “Exactly how far up is it before the sky actually starts?”
Copilot AI to the rescue:
The “sky” doesn’t have a hard boundary. What we typically call the sky is Earth’s atmosphere, which extends about 62 miles (100 kilometers) above sea level to what’s known as the Kármán line — often considered the edge of space. That’s higher than any commercial plane can fly and where things start to get truly weightless
So, I says to Copilot, “But where does the sky start? Is it one-inch off the ground?”
In the most basic sense, yes—the sky starts right at your feet. The “sky” is really just Earth’s atmosphere, and we’re all living in the thickest part of it, called the troposphere, which begins at ground level and stretches up about 7 to 12 miles (12 to 20 km). So technically, every breath you take is part of the sky.
It’s just that when we look up, we perceive that vast expanse differently—like it’s separate from us, a thing up there rather than around us. But truly, you’re walking through the sky every time you stroll down the street. Kind of poetic, don’t you think?
With all that said, being able to touch the sky isn’t really a big enough deal to brag about.
Long-time cruisers love to correct you when you call the vessel a boat, as in “We need to be back to the boat by 6 p.m.”
“It’s a ship!” they’ll cry.
In anticipation of our imminent Danube Delights Riverboat Cruise, I read Diamonds on the Danube in which, most times, the characters refer to the riverboat as a ship, which got me to musing… and Googling, of course:
A riverboat is generally called a boat, although in some contexts, particularly with larger river vessels, “ship” might be used. The distinction between boat and ship often relates to size and whether the vessel is designed for ocean travel (typically called a ship) or inland waterways (typically called a boat). Riverboats, designed for shallow draft and inland navigation, are usually classified as boats.
I’ll be saying, “It’s time to get back to the boat,” during this trip. This is what our boat looks like:
In contrast, our fall New England & Canada Cruise will be on NCL’s Norwegian Getaway, which is unequivocally a ship:
In my recent reading of The Emperors of Chocolate: Inside the Secret World of Hershey and Mars, I learned that before there were machines to produce Hershey’s Kisses, the line-people (almost always women) in the factory had to lay that little strip of paper (the “plume”) down on the foil, put the chocolate on it, and then wrap it.
But sometimes the plume blew away before they could set the chocolate on it and wrap it. Because it happened enough, and because there was a lot of pressure to maximize their productivity, the women sometimes licked the chocolate and stuck the plume to it to keep it from blowing away before they could wrap it.
Reading that caused me to muse about, realistically, how important that plume is to the consumer. Please take this brief survey to let us know.
As soon as I committed to a Costco checkout line, I noticed the cashier, and thought: “Oh, it’s him, the guy who commented on my t-shirt the last two times I’ve been in his line.” I immediately checked which t-shirt I had on and was thankful it wasn’t my PLAYS UNDER PRESSURE one — the one I’d had on both times I’d previously gone through his line.
Sure enough, when I got to the register he said, “I like your shirt. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man with a pumpkin head, though.”
“Thanks,” I said. “Apparently he’s famous on YouTube, which I only found out after about 10 “kids” told me they like my shirt, and I finally asked one of them, “Is this a famous person or something?”
I had no idea about the pumpkin man dance pop-culture phenomenon when I bought that t-shirt from 6 Dollar Shirts [sic]. I just bought it to wear on the 2023 Ultimate Disco Cruise, because the pose of the pumpkin man had immediately reminded me of:
Then I remembered that this cashier also likes to yammer while he rings you up (which I don’t love), and that he fancies himself as funny. Sure enough, after the shirt comment, he starts:
“What kind of bee can’t make a decision in springtime?”
“I don’t know.”
“A May bee.”
Then another:
“Earlier today, I was driving behind an ambulance when a cooler fell off the back. I stopped and opened it up to find a foot inside. So, I decided to call a toe-truck.”
Lest I be unarmed in a battle of wits, I said:
“What’s better than a candelabra on your piano?”
“I don’t know, what?”
“Tulips on your organ.”
Him, after a 2-second processing delay: “Ha! Nobody’s gonna argue with that!
My dad was “hard of hearing” for about as long as I can remember. Obviously, I could deduce that it was a result of being around loud noise, but I wasn’t ever exactly sure of the diagnosis.
In this medical record it says, “History of noise exposure includes heavy artillery beginning in 1948 and being a loader on 90 mm. guns up until 1953.” This is what one of those “guns” looks like:
And here’s the medical record:
Also for as long as I can remember, my dad had — sometimes debilitating — back pain. Not that there’s anything funny about back pain, but I had to laugh when I saw this note about prescribing PT for him, because 3 times a week I do 8 exercises to strengthen my core and my back, and those 2 exercises are part of my routine!
My dad’s uniform hosted a lot of ribbons and some medals. This is a picture in the latter part of his career, when he was a Sergeant Major.
Looking through the many military records of his, before recycling them, here is a list of the “decorations, medals, badges, commendations, citation, and campaign ribbons” awarded to him:
The Purple Heart is the most distinguished award he earned, and I always thought it was a result of punji sticks, a type of booby-trapped stake, that went into his shin. However, this account that I came across in his medical records paints a different picture:
22 AUG 69. C Company, 1st Battalion, 4th Marine Division. While serving on active duty with C Co. of above named unit at approximately 19:15 hours on 10 AUG 69, 1st Sgt. Martin received fragment wounds to the right leg resulting from an enemy rocket, while in a defensive position. He was treated at 1/4 [illegible acronym] and returned to duty. Condition and prognosis are good. He will receive his first Purple Heart Award.
Recently, I went through several file cabinet folders of paperwork related to my dad, who died 10 years ago this September 11th. The majority of the paperwork comprised health records and records of his military service in the U.S. Marine Corps, and I learned a few things about him in the process.
I knew he entered the military very young, as the family story goes that my grandmother had to sign for him to join because he wasn’t yet 18.
I also knew that he’d never graduated high school, because he earned his USAFI High School GED in 1959, and this document confirms that, where it shows his “non-service education” at the time as 8 years grammar school and 1 year of high school.
The thing I didn’t know about him was where he worked before enlisting in the Marines. This document lists Berkshire Fine Spinning Associates in Fall River, MA as his employer, and the “occupation” field says he was a “spare boy!”
I’d heard of neither that company nor that job position before. Thank the &deity for the internet.
According to Wikipedia: Berkshire Fine Spinning Associates (/ˈbɜːrkʃər/) was an American textile company. In 1955, the company merged with Hathaway Manufacturing Company to form Berkshire Hathaway. Wait! What??? My father worked for the precursor to Berkshire Hathaway, Warren Buffet‘s company??? 😂
The mill my dad worked in in Fall River was King Philip Mills, an historic cotton mill complex, which was acquired by Berkshire Fine Spinning Associates in 1930.
When I first saw “spare boy,” my thoughts immediately went to bowling, perhaps because as young girl my mother worked as a “pin boy” resetting pins at the bowling alley for, as the family lore goes, “a nickel an hour.”
But alas, in mill work, a “spare boy” was a young male worker who assisted with the operation of machinery in a textile mill, particularly during the early 20th century. They were responsible for ensuring the smooth functioning of the production process in the factory.
For instance, Andrew Stefanik worked as a spare boy in a textile mill in Chicopee, Massachusetts. His tasks likely involved supporting tasks like replacing bobbins and other general duties. This was a common role for young workers, especially “bobbin boys,” who often worked as spare boys.
The term “spare” suggests that they might not have had a specific machine assigned to them but were available to assist wherever needed, filling in for absent workers or helping with tasks that required additional hands. Historically, this could also be referred to as a “spare hand.”
Here’s a picture of a “bobbin boy” working in the mills, one of the jobs my dad presumably did as a spare boy.
Andrew Stefanik, a bobbin boy, works as spare boy, November 1911. Photographer: Hine, Lewis. Original public domain image from Flickr
I’ll admit that I have a little bias about thinking a lot of weight-lifters are self-centered or narcissistic.
That assessment deepens as I observe someone staring at themselves in the mirror even when they’re not actually exercising — which is to say that I get that some body builders want to make sure their “form” looks good as they’re exercising. But that doesn’t explain why they’re still staring at themselves when they’re between sets.
Today I witnessed staring at yourself raised to a whole new level:
We have a picture, which we’ve learned is worth a thousand words, when trying to explain to cruise cabin stewards how we want the bed made up — especially if the steward’s English is a second language.
First of all, we need 3 pillows each.
Second of all, we want only the sheet on one-half (my half, the right side of the pic) of the bed, and the sheet plus the duvet on the other half (Bob’s half, the left side of the pic) of the bed.
This is really quite easily accomplished: put a queen-size sheet on the bed, and then put a twin-size duvet on top of the sheet on the left side — but it’s been our experience that, for some reason, this is very difficult to articulate with just words, so we keep this photo on our phone during cruises.
While not formally recognized as the “patron saint of happy hours,” St. Philip Neri and St. Raphael the Archangel are often associated with joy and happy gatherings. St. Philip Neri is known as the patron saint of joy and laughter, while St. Raphael is associated with happy meetings and celebrations.
St. Raphael the Archangel
I’m not exactly sure what that thing is at the end of St. Raphael’s left hand, but I’m imagining it’s a formidable, furtive flask of bourbon.
I regularly do the daily AARP and L.A. Times crossword puzzles and whenever I come across a clue like “Dad’s mate,” I always answer with DAD, which of course is wrong, but I enter it at least 3 times like I just can’t believe it’s not the right answer.
Other clues I do the same thing for:
The clue: Papa’s spouse I answer: Papa | Papa | Papa
The clue: Mama’s companion I answer: Mama | Mama | Mama
The clue: Father’s mate I answer: Father | Father | Father
I was cleaning out some of my dad’s papers — he died coming up on 10 years ago — and I found 8 copies of this recipe, about which Bob quipped, “Looks like he couldn’t give them away.”
While on the Planet Fitness elliptical machine, facing one of their huge TV screens, I saw a headline on GMFB that asked, “Should ‘tush push’ be banned?”
I was, like, “Huh? Is that a line dance they do when they make some great play or get a touchdown?”
At the height of my line-dancing days, I knew close to 50 line dances, one of which was the Tush Push.
Turns out the tush push in football is a play, not a dance, and a controversial play at that.
What the Tush Push (a.k.a. the “brotherly shove”) looks like in football:
This was on the locker next to mine the other day at Planet Fitness.
I’ve never seen such a thing, and I’ve learned that the Master Lock brand calls theirs Letter Lock™, and it makes me wonder if there are other dial variations on combination locks.
“Chongqing, China, is as big as Austria. With 34 million inhabitants, the city is the emblem of the fastest urban revolution on the planet. It has become a symbol of the Chinese ability to reshape the world. This article contains a gallery of images from all over the city showing sights like the Yangtze River, street food stalls, various shopping centers, and more.” TLDR. (2025, April 28).
It’s time to replace the outdoor bar set that you can see at the far end of our deck. This one is a replacement of the exact same one that we had before it.
Instead of getting a third identical one, we’ve decided to have a nice bar added on to our deck.
This won’t be the final version, but it’s the drawing we’ve given to the builder as a starting point. It is going to be built off of that existing privacy wall, and a lot less elaborate than this one. And, it definitely will not have a TV in it!
“CROSS CUT EDGE easily cuts frozen foods covered with ice.”
“CROSS CUT EDGE has been demonstrated cutting trees on TV.”
“BOTTOM EDGE is sharp enough for a professional meat cutter.”
“SHATTER PROOF, BOIL-PROOF DISH-WASHER safe handle guaranteed for life.”
“New SAFE GUARD handle.”
“STAYS SHARP because 90% of this razor edge NEVER touches cutting surface.”
This vintage, mid-century Quikut serrated meat knife, still in its very-marketing-oriented sleeve, has been in my family for years. I think my dad might have used it to cut the Thanksgiving turkey some year(s), but I wouldn’t swear to it.
I’ve been reading the PostSecret site weekly for a long, long time. (I’ve even had a secret of my own published on it.) Note: New secrets are posted every Sunday.
Every once in a while, one makes me literally laugh out loud. This week it was this one:
Like with electronically stored photos and documents, I have “management issues” of where all of my books-to-read lists are kept. And then there’s the digital detritus of the books that I’ve read but haven’t removed from the list or deleted its download.
I have no fewer than 4 “to-read” lists. I say “no fewer” instead of “exactly,” because there are undoubtedly some scribbled on pieces of paper somewhere.
1. My to-read list at the Wake County Public Library currently contains 33 books, all of which, of course, the library carries. Most of them include a note as to how it came to be on the list.
Expand if you’re interested in seeing my library to-read list.
2. My to-read list on Goodreads currently contains 54 books, and the ones on this list are primarily ones that I did not find available at the library at the time I added them to this list.
Expand if you’re interested in seeing my Goodreads to-read list.
3. My to-read list on my Kindle contains 30 books, and these are free downloads that I got either from BookBub or Amazon First Reads and haven’t read yet.
Expand if you’re interested in seeing my Kindle to-read list.
4. My to-read list in the Notes app on my iPhone is a “quick list” of the priority items to consider for my very next book.
Expand if you’re interested in seeing my iPhone Notes to-read list.
On April 17, 1994, I came out of the proverbial closet.
I like the idea that I’m approaching the year when I will have spent as many years out of the closet as I spent in, which will happen in 2030. I’m currently at 36 years in, 31 years out.
In 2021, I wrote these three 50-word stories about the emotional toll of living in the closet for 35 years and why people say, “It felt like the weight of the world was lifted from my shoulders when I came out.”
Keeping up appearances
In the interest of me
To come out—or check out
I’m married to a woman, but I am a terrified, closeted gay man trying to keep up the charade. So, I “ogle” at “big tits” and traveling as a trainer for work, I make sure I refer to “my wife” at least once while introducing myself. It’s kind of exhausting.
I was a young Republican because I believed I was a self-made man—before I learned about privilege. But mostly I identified as such to distance myself from “the gays.” Voting against their interests, I couldn’t possibly be one, right? I’m still embarrassed and haunted by this. I’m so sorry.
Riding home from my $100K job, to my $250K home, in my $40K car, I wonder: “Is there any way to plunge this ‘ultimate driving machine‘ into that ravine and ensure I won’t live with an ‘intended to die’ for the rest of my life?” It’s unbearable living like this.
Modern Apothēca is celebrating “4/20 Week” with a 20% off coupon, so I put in an order. Delivery is free, and if you get your order in by 4:20 p.m., you get it the same day. With the offer going on, they had a lot of deliveries today. Mine just arrived.
I fell asleep waiting for my sleep gummies to arrive.
In our upcoming Danube Riverboat Cruise, during our port call in Passau, Germany, there’s an optional excursion available that includes this as part of its description:
Learn about traditional glass production and see a demo in a small family-run glass manufacturer.
We won’t be doing it, but it reminds me of the time in 1987 in Venice, Italy when my then-wife and I visited a glass manufacturer that was home to one of the master glass blowers in Venice.
Impressed — and unequivocally caught up in the moment — after the demo by “the master,” we ended up buying an $800 vase. That doesn’t sound like that much, but it was at the time. It’s $2,284.92 in 2025 money! For a damn vase.Had to have it, apparently. 😂
I kind of like the idea of this über-conspicuous umbrella, but I’m trying to imagine the thoughts of people passing by me as I wander about under one.
I’m pretty sure I’d go with different shoes, and perhaps purse, at the very least.
I’m also pretty sure that in this litigious society of ours, somewhere along the bottom perhaps, these words would have to be imprinted: “This plastic extension is not a toy.”
Having been in the technology business — one way or another — during 40 years of working, I’m very interested in the evolution of the number of outlets being provided in various venues, such as hotel rooms, cruise ship cabins, and waiting areas.
On a recent trip, I stayed at both a Quality Inn and a Hampton Inn, and while the outlets available in the Quality Inn room were adequate, the ones in the Hampton Inn room far exceeded them.
In addition to the outlets in the walls, there were 2 outlets built into the desk itself, 2 built into the lamp sitting on the desk, and 2 on the lamp on the nightstand between the two beds.
The most impressive to me, though, were the two on the microwave. It’s the first time I’ve seen that.
You can safely plug in devices that draw 4 amps or fewer into a 4-amp max outlet, which includes many small electronics like phone chargers, small lamps, and some low-wattage appliances.
A 9-amp max outlet can safely power most common electronic devices like lamps, chargers, computers, and TVs, as long as the total wattage of all devices plugged in doesn’t exceed the outlet’s capacity.
I had my tires replaced a couple of days ago, and the brawny-bear service guy could have no inkling of the thoughts that ran through my head when he said, “Now, it’s nothing to be concerned about, but I’m going to give you a stud referral.”
Some of said thoughts:
Oh, really?
What are we, horses?
I’ve never heard of such a thing, but it sounds swell.
I could have used a lot more of those in my life.
I can’t wait to see the selection of studs available to choose from.
Is that really a tire-related thing or is your Spidey-sense (a.k.a. gaydar in this context) trying to deflect me away from you?
At any rate, it is a real thing, and I got one, and I’m going to take care of it today at the referred place, which just happens to be a walkable half-mile from our house.
Update: I stopped to see if the repair place could take my car today to handle this.
Me, handing the voucher I had to the lady at the service desk: “Is this something you can do today, or should I schedule an appointment for later in the week?” Lady, to co-worker across the room: “SCOTT, CAN YOU DO A STUD TODAY?” Me (thinking): “Honey, if he can’t, I can.”
It’s just too easy with the vernacular around this repair.
People ask me how I don’t get bored during retirement, and when I say I’m on my computer at least 8 hours a day, it seems hard to believe. Well, this is a typical morning, which can take up at least 2-3 hours:
Doing morning brain teasers:
AARP crossword puzzle
L.A.Times crossword puzzle
NYT Strands game
NYT Connections game
NYT Wordle game
Next in my routine are visiting these websites:
Check our Google calendar for the day’s commitments
Check today’s to-do list in my iPhone Reminders app
Review our checking account activity
Update my sentence-a-day diary
Check my wait-listed library books for movement
Check the morning’s stock market activity
See what my exercise check-in is for today
Read the day’s TLDR newsletter
Check the daily BookCrossing releases
Check my daily BookBub email for free e-books
I do things like this on the computer throughout the rest of the day:
Write blog entries like this one (which I spent at least an hour on).
Write my three 50-word stories on Wednesdays — and sometime one set of bonus ones on the weekend.
Check for potential cruises and vacations to go on.
Follow-up on any emails or invoices that have come in.
Update our Google calendar with any social events (we socialize a lot), doctor’s appointments, scheduled service calls (e.g., exterminator, roof-cleaning) that have come about.
This is the second surgery that I’ve had that has been with just a local anesthesia. The first one was 38 years ago, about which I wrote this 50-word story:
Mind if we watch?
At 29, I got a vasectomy. With my legs in stirrups and my junk hanging through a hole, the surgeon asked if a med school class could observe the procedure. To my surprise, I heard my Valium-induced euphoric response: “Sure, why not? Y’all pop some popcorn and sit up front.”
Last Wednesday, I had surgery to remove mucoid cysts on 2 of my fingers — also with just a local anesthesia but with no med school students watching.
The most interesting thing that happened while the prep team was reading all of the disclosures to me that have to made before surgery (e.g., “All surgeries involve some kind of risk.”) was this disclosure: “Dr. Erickson [my surgeon] is a business partner of — and has financial interest in — this center.”
About 45 minutes before being wheeled into the OR, I had a Valium and 4 (quite) painful numbing injections — 2 in the palm of my left hand and one into each finger that was going to be sliced open.
In the very cold OR, with a drape between me and my hand so as not to see the operation, along with the doctor there were several people in the room — 4, I think.
I chatted with the doctors and nurses the whole way through. Here are snippets of some of the conversations:
Doc (pinching my middle finger to make sure it’s completely numb): Can you feel this? Me: Actually yes, just a little. Doc: OK, let’s put a little more numbing medicine in that one. How about this index finger? Me: No, I don’t feel anything on that one. Doc: Good. We’ll start on this one while the numbing on the other one is progressing.
Nurse (scrubbing my lower arm and entire hand including all of my fingers): We are just going to get you good and clean to avoid any chance of infections. Me: Thank you.
Doc: I’m putting a rubber cover over your nearby finger for protection. Me: Thank you.
Doc: OK, we are finishing up on this finger. I’m going to stitch it up and then we’ll start on your other one. Me: I appreciate the play-by-play as you are operating. It’s very helpful and comforting.
Me: Do you have a preference for the days you work in the office seeing patients as opposed to the days that you’re here doing surgery? Doc: I like a mix of both, really. I enjoy spending time with patients figuring out what’s causing their pain, and I enjoy surgeries, too. This is my favorite kind of surgery, though, where the patient is awake and we can have a conversation.
Me: My husband and I are getting to the age where some of our doctors are retiring, like Dr. Edwards where you work. I saw him 18 years ago to look at my finger, and now he’s retired. Doc: And his son is working with us now! Nurse (I think his name was Peter): And his son is very good, too. Me: Dr. Wyker did my knee replacement and my husband’s hip replacement. He’s probably getting ready to retire, too. Nurse: I used to work in Dr. Wyker’s office! Good guy. Me: He’s probably been on a few vacations in the Caribbean off of our joint-replacement money alone.
Me: Where is your favorite place to vacation? Doc: There is a ranch in Wyoming that my family likes to go, generally once every other year. Me (sort of joking): A dude ranch? Doc: Well yes, it is a dude ranch. We like to ride horses, it’s peaceful and quiet there, and I like to sit on the porch and read — and just relax.
Doc: What do you do to fill your days in retirement? Me: I read a lot. I read 102 book in 2022, and I’m close to 30 so far in 2025. Also, I spend at least 8 hours a day on the computer — a lot of that time writing. I was a writer and editor for a living, and I still write something every day. I write three 50-word stories around a theme every Wednesday, keep a sentence-a-day diary, and blog about observations I make during my day. In fact you’ll probably be in my blog one day this week. Doc: Ha! That’s great. About how many people, would you say, read your blog? Me: 4.
(Laughter all around.) Me: I’m sorta joking, but it’s not a lot. You aren’t going to go viral or anything.
(Chuckles all around.) Me: My husband and I also occasionally take walks downtown, take 5 or 6 pictures each, and then sit on our front porch with a cocktail (or two) and write haikus about them. Real renaissance men. Doc (and others listening in the room): That’s neat.
Doc: We’re finishing up now. I’ll stitch up this second finger, and then we’ll get you out of here and into the recovery room. Me: Thank you. All of you have been great, and I appreciate each one of you.
All-in-all, it was a great experience. I was only in the recovery room for 15 to 20 minutes and then wheeled out to the car in a wheelchair, which was required because I had had a Valium. Bob drove us home. I get these bandage monstrosities removed in 5 days, so Monday 3/31/25.
Local anesthesia needle tracks
Wrapped up tight
If you’re the type who enjoys watching live surgery, here is a video of what they did. Note: This is not my surgery. As the image denotes, you have to watch it over on YouTube. To do so, click the “Watch on YouTube” link in the image. It’s 4½ minutes long.
We feel very blessed to be able to eat the purported delicious Hooters’ wings without being subjected to the “flesh flash.” And bonus, these were BOGO at Publix.
We had a surprisingly pleasant and amusing experience with the guy who came out to do our plumbing repairs.
The plumber, Matt, was a nice-looking, young blond guy with tattoos on his neck and elsewhere, and he was as country as a bowl of grits. What an accent!
He was here for about six hours, repairing two of our toilets and our urinal. The urinal repair was quite involved!
I was surprised that he knew how to work on a urinal, as I assumed the plumbing company would have commercial and residential plumbers, and it being less common for urinals to be in houses, the residential plumbers might not be familiar with them.
Matt talked to himself a lot while working. Bob and I were both amused at his ramblings, and we both howled when, at one point during the urinal repair process, he ejaculated: “Holy shit; that worked!”
Later, when we received his emailed invoice for the work, we learned that he wasn’t talking to himself, because this transcript was included:
Called en route
Arrived
Met Robert
Was shown 2 toilets and a urinal
Toilet 1 leaking from tank to bowl bolts
Toilet 2 has a bad flapper
Urinal leaking from bottom, possibly seal or flange
Recommended full rebuild on both standard toilets
Customer approved
Turned off water to home
Rebuilt both toilets with all new components
Turned water back on to home and tested toilets
Toilets working as they should be with no leaks
Explained to homeowner I would have to remove urinal from wall in order to diagnose and make necessary repair
Turned off water to urinal
Cut hard caulking seal
Removed urinal and found broken PVC urinal flange
Non-stock item, had to source from supply house
Drilled out old flange with success ← time of “Holy shit; that worked!” outburst
Cleaned hub
Installed new flange with bolt kit
Made sure flange was level
Allowed glue to cure for a while before setting flange under load with fixture
Set urinal
Secured to wall
Turned on water
Urinal won’t stop flushing
Replaced diaphragm and vacuum breaker
Urinal now flushes and stops when satisfied
Caulked around urinal perimeter
Cleaned up trash and tools
Wrote up notes
Job complete
Customer paid by check
So, apparently, he was not talking to himself but dictating his work progress.
Bob and I both LOLed again at the transcript comment: “Urinal now flushes and stops when satisfied.” Much like ourselves when peeing in it.
We’re in a gay bar and looking at a girl wearing some very short white shorts and some above-the-ankle white boots, which give her a look that reminds me of a high school baton twirler, like the one who threw her baton high into the air — sometimes too close to me — while I was performing my drum major duties.
Senior-year drum major, 1974 high school football season
Me to my gay friend standing nearby looking at her, too: Do you ever look at a woman and wonder, “If I were straight, would I ‘go for summa dat?'”
Friend, thinking for a moment: No, I can’t say that I have. But, I have wondered if I were born a girl, what kind of girl I’d be. A whore? A”good” girl?
I think it was Bette Davis who said old age is not for sissies. But it was Tolstoy who said the biggest surprise in a man’s life is old age. Old age sneaks up on you, and the next thing you know you’re asking yourself — I’m asking myself — why can’t an old man act his real age? How is it possible for me to still be involved in the carnal aspects of the human comedy? Because, in my head, nothing has changed.
Or, as Roseanne Roseannadanna said (6 seconds):
In the last month or so, these painful nodules have popped up on my middle and index fingers on my left hand, and today I learned about mucous cysts(a.k.a. ganglion cysts), which I’ll have removed in the next 2 weeks.
3/14/25 @ Raleigh Hand to Shoulder Center, Dr. Erickson
Looking at this x-ray taken at the Raleigh Hand to Shoulder Center, the doctor said about the spaces between my knuckle joints, “These are the joints of an 18-year-old.” (So flattering! 😂😂😂). And about the proximal interphalangeal ones (midway between knuckles and fingertips), “And these are still very good.” But, as you can see, about the ones near your fingertips, well there’s bone-on-bone osteoarthritis going on there, especially in those two fingers with the nodules.”
As the old #DadJoke goes — certainly, my dad said it often: “Arthur — the worse one of the Ritis family.”
Interesting aside: You see that crooked little finger? I had that checked out in 2007 in the same practice, which used to be called the Raleigh Hand Clinic, and it was Dr. George Edwards, Jr. who looked at it. 18 years later and Junior has retired and Dr. George Edwards III now works there. (You might be getting old if a lot of your doctors are retiring.)
It has never caused me any pain — and still doesn’t in spite of the x-ray suggesting it could, probably should. It also hasn’t gotten any more crooked. I affectionately refer to it as “my cut & paste finger,” since I tend to “rock” on it when I execute those functions.
In all fairness to my fingers, they have been very, very good to me throughout my 42 working years, starting with keyboard work that began with typing more punched cards than you can shake a stick at during my 4 years of undergrad learning how to program.
And every job, and there have been plenty of them — from my very first job at IBM in 1980 until I retired from Red Hat in 2022 — my fingers have cranked out untold millions of characters without any pain that was debilitating enough to stop me. I’m actually quite surprised I never got the dreaded carpal tunnel syndrome over the years.
WCPE announcer: “What were you doing when you were 12? Mozart had already written over a dozen symphonies by the time he was 12.”
#MicDrop #Overachiever
I attended the Friday, March 7 noon performance of Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #2 with my friend Wayne.
We had proper brunch cocktails, mimosas, before Bob dropped us off at the performing arts center downtown. We had seats on both sides of a couple, and they were very civil, agreeing to move over one seat so we could sit together.
Thoughts on Timepiece
On introducing the first piece, Cindy McTee‘s Timepiece, the conductor, Leonard Slatkin, called it something like, “a great piece of music, by a great composer, with a great and renowned career — and who just happens to be my wife.”
That reminded me of when I was in the closet and every time I introduced myself when public speaking, I’d be sure to mention my wife so that it was clear to everyone that I was straight. I’m not suggesting this man is gay. He is, after all, on his fourth wife. 🐱 Surely he would have switched teams by now.
After that announcement, and once I cleared my head of words and phrases like “nepotism,” “conflict of interest,” and “you got some cojones, bro,” I opened my mind to the music.
It was a rather short piece, I think he said it was going to be 6 minutes. Words like, “choppiness,” “syncopation,” and “cacophony” came to mind while listening, and I thought, “I wonder if this is Eastern European music.” (As it turned out, the composer studied at the Academy of Music in Kraków and one of her teachers was Krzysztof Penderecki.)
A lot of — and unusual — percussion instrumentation is going on here. I wonder what that instrument is called that sounds like a zipper. Wayne used the word “ratchet” for it, and I thought he was kidding. I mentioned that it reminded me of those washboards on Hee Haw. Turns out we were both onto something — internet to the rescue: here is the list of percussion instrumentation in the piece:
That clopping sound, which I now know comes from “wood blocks,” reminds me of the Sleigh Ride song.
Thoughts on Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto #2
I had initially thought, “I’m surprised the piano is way in the back of the orchestra when it’s going to be so prominent in the piano concerto,” but in the short break between the first and second piece, they rolled out a gorgeous Steinway front and center.
That dress! The soloist, Olga Kern, had on this dress (not the blue one in that ad glossy above) that reminded me of tiers on wedding cakes or something. It looked something like this but all white and without the picnic basket:
She slouches, is hunched over, actually, when she plays — which made me think of Schroeder’s playing.
And then I thought of our UPS driver, Marie, who has the best posture in the world. Every time she drives by with that open doorway on those brown UPS trucks, we see her sitting upright and toward the front of her seat.
When Olga’s fingers were flying over the keys at one point, I thought about how piano playing has an end game, specifically with regards to arthritis of the hands and fingers.
In the middle of the second movement, I thought, “I can’t believe I did not pee after those 3 mimosas and before this performance started. Oh, boy.”
Wayne and I mused over what the actual performer titles were, specifically with regards to the best players in the string section — was it “first chair,” or “principal chair,” or “principal violinist (or viola or cellist, etc.)” or something else. The internet to the rescue again: looks like: principal, associate principal, and assistant principal, which sounds similar to the hierarchy of college professors.
That cymbal player just stood up, buttoned the bottom button of his jacket, picked up his cymbals, and waited. Then, without playing them, he put them down and picked up a slightly larger pair, which he did crash together one time before putting them down, unbuttoning his coat, and sitting back down.
It made me think that if he got paid by the note, he’d be broke. And that reminded me of Barbra’s classic spiel in her backyard concert for which the tickets were $5000 a piece, and during which she mused for 25 seconds about how much that was per note:
Wayne and I had a delightful walk home after a quick stop at Sir Walter Coffee to ostensibly have a cup of coffee but to furtively use the restroom, avoiding the long restroom lines at the venue after the concert. Lots of bladders needed to be emptied before getting on the vans back to the retirement homes and assisted living facilities.
We felt blessed with beautiful weather and to be able to make the 2-mile walk back to our house. Thanks for a swell time, Wayne.
Coda
If you’ve never seen this 2.5-minute scene from The Seven Year Itch, which Bob just introduced me to and is an homage to Piano Concerto #2, enjoy “Good Old Rachmaninoff“:
I’m on the waitlist for 7 books at the Wake County Public Library, and as they are sometimes wont to do, a bunch of them are close to becoming ready at the same time.
We recently went through our old passports and driver’s licenses, and Bob took my 3 old passport photos and made refrigerator magnets out of them. He did the same with 2 of his old passport photos and one old college picture. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
I’ve been toying with the idea of getting some gummies that help you fall and stay asleep, or help you get back to sleep if you do wake up during the night. I took the plunge earlier this week.
More than one friend recommended the Modern Apothēca in North Raleigh. It was a little tricky to find (just inside 540 up Falls of Neuse Road), but it’s a cute little place and it has a “coffee shop” next door. The name of the coffee shop is an indication of their advertising “voice.”
Its full name is The Burnt Pot: Cannabis Cafe & Lounge, which is described as: “One of the nation’s first hemp lounges and cafes. We provide a private space for the social and recreational enjoyment of legal hemp products.” They also sell “infused beverages and baked goods” there.
After entering the main door of Modern Apothēca, there’s another door into the sales area, where you’re greeted by someone who, if you tell them it’s your first time there, explains how they’re able to sell what they sell, and why they can’t sell the things they can’t sell.
I explained that I was a “first time user” and what I was trying to “accomplish” with gummies, which was not to get high, but as a relaxant toward a restful night’s sleep.
The salesguy was very knowledgeable, personable, and patient explaining what the various combination of “ingredients” (i.e., CBD, CBN, & THC) are and what they do. I ended up going with Tillmans Tranquils Perfect Dose Night Gummies, and I got a free sample of Comfortably Numb whose name sounds exactly like something I could use to get through the next four years.
Tillmans Tranquils
Comfortably Numb
And here’s the ad card, on which their advertisement voice is evident again in their daily delivery cutoff information.
Don’t you hate it when you tune into the afternoon opera program on your favorite classical station, and you’re waiting and waiting for the first person to sing at the beginning of an act, but the music goes on and on without it happening? I know I do.
It goes on longer, and you start rolling your eyes in annoyance, then start harrumphing in disbelief that an intro could go on so long — all before realizing they’re airing a ballet today and not an opera.
As he is wont to do, Bob shoveled the snow from our driveway and walkways.
While he was out there, Tom — a friend and neighbor — walked by, and he said to Bob, “I knew you’d be out here shoveling your driveway. We Ohio-Michigan folks always do that. I shoveled mine, and Scott shoveled his.”
Tom and Scott are from Ohio, and Bob is from Michigan.
Musing about a regular, quirky thought of mine, which I just had.
Whenever I enjoy a sweet (like the slice of Ghirardelli Caramel Walnut Turtle brownie I just had) with a cup of coffee, and they taste so good together, I always think, “This is why cops stopping at Dunkin’ (formerly Dunkin’ Donuts) for coffee and a doughnut has become such a cliché.”
There was a pre-metrosexual-era internet “street quiz” called “Gay or Eurotrash?” It presented a picture of a “stylish” guy, and you had to guess whether he was gay or “just European.” It was all tongue-in-cheek, but funny. At least the first 20 times “playing.”
I’ve been thinking about that quiz the past couple of days at Planet Fitness, where I’ve seen several pairs of guys at various times on various days working out together—a few of which seemed just a little too “stylish” (think those very short workout shorts with the slits up the sides) or a little too “well groomed” (think highly coiffed hair with lots of products in it) or standing just a little too “close” for spotting.
They’ve made me think of a variation on that game that I’d call “Workout Buddies or Husbands?”
This cracked me up listening to WCPE (TheClassicalStation.org), where it’s usually:
“And that piece was by Franz Schubert, performed by the Rembrandt Trio,” or
“We just enjoyed Mozart’s String Quartet No. 22 in B Flat, performed by the Shanghai Quartet,” or
“That was Brahms’s Academic Festival Overture, Op. 80, performed by the Houston Symphony.”
But just now, listening while doing my stretching and strengthening exercises:
“That delightful piece was Bach’s Violin Concerto #2 in E, performed by Janine Jansen and a group of her friends.”
I’ve never heard the performers described so casually like that. It probably didn’t help that I’ve never heard of (the apparently renowned) Janine Jansen, so it came across to me like some folks got together with some woman in her garage and pounded out a few numbers. 😂
We have a primary card on which we charge almost everything we buy or pay for each month to get points. We pay it off monthly, as we do with our other 2 cards that always have only minimal charges on them.
Our average monthly bill is $3600, but this month’s is a whopper. But no matter, it’ll be paid in full on the due date. But as you can see, if it wasn’t paid in full, the credit card company would enjoy an absolute windfall on our interest.
Kudos to them for showing you the real effect of compound interest. Not-so-much-kudos to them for the disingenuous use of the word “Savings” in the 3-year info. At the very least, the word savings should be in quotation marks.
Not the first one of these emails we’ve received recently. This one’s from Hulu (which we actually no longer subscribe to), but we also recently got one from Amazon Prime, for which we do pay a little extra each month for an “ad-free” tier. Fuckers!
I don’t like salmon, and Bob only cooks it when I’m not home—usually when I’m away for a few days or so—so he doesn’t have to listen to my whining about how “the place smells like fish.”
But he had a hankering for some salmon patties today, and he cooked them in spite of my being here. When I didn’t smell anything after several minutes, I jokingly asked if he took our (over-the-stove, built-in) microwave out to the porch, to which he said, “Nope.”
I went outside to find it was actually the air fryer, and not on the porch, which is right outside our kitchen door, but out onto the deck and as far away from the house as possible.
Our screen-in porch
just off the kitchen
Air fryer banished as far away
from the house as possible
Close-up of the air fryer outdoor-
cooking the offensive chordate
Today’s file cabinet folder cleaning out included the Legal folder, where I found my old driver’s licenses and passports. I digitalized them for posterity so I can throw them away.
The progression of photos is the most interesting thing about both of them.
The driver’s licenses also chronical my address changes for the last 35 years.
Today I learned that the name of the place where I lived 52 years ago actually has significance.
While my dad served a year in Okinawa, we moved off the main Marine Corps Base Camp Lejeune to one of the base’s adjunct housing areas called Tarawa Terrace during his absence from June 1973 to June 1974.
Historic photo of the raising of the American flag over Iwo Jima, taken by Joe Rosenthal
Aerial view of Mount Surabuchi on the Island of Iwo Jima, Japan. By Phan Lee McCaskill, USN
And lo and behold, this passage appears in a section talking about World War II: “And from the Pacific, the radio commentators had been sending stirring reports of U.S. Navy and Marine victories with names such as Midway and Tarawa.”
I had no idea there was a “Battle of Tarawa” and that’s what the Tarawa Terrace housing area was named after. Also, with regards to “Midway,” there was also a housing area, just off the base for the low-ranking enlisted soldiers’ families, called Midway Park, which I now know was named after the Battle of Midway.
As Bob would say, “I wonder what else I don’t know I don’t know.”
For a couple of hours yesterday and today, I cleaned out some file folders—2 of them the thickest ones in there, with each containing a good number of 15- to 20-year-old items. I mean is anyone ever going to want to see what my colon looked like during my 2006 colonoscopy? Or how diverse my portfolio holdings were in 2001? The 2 folders with the most crap in them were my Medical folder and my Investment folder.
Even though a lot of people who actually have descendants who are going to inherit this earth don’t seem to care about saving the planet, Bob and I (who don’t have any) still take the time to do things like using the back side of pieces of paper if unused. Both the medical and financial industries are notorious for not duplexing when printing their information. It’s mind-boggling, really.
To that end, out of the papers I’m discarding from those 2 folders alone, we have this much paper to reuse. (Ruler for scale.) We’ll use them mostly on AARP crossword puzzles & L.A. Times crossword puzzles, which we print from the web, and to print our weekly menus, which we post on our fridge.
Whenever our Google Fiber service goes out, it’s followed by an email about the credit we will receive as a result of the outage.
What I love most about this surprising and smart customer service is they do it without us having to ask for it—because I’m definitely the type of person who does go through the trouble of asking for it.
Bob recently got out an old glass ashtray and put it on his nightstand intending to keep his lip balm in it.
Seeing no lip balm in it after several days, I got the idea to put something in it myself.
I went looking for what I wanted in these stores in this order:
Ace Hardware (they have a small, old-fashioned candy area, oddly enough)
TJMaxx (only looked there because it was next on my place to run errands)
Dollar Tree (the place I really expected to find it)
With no luck in any of those places, from the Dollar Tree, I googled “Nearby old-fashioned candy stores,” and lo and behold there was one a little more than a mile from me. It’s a place I’ve never heard of:
I’m hanging out downtown Raleigh, reading on the patio of my previous employer.
There’s a nearby intersection, and in the last 30 minutes, two cars—one a top-down convertible, and the other with 4 “rolled-down” windows—stopped at the intersection’s light have caught my attention. Well, one really couldn’t miss them.
Both had their music so incredibly loud, albeit with impressive sound quality, that I’m quite sure they’ve put more money into their vehicle’s sound system than into their 401(k).
The guy at the convenience store checkout counter is holding an iPad in one hand, which he was looking at while waiting in line in front of me.
The cashier finishes ringing up his stuff and indicating the payment processing terminal says, “Okay, it’s ready.”
He contorts the wrist of his free hand to “tap” his Apple Watch on the machine. Doesn’t work.
He takes out his cell phone, not easily with one hand holding his iPad, opens some app, and waves the phone’s screen in front of the machine. Doesn’t work.
Completely over it (not unlike the rest of us in line), he gets out his wallet and grabs a credit card, which he then taps on the machine. Doesn’t work.
Exhaling about a quart of air as everyone in line shifts their weight to their other foot, he slides the chip-end of the card into the machine. Ding.
Thank goodness for all that “time-saving” technology!
On March 12-13, I tried—off and on—to create a chatGPT account, but just kept getting this message:
And I mused, “I hate messages like that. Who knows what later means? I wished they’d just let you get in some kind of queue for an account, and let you know when it’s your turn.”
Fast forward 2 days, and I tried again, and got this new message:
It’s like they heard me the other day! And there’s good news, bad news, good news. Good news: There’s a limerick in the message! Bad news: It’s awfully syncopated, and the terminal word doesn’t rhyme. Good news: Here’s my edit:
ChatGPT is the best
Whose servers have been put to the test
With so many chatting
No wonder it’s lagging
We’ll fix it soon, though, no jest!
Follow-up: A friend tried it and got this limerick:
Interesting that it changes. Not interesting that this one’s awfully syncopated, too. Of course I have an edit for this one, too, but I’m more interested in yours, if you have one.
My friend asked this question on her Facebook feed and I thought it was a great one to muse about: “What would be 5-10 things you would tell prospective friends about why they’d want to befriend you?”
I’ve decided to do 6 of them—3 about why they’d want to friend me in real life and 3 about why they’d want to friend me on social media.
In real life
Keeping my word—to you and to myself—is important to me.
“Being there”—in whatever way that manifests—is important to me.
You might have a laugh or two—or just a good time—hanging out with me.
On Facebook
About 90-95% of my Facebook posts contain original content.
I don’t allow any political discourse on my timeline. In the very few instances that I post something political, I remind people of the warning in my “Intro” section: “I delete all comments (positive or negative) on my political posts. If you have something to say about it, copy it to your own timeline and say it there.” And then I follow through with that.
It doesn’t happen regularly, but it has happened more than once, that I get this kind of feedback from a friend, “I just wanted to say I enjoy the things you post on FaceBook. Most of the stuff on social media is just awful, but you create and share interesting things.”
What are some reasons why people would want to befriend you?
Inundated by Zoom, WebEx, or BlueJeans virtual meetings, especially work-related ones that allow for Q&A time at some point—and that’s most meetings for me—I’ve been thinking a lot about this phrase: “That’s a good question!”
I might go so far as to say more often than not, the person responding to a question will say this at the beginning of their answer, and I immediately think:
Is it really?
How so?
What exactly about it makes it good? ‘Cause I don’t see it.
Or are you just buying time while you decide:
if you know the answer, or
how to answer if you do, or
to say, “I don’t know, but I’ll find out and get back to you.”
My personal feeling is twofold about starting the answer with that:
The responder thinks it’s a good question, because it’s not one they’d thought of, or
It’s just a kind of communication tic of the responder and they’ve given no actual thought as to whether it’s a good question or not.
Just to feel included, I shout this
to the screen after each response.
Snippets of 3 dreams I had last night: abandoned in a restaurant, a milestone realization, and an abused garbage disposal.
Restaurant: We gave “business” last names instead of our own. “Mr. Red Hat, Mr. WakeMed, your table is ready. Please follow me.” The maître-d’-cum-waiter held 3 of those fat potato wedges in no container, just cupped in his bare left hand, and went to a table and plopped them on a diner’s plate. Talking to the diner too long, we started looking around for the empty table that he was going to seat us at, went around a corner to see if it was there, and when we came back, he’d gone back to the welcome podium at the entrance of the restaurant. Awkward.
Dorm: My dorm room was on the 9th floor, and my room was in the middle of a row of 5 rooms. Returning between classes, I opened the door and my room was completely empty, like I’d moved out. “Am I on the wrong floor? Is it the 9th floor I live on, or the 10th,” I wondered. But my key didn’t work in the middle room on the 10th floor when I tried it. Then I remembered that I’d already graduated and wasn’t in school anymore.
Kitchen: At the industrial-sized kitchen sink in a commercial establishment, I turned on the garbage disposal, which just hummed like it was trying to chew up food scraps but couldn’t. I removed the splash stopper and saw that it was filled to the point that a piece of black, fish-net-type nylon material peeked out. I pulled out 2 mesh totes and 3 small, blanket-like shawls.
Some people might call me a Pollyanna, but I’m a little bit obsessed with—and determined to recognize—implicit affirmations in my life.
Two of them happened today, which I might only have noticed because I’m always on the lookout for them:
A colleague whom I’ve worked with for well over a year now, but have never met in person, direct-chatted me at work today and the conversation went like this:
Her: Do you want to meet in person for coffee or the beverage of your choice in the afternoon on Feb. 11? I will be next door [to the Red Hat building] for a doctor’s appointment.
Me:Yes! And I will be getting whatever [Sir Walter Raleigh‘s] coffee is that comes with a scoop of vanilla ice cream in it!
Her: I think they also serve liquor; that’s why I said “a beverage of your choice.”
Me: You know me too well even though we’ve never met in person.
A colleague whom I absolutely adore checking in:
Her: Good morning! I was thinking about you this morning and wanted to say hi. Two things: Mark your calendar for Saturday, May 7. Unless all COVID hell breaks out again, we’re having a Derby party. Also, I want to host a retirement happy hour for you in October. So plan on that. We can discuss guest list!
Me: Good morning! Oh, I do like the idea of a vetted retirement happy hour for my retirement!
Her: You’re not still cruising on May 7, are you?
Me: No, we’re back on 04/27.
Her: You and Bob can start planning your Derby attire.
Me: Perfect. Maybe we’ll pick up some outfits in the Mediterranean.
Anytime anyone initiates something with you, it’s an implicit affirmation. Life is good and my heart is full.
2) What it’s like being retired even though I’m not.
I was retired for a little over a year 7 years ago, so I have stories about all the things I didn’t get done on my retirement “to-do” list.
3) Implicit affirmations.
I like looking for these, like this one: When someone walked by me without my seeing them but still said, “Hello, John.” It would’ve been easier for them to just slip by without a greeting, but they made the effort in spite of that, so I must be important to them.
4) Writing 3 50-word stories every day for a year.
Since I actually did this in 2021, I could talk for hours about the process of writing them, the engagement with readers about them, and the sense of accomplishment of keeping your word for 365 days.
5) Having a total knee replacement.
It’d be tempting to make this a rosy 30 minutes, but the actual tl;dr is: it hurt way more, and took way longer to recover from, than I wanted it to. But 3 months post-op, I can now say sincerely that it was worth it.
I hear parents comment all the time about how fast their kids are growing up. Newsflash: You’re “growing up fast,” too.
And all of a sudden, you’re on your way to the senior center for your SHIIP appointment to learn all about Medicare—like Bob and I did today—and thinking, “How the hell did this happen?”
And a quick PSA, there are some things you need to do in advance of turning 65 that nobody’s going to tell you about or remind you to do, like:
The initial enrollment period (IEP) includes the three months before and after your 65th birthday as well as your birthday month.
If you don’t get Part B when you’re first eligible, your monthly premium may go up 10% for each 12-month period you could’ve had Part B, but didn’t sign up. And this is a penalty each year for life. Don’t be that person.
We’ve been a member of the Produce Project since April 7, 2021, which we joined shortly after having 3 out of 4 bad experiences with the Misfits Market produce service.
We really wanted to like Misfits Market, but 3 out of 4 of our orders got “derailed,” not arriving on the day promised and once not having everything in it that we’d chosen. In their defense, they were very apologetic and gave us refunds, but it’s important to us (for planning purposes) that we get things “on schedule,” which is why we switched to the Produce Project, a local service.
This was last Wednesday’s “haul,” and it’s exciting because it contains some turnips (which I’d been hoping for) along with carrots (which we usually get), and which steamed and mashed together is one of those things that my mom made growing up that I think we were the only two in the family who liked. It was a Thanksgiving staple, and Bob’s going to make some for us some time this week. I don’t think he’s ever had them together, so it’ll be an adventure for him.
There are some things that people say that are completely unrelatable to me, and I wonder if people say them just because they’ve heard other people say them for time immemorial.
Here are 3 examples of them:
“I’m too tired to fall asleep.” What does that even mean? I love to sleep. I sometimes feel very tired. But, I’ve never felt anything that I’d even be tempted to describe as “too tired to sleep.” “I can’t sleep.” Yes, that I’ve felt, but it’s almost always because I can’t stop thinking about all kinds of ridiculous things.
“My muscles are in knots.” I’ve had spasms. I’ve had numbness. I’ve had aches. But a knot? Is that even physically possible? And what pushes something beyond a spasm, numbness, or an ache—all the way to a knot?
“My character decided to do something completely unexpected.” Successful writers love to say this in interviews. When I was younger, I wrote 9 chapters of a novel and not once did my characters “do” or “decide” anything that I didn’t write on the page. In fact, I abandoned my novel because I couldn’t figure out a good way to get my protagonist pregnant, and she sure as hell didn’t step up—expectedly or unexpectedly—to show me.
On an episode of A&E’s Hoarders, a man whose interior walls weren’t even accessible due to boxes and just plain crap piled high along them was asked by the intervention team as they held up three stud finders the man wouldn’t let go of, “How many stud finders do you need?” And looking at the team like it was the most absurd question he’d ever heard, he said, “Three.”
Fast forward to the here and now and our house. Feeling like we had a plethora of them, I decided to gather all of the cleaning cloths for eyeglasses that we have in the drawers of our two desks, a kitchen drawer, a bathroom drawer, and on nightstands and end tables in various rooms around the house to see exactly how many we “need.”
Apparently the answer is 19.
With all that said, the one that Bob and I both find the most effective, which is to say it actually cleans the lens as opposed to just smearing whatever’s on them all around, is the Norwex Supersoft Microfiber Optic Scarf.
Bob and I are huge fans of happy hours, and weather permitting, we sit on our front-porch rocking chairs and enjoy one.
We sometimes remark on passersby, and sometimes the remarks are a little snarky. Or, they’re about who doesn’t appear to see the fire hydrant that they’re illegally parked in front of or the “No parking this side” sign that’s literally beside their parked car. It’s no wonder we drink.
In addition to snark, our happy hours always involve what we refer to as “nibblies,” and truth be told, nibblies often turn into dinner. They usually comprise some variety of crackers with some variety of cheese, some veggies to assuage the calorie-count guilt, and something salty, which is a hard requirement for me with a highball.
Ritz crackers; carrots, cucumbers, and ranch dip; sweet gherkins and black, green, and Kalamta olives; ham salad and Swiss cheese; and some peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels
I’ve been viewing the PostSecret website for many years now. There’s usually at least one that either “speaks to me,” or is super compelling, or just makes me think about something in a different or interesting way.
The one in this week’s collection that speaks to me, or that I can most relate to, was:
If you’re not familiar with PostSecret, it’s “an ongoing community mail art project, created by Frank Warren in 2005, in which people mail their secrets anonymously on a homemade postcard. Selected secrets are then posted on the PostSecret website every Sunday, or used for PostSecret’s books or museum exhibits.”
Our upcoming cruise, still on as of this post, is one of Seth Rudetsky’s Big Fat Broadway Cruises (SRBFBC). “Seth is an American musician, actor, writer, and radio host. He currently is the host of Seth’s Big Fat Broadway and Seth Speaks on Sirius/XM Satellite Radio’s On Broadway. The show focuses on Rudetsky’s knowledge of Broadway theatre history and trivia.”
Bob and I are huge Seth fans, and we went on his Southern Caribbean SRBFBC back in March of 2019. Seth, his husband James, and 4 Broadway stars provide the entertainment each night on the cruise. (It’s nightly entertainment for his group only, separate from the ship’s regular entertainment.)
It’s no surprise that as a “Broadway guy” (and a gay man) Seth is a huge Barbra Streisand fan (as are we), and one of our favorite things he does is called a “deconstruction,” where he analyzes (he’s brilliant musically) a song by playing it and pointing out different musical aspects and quirks and brilliance of various parts of it.
And of all of his deconstructions, the one he does of two of Barbra’s versions of Stoney End is arguably our favorite.
When this upcoming cruise was originally rescheduled to April of 2022, I had posted this on Seth’s Facebook page:
On April 24, it’s one of our days “at sea,” and it’s Barbra’s 80th birthday. It would make my and my husband’s life to see you deconstruct a Barbra song for the entertainment that night!
to which he answered, “Remind me of this as it gets closer to our trip.” I just did. We’ll see if he responds this time.
While we’re waiting, treat yourself to his deconstruction of Stoney End:
I had a 7:40AM appointment for my annual eye exam. Each year when I see this doctor, he takes my breath away. So devastatingly gorgeous. He sits very close to me, as he does every patient, for the tests he is performing. I find the entire experience so homoerotic.
His face is on the other side of some contraption that is currently covering my eyes. He points to his left cheek and says, “Look here at my cheek.” I’m thinking, You don’t have to tell me to look at you. Then, “Okay, up here at my forehead.” Too late; I’m already looking there. I’m looking at every inch of you. Following your every move. Look at those lips.
I imagine for a moment that there is no machine between us, and the proximity of our faces is exquisitely realized—and magnetically charged—for me. His lips are so close to mine. His thick, brown, trimmed beard and greenish-gray eyes right before me. He re-adjusts the machine now and pulls his chair up closer. Now my knees are together, and his are spread open and the outside of my knees touch the inside of his. Electric. No detectable awareness on his part.
That feeling comes over me that there is no doubt that being gay is biological. My body is responding chemically. He has no clue that he’s having this effect on me, and seems like the type that isn’t aware that he most likely has this effect on most women. Which makes him even more magnetic.
Look into my eyes. Yes!
He is asking me how bad I want this stye on my eye to go away. And then says, “For me, apply this ointment…” and I’m thinking, I’d do anything for you. “Give me five minutes with a hot compress on it two to three times a day…” he goes on. You can have five hours, five days, five lifetimes.
I start to feel like Fanny Brice and Rose Morgan. “Nicky Arnstein, Nicky Arnstein, Nicky Arnstein.” I want a mirror with two faces in it—his and mine.
Paying my bill, I eye the huge family portrait above the desk on the back wall. Seven kids. He’s so virile.
