Random bits

This evening, I will be taking notes for a planning meeting, recording the bits of wisdom that fall from the volunteer members' lips. It's a lot like following the poodles around, picking up items that fall behind them.


Would you live in a glass house? I might, provided there were no human neighbors and no drafts.


When the question arises of whether or not "the arts" are important to our society, I hope I remember this: The Arts in Health Care.

Menopause The Musical

The last time I laughed that hard was when Husband and I watched the dvd of Robin Williams' debut at Carnegie Hall. The act of guffawing took me over, like breathing, so that I hardly knew if I was laughing or not . . . it was just something that I had to do.
Oh man . . . they covered it all. The sweats, the memory loss, the moods...  And the music! If I'd had an aisle seat, I would have been up and dancing!


And . . . you know . . . it was hugely comforting to be in a theater jammed full of women, all laughing until they choked. Like being in a room full of . . . survivors.

Showtime Sunday

This afternoon, Little B and I are going to see . . . 


It's a gorgeous sunny (although windy, cool) day today and I don't much feel like driving into civilization to be among my fellow humans, but if the show is one tenth as great as everyone says it is, I'll be glad to have done it!


I have to say . . . when I look at the nice cushy soft jawlines in these photos . . . it makes me feel . . . relief? happiness? 
Normal?

I'm BACK, Baby!

Well.

That's passed.

Again.

I don't truly know why those phases come or what makes them pass, although certainly an out-of-the-blue "I love you" chips off a big piece of the big black cloud and lets some sunshine in. It made me want to say, "You do? Reeeeally?" in a high squeaky voice like a seven-year-old. I did not say that, however. One doesn't want to tempt fate.

And I'm so glad that so many of you understood that horrible bottom's-dropped-out feeling. It's so good to know I amn't a complete freak. (AA Wisdom: We are not unique.)

The news:

The boyz had their grooming sessions yesterday. Kim called me while I was in the supermarket . . . I could tell she was near the end of her rope . . . "I don't know what to do with Max!" Max has become . . . floppy . . . as his muscles waste away. He can move, walk at a good clip, but standing while somebody runs a clipper up and down his legs and along his belly is difficult for him. We planned for me to get home and put away the groceries, for her to finish Angus, and then call me to come and help prop up Max.

Near two hours later, Kim phoned. Angus, who has always been mellow, calm, la-di-da . . . had gone ballistic. He turned into a complete wiggle worm who wanted No Thing to do with the clippers thank you very much. Choking himself on the loop around his neck, gagging, screaming...

Poor Kim. 

I put on my sneakers and hurried to her shop and between the two of us we got the grooms finished. She was disheartened: she's dog-whispered her way through interactions with far larger and more intimidating dogs than these. I was relieved to have it all finished, for their health and comfort. I know these dogs. I know they can be completely impossible, especially now when they're growing a bit senile. They remain as wiggly as five-week-old puppies.

Poor Kim. She doesn't drink, but if she did, I bet she would have done it up last evening!

When I got home I removed the dogs from the car and set their feet on the green green grass of home and then I removed the crate from the car. I have a new-to-me car, you see, and I feel I can no longer carry the dog crate as a permanent fixture as I did in the old car. I carried a lot of permanent fixtures in the old car. Two (I believe) pairs of shoes, two pairs of gloves, the dog crate, several papers that seemed, at their arrival, too important to throw away and not urgent enough to remove to the house for handling. In addition, there was a hairdryer that I used at the floorcloth class I took a few years ago, a few makeup items that had thrown themselves from my purse at sudden stops and then migrated under the seat. In short, the old car was messy. And dirty.

The New Car, provided by Husband the used Volvo dealer, is a 2003 Volvo XC70 in . . . get this! Platinum green metallic! It changes color depending on the light . . . from a seagreenblue to sage green to any number of other gentle, sophisticated shades. Gorgeous.

Husband knew the car was coming in on a trade soon and he waited for it so he could make it mine. The previous owner was a long-time customer, and so he knew the history of the car and that it had been well maintained. Even so, he and others spent a lot of time making everything perfect for me. For me! 

Oh, I love it. It's like the most comfortable sofa ever, with wheels attached.

It has leather upholstery. Mmmm.

It has heated seats. Mmmm. They make my back feel so good. They make me feel a little as if I've just wet my pants, too, but y'get used to that.

It has those cute little windshield wipers on the headlights. Husband says those things are always broken. But they're a cute little conceit.

It has all wheel drive: I almost can't wait for snowy winter commutes to roll around again. (Yeah. Right.)

It has a rain sensor! Set the windshield wipers for "int" which I think means "interval," and they know when to wipe the windshield! Not too often, not too infrequently. I love that. Makes me want to drive in the rain.

On Thursday, Husband mowed the lawn for the first time this season. The scent! Intoxicating.

Early on Thursday and Friday mornings we watched deer playing in the field. Five deer, three of them smaller than the other two. Not fawns, but smaller . . . and clearly, young. Those three scampered around in big circles, ran in and out of the wooded area, and generally spent a good amount of time being happy to be alive. 

My seasonal visiting mockingbird is back onsite. I heard him yesterday, running through his repertoire. He stays for only a week or so and then moves on, but how I enjoy his performance while he's here.

The Slough of Despond

I am here, languishing on the shore of the Slough of Despond, thinking thoughts too long, tired and dreary for sharing, particularly in a blog named Aging Gratefully. 

The slough of despond from this site

It doesn't do to think too far into the future, and it doesn't do to think too far back into the past. I need to learn (is such a change of habit possible at this age?) to dash back and grab whatever piece of information I need from those days and not spend time picking over the mess in that old junk yard.


The internal dialog:

He/she/it done me wrong!

(In the voice of the AA Sponsor): What is your part in it?

I had no part in it! It wasn't my fault!

(In the voice of the AA Sponsor): What is your part in it? Acknowledge that, first.

I was a little kid. I had no control over anything. I was supposed to be taught how to act and nobody taught me. 

Even the doctor says from the wing chair across the room, "You had no choice. You were set up."
So where does that leave a person?
I have a cavity in my heart, in my soul, that should have been filled when I was six years old.
Now it is too late to fill it, to heal it. It is too late for me to become whole.
What might I have been?
What might I have achieved?



It doesn't matter. It's all done and over and the task is to make what peace I can with it and stay in this moment, which is better . . . so much better . . . than it used to be. And so much better than it might have been.
We're all walking wounded.
This too shall pass.
I am A Fortunate Woman. I know that even when I don't feel it.