The world measures in money, but the heart measures in time.
I have a friend who has become sort of a punchline with her other friends. “Oh, we really HAVE to get together!” we imitate, rolling our eyes.
She is literally always “busy.” She tells us with great specificity what she wants to do: “Oh, we’re going to get together for a spa day. We’ll drink mimosas and get massages at this great place I know. Oh, you’re going to LOVE it. Let me check my schedule and I will call you!”
She never calls, so she has become a FINO – friend in name only. I like her. I think she’s smart and funny and interesting and pretty. But she has become Lucy to my Charlie Brown, and I am just never going to try to kick the football again. If she shows up on my doorstep, fine, she is invited inside. Until then, I’m not hoping.
If you love someone, if you cherish them, you will make time for them. Love is an action verb, as they say. Being there is showing you care.
Don’t be Lucy to your friends. Hold the ball steady. There is only so many times people will fall for the same thing.
I went to the doctor today. Nothing remarkable in that. I told CC the other day that my aging body is like driving a crappy old car. A few years back all I had to do was provide fuel and tires, and the occasional tune-up. Now the thing is in the shop all the time, and it is costing me money.
I had to wait almost an hour to see the doc, but I didn’t care. I had my phone and Jenny Lawson’s book, so I had to stifle hysterical laughter over and over, lest they think I needed mood stabilizers.
When she saw me, she looked at my lab results and said “Well, you look good on paper.”
That’s my new slogan.
Afterward, I stopped at the desk to get orders for Xrays (ankle) and a prescription (hormones). There was some confusion and I got the Xray orders, but not the prescription, a fact I realized when I was 10 steps out the door, blinking at the darkness – I had been in there so long the sun had set.
I walked back and the door was locked. They must have locked it right behind me,
Knock, knock, I went softly, knowing they were right on the other side of the door and they could quickly open.
Knock knock, I went louder.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.
Suddenly, I became utterly and completely focused on the single task of getting them to open the damn door. They could NOT do this to me. They could not make me wait one hour to see the doctor, then refuse to give me my damned prescription 10 seconds after I left.
I tried calling. No answer. Called again. No answer.
BANG BANG BANG BANG on the door in a big scary noise.
It was like I was the field goal kicker at the end of a tied championship game. Every fiber of my being was on task. I was ready to stalk them out into the parking lot.
I suddenly realized the back office door was right there. And there was a buzzer. I stepped over, raised my hand and…the door jerked open.
The office manager, looking sheepish, began blathering about “Being in the back.”
It was a good thing I went back, because they had electronically transmitted my Rx to a pharmacy that I hadn’t used in years, so I might never have found it.
But let this be a warning. Do not mess with a woman who wants her hormone medications.
Part of me is delighted that December is here. Just 3 weeks until the solstice, until the days start getting longer.
Then I think “In 6 weeks, the days will only be as long as today? Oh my god, help me.”
I read recently that Norwegians look forward to winter. Maybe if I had the northern lights and liked skiing?
Nah, it would still be horrible.
And I’m still having hot flashes. I get a tantalizing month off, then they return with a vengeance.
I’m about ready to carve a thermometer shape into my forehead and take on a permanent blank gaze, a la Charlie Manson.
Is it 8 pm yet? Good! Time for bed!
After limping my way through NaBloPoMo, I find that I did not publish one day, due to a technical error. On the 26th, I thought I published a draft of an old post, but it is gone with the Schwinn – now neither on my blog nor in my drafts folder.
So it’s NaBloAlmostPoMo for me.
And you get a new header. You’re welcome.
Today was Pajama Sunday at church. It was a fun, silly idea for the Sunday after Thanksgiving – elastic waistbands and too much food going hand-in-hand, you see.
The only problem was that Pajama Sunday was not well-publicized, though about 10 of us got the memo.
Friends, do you know how awkward it is to greet your neighbor when it is the neighbor’s first day at your church and you are wearing a red flannel nightgown imprinted with fat white snowmen?
I was going out to take the dog for a walk this morning when my toe caught on the fourth step from the bottom and I went flying down, leaving my foot behind.
It was almost like I had done the yoga Pigeon Pose, except with a big gravity assist and against my will. And with my leg turned out at the knee, not in.
I have never been good at the Pigeon Pose.
After about 5 minutes of sitting on the step going “We’re okay. We’re okay,” as Abbie barked at me to hurry up, I dragged myself back up the stairs and examined the damage. Nothing broken. Sprained ankle. Knee that now makes a weird liquid popping noise. Hurt hip. Hurt shoulder.
I drove Abbie over to the dog daycare and went home to collapse. I cried a little, out of mad frustration. I cursed living upstairs, as I had foreseen something exactly like this happening.
I have learned a few things today.
My condition has a name: Chronic Ankle Instability (thanks, Miss Banshee). I have always had it, but had just assumed I was clumsy. There’s something about a diagnosis that can make you feel just a little better.
The Great British Baking Show is perfect for days like this.
So is hydrocodone and acetominophen. I know, I know. I’m only taking them halfsies at a time, because pain meds tend to hit me hard, but I am so thankful I have them and that they work.
Onward. I know tomorrow is going to hurt more than today. Not looking forward to morning.
But you know what? There is so much more love than hatred, and love is winning.
A villain explodes one bomb. It’s horrible, yes. We can all agree.
But that is one act. Every good parent does 1000 loving acts before lunch each day. And most of us do good all day long. We don’t call it good because it seems normal, but love is the silent river that flows through our lives.
We greet each other. We make meals. We drive carefully. We let other people go first. We wave. We smile. We fix things. We wait patiently. We let the person cross. We put on jackets. We put socks on little feet. We put on socks again. And shoes. And leashes. Not all on the same being, hopefully.
We say “I love you,” “Drive safe,” “Hurry home,” “I missed you,” “Thank you,” “Have a great day.”
We laugh and dance and make love. We sing. We work hard. We get up even when we’re tired. We put on makeup and pretty clothes. We put on uniforms. We go to weddings. We go to sports games to cheer for people we love. We go to hospitals. We go to funerals.
We look in each other’s eyes. We stand up for each other. We hold our tongues for each other. We hug.
The villains can try to destroy. But destruction never builds. And the building never stops.
There’s also the added bonus of not having to show up somewhere in form fitting clothing at a time when I feel like the Graf Zeppelin.
I joined up and looked through classes. Picked out a 15 minute back tune-up. Hey, no one ever accused me of being over-ambitious.
Here are my thoughts in the first 10 minutes:
- How do I see the screen if I am lying on the floor and this is on my computer?
- Dog, get off me.
- This guy seems like a really good teacher.
- This is great.
- Man, I have missed yoga.
- Hey, I’m still pretty flexible in certain ways.
- I’m going to do this every single day.
- This is awesome.
- WHERE do I put my foot? Ha, no.
- Whoa, balance. Ooops.
- Dog, get off me.
- I…um…I don’t think I can do this.
- Whoa, wobble!
- Maybe I should take a short break.
- One more minute.
- No, I have to stop. Just for a second.
- Oh, are my sweet potatoes burning?
Don’t worry. I saved my class. For later.
*Hat tip to Jimmy Kimmel
CC and I were wandering the streets of Santa Barbara, one of the world’s most beautiful cities. It’s like an episode of “Oprah’s Favorite Things” come to life. Colorful cashmere wraps fall in seductive folds in shop windows. Clusters of Turkish glass lanterns in 50 different colors glow and bob. Fountains lined with talavera tile burble softly in tiny alleyways.
We walked by a shop: Kathleen Cooper – Fine Papers.
We riffed on what kind of person shopped at Kathleen Cooper – someone for whom ordinary papers are just not enough. Someone with a need for very fine papers, unlike those of us known to scrawl our messages on the back of printer paper snatched from the recycle bin. Probably Oprah or someone on her Christmas list.
Back on State Street, an eager European-looking young man dressed in all in black beckoned us from the glaring lighted doorway of a stark white shop.
“Ladies, here’s a free sample of our newest skin care product.”
It was one of those places that lure you in with a tiny foil packet of some miracle moisturizer and want you to spend $250 on their entire line of things that will make your skin look like Selena Gomez on a really, really good day.
“May I ask what you’re using now?”
I didn’t want to tell him about the soap I got from the tie-dyed seller at Ojai Farmer’s Market who calls himself the Crunchy Chemist. I mean, I like the Crunchy Chemist – he knows his chemistry and seems legit, but I didn’t think Euro-Man would understand that I wash my face with $6 unscented soap with no special qualities.
“Kathleen Cooper,” I said, looking him right in the eyes. “Do you know her line?”
“Oh, yes, of course, she’s very good,” he said, looking right back at me. He was a liar and he was good.
CC and I eventually made our escape. She spent the next hour trying to decide what fake skin care line named after a chi-chi store that she should use. She’s torn between Wendy Foster and Pierre LaFond.