It has been some time since we chatted, or rather, since I’ve pontificated and you’ve dutifully listened attentively. But you never much liked that. I noticed. I finally tired of talking to an image of myself projected onto Plato’s cave wall by my all too super ego dancing behind me. You had long since gone back to reruns of Star Wars.
This last election was on the verge of causing acute insanity within my overworked but generously endowed brain case. I was, as the patriarchal saying doesn’t go, “becoming the proverbial bitch.” Yes, yes, I know, plenty of you figured I attained that appellation long about fourth grade.
In any case, in a last desperate attempt to stem the erosion of my brain matter (grey is such a boring color), I went pretty much cold turkey. I banned my fingers from pressing certain keys which inevitably led to various “stories” about the state of our putrid country, our putrid fake president, and our putrid electorate. I tuned out and turned on in another medium.
It was only scheduled to last through Lent, but then well, Lent led to Easter, and Easter to Pentecost, and well, you know where that leads–hopeless engulfment into the dreaded ordinary time. Ordinary my ass. It’s been anything but.
So, sure, I get it. Fess up woman, what has been happening?
Well, I’m still swimming my ass off. My extra skin (otherwise called arm flaps) are growing as my muscles bulge, but fail to fill up all that extra skin I now have to use should I ever have need of it. Crepe is what they call it. They use crepe for funerals. Well, crepey skin is about as delicious as having brunch with a corpse.
I got over that fast, since that ain’t a damn thing to do about it. I tend to leave the sleeveless wonders for home attire these days. My husband sees the lands down under, if you get my nether drift, and well, we both figured we are equally fucking old-looking enough to not point out the other’s defects.
I still cook, since eating requires some sort of application of heat to ingredients. I’m a bit more laid back on the subject, changed from publishing recipes to just adding them to an app on one of my tablets. Works better and is faster. I am the old dog you can teach new tricks to apparently.
Remember when I suggested a quilt block I wanted to make? Well, I made one, then two and well, I ended up making all eighty of them, and did all the other little and big things that resulted in fucking gargantuan queen sized quilt top that is now dutifully stuffed with batting and a backing and pinned and, well indeed yes, I’m actually quilting the darn thing. See ya in a year with that.
I’m back at Spanish and somehow feel that I am finally getting the hang of it. My new housekeeper who speaks almost no English is helping. She taught me eighty (ochenta) and I grin stupidly and say HOLA! like I’ve just discovered a new element. My old housekeeper who was simply wonderful is back in Mexico, and not at all sure she can get back. Thanks to the fucking ape shit tRUMP for that no doubt. My hate runs deep.
Oh, anybody who says that VA is some horrid outfit “disrespecting our troops” is full of the usual pile of shit. No doubt bad things happen to good people in the VA, but it sure hasn’t happened to us. After receiving a 30% disability for a few years based on his long association with PTSD, my husband was called to Fort Bliss to have an “update” and “re-evaluation” of his status.
The poor guy was sure they were cutting him loose, even after the therapist assured him that she has nothing to add to his file that would lean in that direction. One morning a month or so later, (still having heard nothing) Parker opened our banking website as usual to check our banking activity. Low and behold a check for over $900 had been deposited by the VA.
Parker was confused. The amount was not a doubling of his usual check, but was double plus. He figured it was the “goodbye you’re canceled” consolation check. I went to the pool and picked up the mail, which had the letter defining his new situation.
With NO request on his part, the VA, unilaterally raised his disability from 30 to 50%. Who says Santa don’t deliver in June?
I’m reading up a storm these days, and loving it ever so much. I’ve at least doubled my daily reading I’m sure.
We’re having Italian subs, potato salad, homemade baked beans, and coconut cream pie for tomorrow. I made some out of sight hot wings and mango-peach Habanero sauce yesterday.
I go to church every week, and pray the daily office each and every day. I lector at church about twice a month or so. I think our priest, Fr. Ruben knows my name. In Spanish, Sherry is Jerez (heir ez). I think that’s what he is saying when we greet in the sacristy before mass. I am so confident in my sassy Spanish that I am quick with a “hola padre!”
We are watching a ton of baseball. I’m a Mets fan, Parker, a Dodger fan. I adore both Contreras and Baez for the Cubbies.
The flowers are blooming, and I have successfully raised some cherry tomatoes!
The dogs are happy.
Parker is doing well.
I’m serene, busy as I wanna be, and content. At 67, content is a great thing. All because I decided that the orange piece of shit that stole my country was not worth my time to even think about. I don’t. But I have to say, walking into the VA causes me to literally come to a complete stop and a horrified looking away as I am once again confronted with the fact that a substantial number of my fellow human? beings chose him as their standard of excellence.
But then again, I always suspected I might be trapped in an episode of the Twilight Zone.
I don’t know how much I’ll write in the future. I still feel a few subjects I’d like to discourse upon, but hell tomorrow, I may decide to check out hang gliding. I’m way past any hope, or expectation that anybody cares what I think. I write because, well, damn it, I need to get it out to make room for new stuff. So, when you ready, know it’s literally the trash.
Hope you are happy. Hope you are well. Hope you can tell a good joke still.