Journal Entry for February 25, 2022

 

February 25, 2022

Here I am again, sitting, trying to write anything to get the words flowing.  So far, so good, although I could find myself stopped anytime.

My birthday was three days ago.  I didn’t get any presents or phone calls or anything, but I got loads of good wishes on Facebook, which means something.  My actual celebration will take part on Sunday late afternoon.  I will go out to eat with Andrey and Joan.  Andrey couldn’t make it on an earlier day because he and his wife went out of town on a well-deserved mini vacation for a few days this week.  I hope they had a good time and good weather.

Speaking of weather, we have miserable weather today, with snow and sleet.  I put in an Instacart order for some groceries and felt guilty about bringing my “shopper” out on a day like this.  I gave her an extra $10 in cash to add to her tip.  I also gave her a good rating and compliments and tried to make her look good to the Instacart people.  A shopper has to do something pretty wrong to get me to give less than five stars because I don’t want to make trouble for anyone on their job.  I guess I’m an old softy at heart, or I feel responsible for the world.  I’ll have to figure that one out.

I feel responsible for the world, and I think that is my old-fashioned Catholic school upbringing.  Catholic guilt has more than one facet to it, and I think this is one of them.  In addition to being guilty of sin and, therefore, guilty of causing Jesus to be crucified, we are responsible for the world.  It’s a lot to put on a person’s shoulders.

I have now gone over 300 words.  Three hundred words is not a magic sum, but I seem to have made it into a self-imposed limit because of the Corlear Gardens Newsletter, for which I try to write something every month.  To avoid making the newsletter too long, I limit my contributions to 300 words.  Besides that, I’m not sure the attention span of my building’s readers could stand more than 300 words, along with all the other stuff that goes into the newsletter.  I have no way of knowing how well or not well the newsletter is being received by the people of the building.  Nobody tells me.  I have to hear second-hand from Valerie or Jimmy, the people who work with me on the newsletter, when anyone says anything to them about it, which isn’t often.  Maybe I should conduct a survey and offer a prize, or something.  Nobody wants my George Forman grill when I offer to give it away, but perhaps if I make it an award, it will seem more attractive!

Again, I am not writing a masterpiece here.  I leave that to when I write something that I want to bother editing.

Until tomorrow.

 

Journal Entry for February 24, 2022

 

February 24, 2022

So here I am, sitting at my computer, typing what will probably turn out to be a journal entry.  I don’t know what this will turn out to be, and it probably won’t be a masterpiece, which is disappointing but not unexpected.

I am trying to cure myself of a very long period of writer’s block.  I don’t know if I have real writer’s block or I’m just being lazy and depressed.  If I manage to cut through it here, I’ll be happy.

I turned 76 two days ago.  This is frightening, and it means that I’ll be 80 years old in four years.  Where did my life go?  It didn’t take very long to get to be 76 years old.  Wasn’t it just yesterday when I was walking the campus of Eastern Washington State College, away from home for the first time in my life?  Didn’t I just write a cliché?  Oh well, I’m entitled to one cliché here.  Those are the rules, which I made up myself.

Well, I just managed to stray from the subject.  I am getting older, and this is scary.  My finances are not strong, and I am terrified of ending up old and poor.  My therapist suggested that I take some action now to see if I can apply for Medicaid and other forms of help for seniors.  That’s a good idea.  I think I will call the Riverdale Senior Services center and see if I can talk to the social worker there.

I was right.  This is NOT turning out to be a masterpiece.

Why do I care about having my writing be correct and polished the first time around?  The thing is to WRITE.  I can edit later if I want to.  In the meantime, most likely, nobody else will read this, so my reputation as a writer is safe.

It isn’t as if I haven’t accomplished anything in the last few days and weeks.  I put in an application for food stamps, complete with documentation.  I did my taxes (hooray!), and I will get a substantial refund from the federal government and a little one from the State of New York.  I am not missing any good television programs.  I brought an empty box downstairs for disposal.  I sang at a funeral on my birthday, two days ago.  March’s Corlear Gardens Newsletter is ready to go.  I’m still bored as hell, with time on my hands.

I will try to get out of the apartment for at least a little while today, and maybe that will help.

In the meantime, I can always sit and write.

 

Child-Proof Food Containers?

This is hard to open, too.

Okay.  I can understand why medicine bottles are made hard to open.  Children get into everything, and we don’t want them to experiment with medications they have no business taking.  So yes, medicine bottles should be hard to open, at least for kids.

But food?  Why on earth should a jar of food be impossible to open without a chainsaw?

Take, for example, that new jar of peanut butter that you are trying to open because, let’s say, you are making lunch for a couple of kids.  You start with confidence, sure that one good twist of the wrist will loosen up the lid.

The lid refuses to budge.  You heave a sigh and try again.  The thing remains stubbornly tight.

After uttering a couple of mild curses, you bang the lid against the countertop a couple of times.  Then you try again to open the jar, with no luck.

You wrap a kitchen towel around the jar and try again.  Nothing happens.

You take a table knife and tap the entire circumference of the lid with it.  That has no effect, either.

You run the hot water in the sink until it gets really hot, then you put the jar lid under the flow and hold it there for a minute.  You take it out and try to open it again.  Try is the operative word because again nothing happens.

You try the kitchen towel and the banging against the counter tricks again.  By this time, you want to throw the damned jar out the window.

You set the jar on the counter, having decided to make baloney sandwiches instead.

After you make and pack the baloney sandwiches, you try once more to open the jar of peanut butter, just for the hell of it.

This time you manage to open it.

That is the end of this story, as far as I am concerned.

You Know It's Time to Declutter When ...

In every life, there comes a time when one has to get rid of some of those possessions that have, over the years, multiplied like oversexed rabbits.

Oh, but all those things have a use, you say.

Yes, but have you used them at any time in the last two years?

Well, no, but I might.  You never know.

Get rid of them!

Is the path from your living room to your kitchen an obstacle course?  If your answer is yes, you might want to consider dumping that ottoman instead of having to dodge it all the time.

I have things stored in that ottoman, you say.

When was the last time you looked at any of those things you have stuck in there?

Well ...

Get rid of them, then get rid of the ottoman!

Is your closet bulging with clothes, some of which you last wore when Clinton was President?  If so, maybe your wardrobe needs a cleaning-out.

Oh, but I can’t get rid of my old clothes, you say.  Suppose they come back into style, and I lose enough weight to wear them again?

Will you wear them again, or did you get tired of them years ago?  What about the ones that are falling apart?  And then there are the ones that you never wear because you don’t like them or they don’t go with anything else.

Well ...

Get rid of them!

I can see the tears forming on the faces of some of my readers at the thought of getting rid of beloved junk that is taking up valuable space in their homes.  I sympathize because I am one of them.  I, too, share my living space with an assortment of useless items that would probably be happier in the local thrift shop.  There they could be adopted by people who would love them and care for them, or at least use them.

I am determined to rid my space of anything that isn’t contributing to the decor of my apartment, entertaining me, enriching my life, or making life more comfortable.

I’ll start tomorrow.

Observations of an Aging Baby Boomer

Aging Baby Boomer Observing

1.   Archaeologists have discovered an "Elixir of Immortality" in an ancient Chinese family tomb. This is possibly the first example of a scientific experiment gone wrong because everybody in the grave is dead.

2.     The length of time it takes a package to reach your house is in reverse ratio to the importance of the package.

3.     Never trust anyone over 70.  We’re old enough to know all the tricks if we can remember them.

4.     Never judge anyone until you have walked a mile in his shoes.  If the shoes don’t fit, you’re screwed.  Being screwed gives you the right to get mad, which provides you with the right to search out the owner of the shoes and clobber him.

5.     Early to bed and early to rise can make a person really grouchy, especially if everyone else is having fun while you’re in bed.

6.     Yes, your dog or cat loves you, so stop wondering about it.

7.     Scientists are finally figuring out that procrastination can be good for you.  I could have told them that myself, but I kept putting it off.

8.     Historical facial reconstructions are showing us, more and more, how ugly some of the famous people were.

9.     Old age is a lot of fun – for the manufacturers of canes, walkers, orthopedic shoes, and support stockings.

10.  Never sneeze at senior discounts.  Those $2 will buy you half a coffee at Starbucks.

Training Your Human 101, by Harmony the Cat

The Professor

Lesson 1:  Treats

Harmony:  Since the time of the Pharaohs, 4,000 years ago, humans and cats have shared their homes with each other in a mutually satisfying arrangement.

Me (Human):  Actually, cats became domesticated around 12,000 years ago in the Middle East, but not in Egypt.  Egypt came later.

Yes, but mentioning the Pharaohs is a good attention getter.

Okay.  It’s your lecture.  I just thought I’d point out ...

Not while I’m talking!

All right.  Whatever.  Sheeesshh!

So obsessive!  Now, where was I.  Oh yes.  Since the time of the Pharaohs (pause, looks at human)  cats and humans have shared their lives together.  This arrangement has been highly beneficial to the cat, providing him or her with potential servants ...

“Slaves” is more like it.

... ahem ... to cater to the cat’s every whim.  To achieve this end, a certain amount of training is required.  In this first lesson, I will teach you how to obtain treats from your human.  This is a necessary skill, if you don’t want to spend your whole life eating only food that has been scientifically tested and all that rubbish so that it’s good for you, makes your coat shine, etc., etc., etc.  Bo-ring!!

Expensive, too, especially if you turn your whiskered nose up at it, walk away and let it turn into little stinky rocks!

First, you must put Plan A into action.

I can’t wait to hear this.

Plan A is known as “The Buttering Up Phase.”  This should begin as soon as your stomach tells you it's time for some treats, preferably every time the human gives any sign of getting up from a chair or a couch.  Your tactics consist of nose nudges, head butts, and leg rubs.  If the human ignores these, a love bite or two gets the message across.  Pester the human until he or she starts to yell.  If the big ox still won’t move, go on to Plan B.  Scratch the furniture and/or chew on a piece of trash.  THAT is guaranteed to get the big jerk up and heading for the kitchen.  By the way, those same tactics work when it’s mealtime, and the human is late with it.

Hmmph!

Oh, and if you're an indoor cat, there is one more way to get treats.  Wait until you know the human will be heading out the front door, sometimes with a load of garbage and stuff for recycling, other times just with those jingling things that they stick into the door to make it open.  Get right under the human's feet, ready to spring out the door.  I guarantee you the human will immediately divert you by going into the kitchen and putting treats in your dish.

You always do this when I’m in a hurry to get out the door and go somewhere or when I have my hands full.

I don't care.  I'm a cat.  Caring about human stuff is against the Great Cat Code of Behavior.

Is there such a thing?

Oops!  I think I just let out a secret.  Class dismissed.  If anyone from the Cat Behavioral Squad comes along, you don’t know where I’m hiding!

The Adventures of Hubert the Fly

“Good evening.  This is your roving reporter Roberta Ribbits with today’s News of the Eccentric.  I am on the corner of 239^th Street and Bailey Avenue in The Bronx.  As you all know, many people eschew the idea of adopting a dog or a cat and choose instead to acquire exotic pets.  Standing next to me here is Ms. Florence Fadibber, who owns the most exotic pet of all, a common housefly."

“He’s not common.  He’s very uncommon.  If he were common, everyone would have one.”

“I’m sorry.  Yes.  An uncommon house fly.  I guess he’s in that mason jar you’re holding.  What’s his name?”

“Hubert.  I named him after my ex-husband.  There, there, Hubert.  It’s all right. Sweetie.  She’s a nice lady.  She just wants to get to know you.  N-i-i-ce flykins.”

 “Uh.  Yes.  Hello, Hubert.  Tell me, Ms. Fadibber, how long have you had your pet fly?  And what on earth made you adopt him?”

“Well, I was thinking about getting a pet, but I didn’t want to go through all the rigamarole they make you go through in shelters to make sure you’re suitable.  I just wanted to find an animal and take it home, you know?  So one day Hubert flew into my kitchen while I was making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and the rest is history.  I caught him in the mason jar, and he's been mine ever since.  I’ve had him for a year.  Right, Hubert?  Look at him.  Isn’t he just SO CUTE with those huge red eyes?  I love the way he looks at me.”

"Don't houseflies only live about 3 to 5 weeks?  How did he get to be a year old?"

“It’s what I feed him.  He gets Wheaties and spinach, blended together.  I am careful to give him only the healthiest food.  No garbage for him, and certainly no feces!”

“I won’t ask how you feed him.”

“Well ... “

“I don’t want to know, really.  Anyway, our time is almost up.”

“Well, I do it this way.  I just open the jar a little, like this. ... Oh no!  He got out!  HELP!  He’s flying away!  Hubert!  Come back, Hubert!  HUBERT!!”

“Well, there she goes.  Florence Fadibber the Fly Lady.  ...  Ooh, what just landed on my arm?  (*swat*) ...  Uh oh!  What have I done?  Hubert, is that you?  Hubert? ... Uh, back to the newsroom. ... Hubert?”