I am so Freaking cold I want to stand under the heat register (in the ceiling) and stay there until spring. And can you believe it, I lost heat for a half day, on the weekend and inside my apartment the temperature dropped to 65. I put in a maintenance request on our complex’s app thinking I’d have to live the weekend in bed under a pile of blankets, then two hours later it dawned on me to call the security guard to see if he had an emergency number to call. He did. I had heat again within twenty minutes. Then I felt guilty for my First World Privilege of having quick access to the basics of life when others go without them…like those living in the Ukraine or in the earthquake zones in Turkey or Syria. Never take our privilege for granted, that’s my motto.
Slowly I’m getting back into my routine though it’s a little difficult when I had to add six appointments into my week for OT, PT and the nurse since getting back home from The Fall. Occupational Therapy ended today---yeah for that!---and I want the others to end soon if I have any control over it but starting next week the PT and nurse will only come once a week until March so I can't complain. My rib pain is under control with just five Tylenol 500 instead of the eight I’m allowed to take but my shoulders still hurt so much I’m wondering if they should get x-rayed. The Lidocaine patch met for my ribs I’m using on my shoulder. I have an appointment with my primary doctor in a couple of hours but I’m not sure I’m going to tell him about my shoulders because he’d send me over to the hospital to wait around to get an x-ray. Then wait some more for someone to read it, then someone else to treat it. Yada, yada, yada when if I call my bone doctor, he’d x-ray them in his office and treat it within the same visit or at least explain the source of the pain and suggest a course of treatment…the privilege of being in his Frequent Flyer Club. He has no life, he fits us frequent flyers in come hell or high waters.
I went to my book club today although I didn’t read the book. The House by the Cerulean Sea, a fantasy book I was happy I had a good excuse not to read. I was invited over to The Art Professor’s apartment (along with several others) a few days before the club met to hear an hour of it read on tape. I fell asleep. Then during the book discussion in which almost everyone seemed to love the book’s characters---the garden gnome that talked and kids with magical powers---I fell asleep again. I’m not sleeping well at night but to twice not be able to stay awake in the company of others was embarrassing! I only spoke up once during the meeting to ask who the target audience the book was written for because it was compared to Harry Potter and someone quoted in the front of the book that is was “a fantasy for children and adults alike.” Supposedly, the underlying theme was acceptance of others who are not like you. Some of the children were ambiguous in their sexuality and you know what that means----The state of Florida probably has that book on the banded book list.
Growing up we had a neighbor who had a yard full of garden gnomes and they crept me out. Too many eyes following my where-abouts when I entered the neighbor's kingdom. But I did often and especially at the end of every day because the old man who lived there had pink peppermint candy for all the kids in the neighborhood and spoonfuls of Rival dog food for all the pets who came with us. But first we had to help him take down his American Flag and carefully fold it to its regulation triangle. If we were up early enough we could also help him raise the flag. He had a boat rental business and if it had rained the night before we’d get a quarter a piece to help him bail his boats. My brother’s first real job was digging up earthworms to sell to our garden gnome loving neighbor. His wife and he weren’t much taller than the preteens on the lake and they had a Mexican chihuahua and they drove a Volkswagen Beetle. Every so often they’d pile five or six of us kids in their tiny car and off we’d go to the country store/gas station where they’d buy us all ice cream cones. The chihuahua freely was allowed to lick his “mom’s” cone.
She died before him and his funeral was the only one I’ve ever attended where 7-8 people walked out in a silent protest as the preacher went on and on about how the deceased was going to burn up in hell because he didn’t accept Jesus as his Savior. This man who always had a hand ready to help his neighbors, whose wife keep us cottage kids in fresh backed cookies and lemonade hadn’t been allowed to know their own grandchildren because they wouldn’t get baptized in their daughter’s church. That funeral upset the neighbors at the cottage so much they petitioned the county and won the right to name the road after them. It was a fitting tribute to a couple who was nothing but pure kindness and love. They were the only grandparent figures I had in my life. But I'm glad it was their passion for collecting seashells I took into adulthood and not their love of garden gnomes. They still creep me out. ©
