Be nice if I was given a sabbatical from aging. Feels like I’ve been aging my whole life.
It was great for a while. Then…aging started getting old. Now worries come up with every fart, creak, and groan these days. What is that? Do I need to worry about it or can I forget it?
That whole worrying about things is different when you’re aging. When I was young, I’d fall off a building, land on my head, bounce up with a little cry. Mom would spit on my injury and I’d motor on. Maybe Mom’s spit was magic; I haven’t tried that recently as I live across the country from her. Seems like all the issues she’s had related to her aging, if her spit was magic, she would have used it on herself. Then again, maybe a mother’s spit only works on her children. Maybe her spit aged and lost its magic. Either way, a year off from aging would be a wonderful break for me.
We’ve clocked into Friedaz, February 7, 2024. Snowfall greeted me when I checked the weather. A couple more inches had been added during night’s rule. Now 30 F, more was piling up.
Or was it? The temperature crept up to 31. 32. 32.3. 32.4.
Papi the ginger blade, aka, ginger butt, had a vet appointment. 10 AM. I’d made it three weeks ago. He was suffering fur loss, ravenous appetite and some weight loss. Hyperactive thyroid was suspected by us. We’d seen the same in Tucker (pronounced Tuck-ah). In fact, based on that, we’d started sharing Tucker’s medicine with Papi. Stopped it on Monday so we could get it out of his system and see the test results.
After strapping chains onto the tires and putting a complaining Papi into a kennel, I made the drive under heavy snowfall.
Turned out that chains were only needed for our driveway and street. The city’s main roads were plowed. As we traveled west and north, the temperature rose. Snow became rain. Precipitation ceased by the time we reached the vet.
That’s okay. Little inconvenienced. Important thing is to get Papi checked and healthy. Yeah, blood work shows hyperactive thyroid. Five hundred clams later, she prescribed the same med that Tucker is getting. Wants to check him in a month.
BTW, I researched why we call money ‘clams’. Turns out that it’s an old joke, based on settlers observing natives using clams for cash. Actually, I made that up. Figure that in this era of fake news, what’s a little more?
I have a 1974 Procol Harum song, “Pandora’s Box”, in the morning mental music stream. Procol Harum often brought interesting music to the scene. This is one I knew from their albums but I don’t believe I ever heard it played on the radio. Funny enough, Aerosmith had a song with the same title in the year before. That caused some confusion among some of us. The two songs sound nothing at all alike, with vastly different intentions presented by the lyrics. I later bet a friend about who performed the song, cleverly inserting the year as part of the bet. I won but he accused me of being underhanded and taking advantage of him. Guilty! But the bet was just a beer, come on. It was at the NCO club and was five dollars for a pitcher. Of course, it was American lager…Miller Lite, I think.
Coffee has resuscitated my energy levels again. Time to get on the day and ride. Hope your day fills your needs.
Hey, look, the snow has stopped and the sun is out.
By the way, I thought I’d utilize the original spelling used today, Friedaz. In doing research, I learned that ‘day’ was actually ‘daz’ almost universally until it became Anglicized. And the prefix, Fri, was originally Frig or Frigga, after a Nordic Goddess. Those rebelling against Nordic influence because they were chaffing from looting done during Viking raids in Europe, changed it to Frie. That spelling upset Christians, as Frigga day or Frieday was a day of fasting. People thought that calling it Friedaz gave them permission to eat fried food. Hence, they started eating fried fish on Friedaz, giving rise to the Catholic rule of eating fish on Friday. The spelling was changed to try to stop people from eating fried foods on Friedaz, but it had became too embedded. Even so, a last ditch attempt was made by religious authorities: they changed the spelling to Friday. And that’s why we have that spelling.
Naw, I made that up, too. Blame the coffee. It’s always forcing me to write and say crazy things.
I was busy scrubbing oven racks the other day. My Neurons played by themselves. Out of that rolled a remembered television commercial:
“New Ajax laundry detergent, stronger than dirt. (Stronger than dirt!)”
It’s a terrific slogan. Who wouldn’t want a cleaner that’s stronger than dirt? I bet the rest of the cleaners were so jealous because they weren’t stronger than dirt.
And how ’bout that knight with his magic lance? I could use a lance like that.
Snow was falling, and I was walking through it. No wind was bothering us, and the temperature is hovering around 33 F, so it’s not too cold. I enjoy walking in general but walking in snow is special. Snow affects all the senses for me. As it collects, it muffles sounds. Falling, it alters light. Snow flakes feel different, too, because each is as unique as a person, animal, or leaf. Everything seems magnified, walking in snow.
At the intersection of all these sensations, I fall back into memories of being a child, walking through snow. Tasting snowflakes with my tongue. Watching air condense as I breathe out. Examining the world as a new cover falls over it. Snow often drove people into buildings, and my walks outside were rewarded with solitude. Sometimes, semi-profound observations visited, but I mostly just walked, holding hands with nature.
My wife doesn’t want me to mop the hardwood floors. I asked for feedback: “Why?”
“You don’t do a good job.”
I was insulted. But, the craftiness in me decided, well, that means that she will always mop the floor.
On the other hand, she admits that I do a much better job cleaning the stainless steel kitchen appliances. Although, she notes, she thinks that I’m “a little obsessive” about having it streak free.
It all works out. I do those items, and she does the floor, and we’re both happy.
As with many humans, I’m a fan of the look back. That’s the manuever engaged as you walk away from a chair or table: you look back to ensure you haven’t forgotten or dropped something.
I watch people conduct their look back and happen to see three women leave their table without doing the look back. As I thought that through, I saw a purse hanging over the back of a chair. As I rose to cross to get it and chase them down, the woman hustled back in with an alarmed expression. Hope she’s learned and plans to look back in the future.
BTW, would the look back be a good dance move? I could see it. You might be doing it on the dance floor.
My wife picked up a skillet the other day. Washed and dried, she was putting it away. When she turned, the skillet nailed her glass of water on the counter. Put the glass airborne and shattered it into sixteen zillion pieces of glass. Water, Everywhere.
We have hardwood floors in that part of the house — kitchen, foyer, dining room, halls. The glass was cleaned up as best as we could. But. It’s glass.
A few days after the incident, a piece of glass found my heel. Bleeding and pain followed. As the situation unfolded, after almost fifty years of marriage and three more years of being together, my wife asked me, “Why aren’t you wearing shoes?”
My wife has a new laptop ‘puter. “How should I keep it clean?” she asked me. “What should I use? I want to keep it clean. I was terrible about that with my last one and I don’t want to be like that this time.”
“I don’t know how to keep it clean,” I replied, although I had some ideas like, don’t eat while you’re using it.
“But I thought you were a tech guy and knows all this stuff.”
“You’ve mistaken me for someone else. Why don’t you research how to keep it clean? You know, search the net.”
“I am researching. I’m asking you.”
I laughed. “Okay, I’ll do a quick search.”
“See?” my wife exclaimed with a grin. “It worked.”
Michael Seidel, writer 