A casual friend, Diana, an older woman, had a large yard sale. People found many products which were unused, as in still in its original packaging. Bruce said, “I have a drill press and wasn’t planning to buy a new one. But this one was completely unused, I mean, brand new and in its box. It’s better than mine, which needs some work, and she was only asking fifty dollars for it. I felt like it’d be a sin to walk away from that.”
People openly talked about the many thing and unused products for sale. Sitting nearby, Diana explained, “Well, I get lonely, so I order things so I could chat up the delivery people.”
That shocked my sensibilities. Diana is an extrovert, a real people person. She belongs to a book club, bridge club, and choir. She regularly travels, attends exercise classes at the local Y, and attends plays and concerts. She’s involved and engaged, and yet, she’s buying things so she can talk to people.
It’s something that I, a person who is quite comfortable not speaking with anyone but my wife, cat, and barista for days, struggles to comprehend.
I witnessed a coffee house conversation that threatened to escalate into violence.
It was a mildly busy day as people gathered and socialized with pleasant autumn weather outside. Many were bent over phones, laptops, or notebooks.
One table hosted an octet of chatting women not far from me. Their age hovered around my own, which is to say sixty to seventy-five years young. They were mostly laughing and talking about books. Somehow their conversation rolled into the important question everyone wants to know, “How much paste should you put on your toothbrush?”
I haven’t read any books on the subject, and I didn’t study it in school, but I agreed with one brunette woman. She said, “Oh, I read that you just need a dab. Especially with an electric toothbrush.”
“No, no, no,” a red-haired woman erupted. “That is wrong. You need to cover the bristles from end to end with paste.”
Coffee shop conversations dropped off a cliff. Focus went to the table of women.
Other women at the table started disagreeing with paste woman. You’d think they were assaulting her grand toddler from her reaction. Voice rising into a screech, she declared, “No! No!” It was like she was channeling Khruschev addressing the United Nations. “The paste must be on all of the bristles! Anything else is wrong!”
I expected a duel to erupt. Pistols at twenty feet on the sunlit sidewalk outside.
Maybe she’d had too much caffeine. Maybe she didn’t have enough. The other women, wide-eyed with alarm, were backing down fast, trying to placate the redhead before she whipped out a sword to defend her toothpaste position.
I was gently serenaded awake by the dulcet tones of a cat upchucking somewhere nearby. Investigating, I found it was Tucker heaving up kibble and a hairball. Fortunately, I had an exercise towel down. It was for foot and leg exercises to cope with my ankle injury, based on recommendations from my sister, a physical therapist. Tucker and Papi had staked out the green towel as the new ideal napping spot in the house. That’s where Tucker was sleeping when I went to bed. Apparently, he slept there until he awoke and puked.
That’s how my Wednesday, June 19, 2024 began. Hope yours was better. I raise my coffee cup to Juneteenth and my fellow Americans who celebrate it for all the right reasons.
Spring’s hold is weakening in Ashlandia. Sprummer has burst back onto the scene. It is a beautiful blue skied morning. Sunshine baths runners, bikers, grooming cats, and everything else under the sky. 61 F, today’s high will bounce into the low 90s. With this abrupt weather shift will come high winds.
After the puke check, I squirmed back into bed, and then tumbled with dreams and thoughts. The thoughts went down a parental aisle. Dad in the hospital. Mom was there in April. The two are divorced, with new partners. They actually divorced over fifty years ago. Dad has been with his ‘new wife’ for 35 years, his third marriage. Mom has been with her beau since 2009. Family whispers say that she’s been married seven times. Mom has a secretive gene so vetting information is a challenge.
Mom professes to constant pain. She complains frequently and often about her existence, frequently demanding her daughters’ attention, repeatedly regaling all of us with tales hospital visits, doctor appointments, and health details. Going backwards, appendicities, and before that, a perforated appendix put her in the hospital. Her pacemaker was replaced. COVID hospitalization, spinal stenosis, swollen foot (but not edema, she tells me, although she had sixteen lymph nodes removed during foot surgery), and of course, fifteen years ago, the disastrous fall down the steps. She sleeps with a mask on to help with her breathing because of emphysema. Hardly able to walk, she insists on tottering around the house to clean it, though to most eyes, it’s immaculate. She takes dozens of medications, vitamins, minerals, and supplements.
Dad tells me from his hospital bed, “I’m fine,” with a chuckle. “They have a hundred doctors helping me. They want to put me on dialysis but at my age, they worry about whether I’d survive the procedure.” He’s been stented over ten years ago. Uses a wheelchair and a cane. Has oxygen at home, which he insists that he doesn’t use. Only his wife is there to help him.
Mom always complains about her beau. He can’t hear, she says, and I’ve witnessed the truth of the 94-year-old man’s hearing issues. “He’s forgetful,” she angrily hisses. “I always have to tell him things and make him lists.”
Dad’s wife laughs about Dad and his idiosyncrasies. He never says a harsh word about her.
What a difference their worlds are.
Today’s song choice by Les Neurons is a little ditty called “Twilight Zone (When the Bullet Hits the Bone)” by Golden Earring from 1982. A song inspired by an adventure spy novel, it’s presence in my morning mental music stream (Trademark split) is all on me. See, I was feeding the cats and somehow ended up singing, “You will come to know when the kibble hits the bowl.” That’s a variation of Twilight’s chorus, “You will come to know when the bullet hits the bone.”
Stay positive, be strong, and Vote Blue for 2024. Coffee has stolen into my body. Here is the music video. Cheers
Extrofloof(floofinition) – 1. A normally shy or withdrawn person who becomes more outgoing and friendly when they meet animals.
In use: “Becca usually hung to the wall on the rare occasions when she accepted invitations to another’s house, but whenever she met family pets, she bloomed into an extrovert, playing and talking with the animals like they were old friends.”
2. An energetic, outgoing animal.
In use: “Goober was fearless and friendly, an extrofloof to the core, excited to meet animals and people, always pleased to have a new acquaintance.”
Floofmenclature(floofinition) – 1. Name or designation given to an animal.
In use: “The beagle’s formal name was Abigail, but her fascination with spiders landed her the floofmenclature, Ziggy Stardust, or just Ziggy.”
2. The act or process or an instance of naming an animals.
In use: “When new pets join a home, they typically have a name, but with the floofmenclature of becoming familiar to their new humans, they often acquire a new one.”
Butterfloof(floofinition) –1. An animal with fur the color of butter (also known as butterfur).
In use: “Everyone who saw the cat exclaimed, “What color is his fur?” To which she replied with a pleased smile, “He’s a butterfloof.” That explained it all.”
2. An animal which enjoys flitting from flower to flower.
In use: “Exploring, the puppy was a butterfloof, going about the backyard and sniffing everything that he found, pausing with each as if he was savoring new knowledge.”
3. Animals who enjoy the taste of butter.
In use: “A true butterfloof, the cat would hunt down anything that was buttered and begin consuming it. One had to be on constant guard.”
Michael Seidel, writer 