It Is a Big Deal

Sometime in my early sixties thoughts switched to retirement. As part of that process, one takes the look over the shoulder to see the accomplishments of a lifetime.  For me, it was the moment of looking myself in the eye to know that I had earned my respect.

So many things in life aren’t as big a deal as we make them out to be, but liking who you are at the end of your career is important. It’s not a number thing like he who dies with the most toys wins; they’re just toys. I’d rather have integrity than more money, but no mistake I wanted to earn a comfortable living and worked hard.

Over the years there’s always bad times, but I plucked along relentlessly. Earning a big salary may be its own reward, but spending years doing something I didn’t like never made me happy, so I followed the rule of love what you do.

Dogs have perfected the art of presence; in silence, they look at us and perhaps wag their tail with no obvious judgment. Since childhood, I have loved dogs; thank you, God.

After jobs and businesses I enjoyed, the last thirty years of my career I worked with dogs; what could be better? I played with dogs for a living until I ran a dog business that played with dogs, which is almost as much fun but paid better.

Nobody wants to leave a thriving business, but age ain’t easy, so you contemplate and consider before rebelliously declaring,

“I have another good ten years in me, maybe more.”

But the property and the business appraised at a tidy sum, so best think about it; it made so much sense to quit in time to enjoy life. My husband suffered from chronic pain, so he voted to go; we put it on the market and buyers came, but nobody could get a loan.

Bankers lead the news each evening, they called it, the “Great Recession.” Too big to fail, that was the slogan, followed by bailout and lay off.

My modest dog business didn’t count for shit when regular clients can’t afford daycare for the kids and dog, so the dog lived in the yard all day and other clients, I carried. My clients, my neighbors were upside down, as they called it, meaning they owed more than the property was worth. I wasn’t in that boat, but found myself working way harder for a lot less; it was an ugly time, I picked to absolutely need to rest.

We're beaten and broken over time, so when we’re done there’s no debating. I hated to give up everything when we were covering for banking crooks by decree of GWB and company because they caused my pain. Who gives a f---, right?

Greedy bankers invented new products to sell for more than it was worth, oops. We, the people, had to pay; I had to pay when I needed my lifetime payout, another oops.

The Dodd-Frank Act became law to prevent these same greedy bankers we bailed out less than ten years ago from doing the same thing to us again.

I am disgusted by a legislature that would consider repeal of Dodd-Frank. Does the abuse of the people need to become a real ass whipping before we say, “No.”

People in power talked around the problem until I felt dizzy, but superb performances from a stellar cast in The Big Short and Margin Call shine a light on the bad behavior of reputable robbers/bankers. These movies are the modern day equivalent of Redford and Hoffman getting the goods on Nixon.

What is my generation supposed to say to the next?

“Every generation gets its ass beat by government whores with fat wallets of big business money, shut your mouth and take it.”

Please, don’t. 

Act Three

I am a Plebeian woman in many a marketplace examining the wares. Being of humble means I look much and purchase little. As I go I look into eyes and see the world; many souls look back, sharing their truths in a passing moment. I see hurt, love, and humanity, as well as, shame inflicted, but mostly not deserved.

I am proud of my cast, commonplace people, the salt on our table. During my productive age, I seldom looked directly into eyes; I didn’t trust, nor wanted to learn their secrets, or them to see my shame.

When you begin with little or nothing you have a plan and stay focused to get something. I believed in business old school, which meant doing my best each day, having integrity. I worked hard and managed to live a life that pleased me. I was blessed by opportunity.

Most of us don’t want to rule the world, just let me do something I can be proud of at the end of the day; it doesn’t matter what. My husband was proud to be a truck driver. He held respect within his company and his boss trusted him. As a Teamster in 705, he played his part in life, as I did as his wife.

The curtain rises on my third act: old age alone. Compliments of unscrupulous bankers, one of my least favorite presidents, and bad timing I have nothing, but thanks to Social Security am able to survive.

Ever wonder if walking off into the sunset means we die together? It didn’t; here I am. Does it matter? Why am I still here?

Act three, old and alone, who wants to see that? But wait a minute, each day holds promise, maybe not like my younger years, none the less, I see a beautiful sunrise and feel the arms of God under stars.

On the internet, I read inspired words from poets responding to their call and see what talented artists produce. I live on a tropical island, driving roads canopied with orange, purple, and white flowers in trees with trunks so wide I can but wonder what changes they’ve seen.

Enjoy the day, each day, one day in the not too distant future will be my last; this much I know. Those I loved, the comfort I strove for is gone, but there is so much value in the humble. I’m blessed when the bones don’t ache.

Travel alone I never thought I could, but adventure need not include tachycardia. Planning, budgeting, and learning about a destination give as much pleasure as the trip, well almost. So often I hit the financial wall with no way written all over it; my challenge to take a break, do something else, and come back with fresh eyes relishes the moment when doable pops into view.

Europe in 2018 what a dream I have for my third act; what do you think, a little Spain and, of course, some Italy?

Next Trip

What’s next? When living in a time suspended between past and future, planning a new adventure beats the hell out of dwelling on how much I miss my honey, so what’s next? 

An adventure frequently includes some peril such as the distinct possible of being alone on a boat dock late at night and the cell phone battery dead due to all the pictures you took. It happened to me last January in St. Thomas, but rather than that scenario I hopped into a private car with people I’d never seen before. My heart beat fast and I kept wiping moist fingertips on my pants. Fear  gave way to euphoria when I recognized the light in the distance as my hotel. The lines of waiting cabs left before I caught the ferry from Water Island, where I sat less than six feet away from a piano being played by Julian Gargiulo. The stars were out metaphorically; it drizzled sporadically during my time between heaven and earth, a surrealistic evening absolutely worth the peril.  

Memories give the heft to your soul, most of mine are of evenings enjoyed with my husband. That night, I thought about a Tennessee Williams play in which in the movie version Elizabeth Taylor belts out, “Maggie, the cat, is ALIVE! I’M ALIVE!” We were kindred spirits in that burst of joy  of life. Welcome to a positive, no wonderful memory during my time alone.

If only I could write a story to entice you to come along for the ride, I’d be a good writer, but I’m having enough difficulty in becoming the responsible  adult again. I just want to run away and play. The list of I shoulds grows but I get to prioritize. This could be fun.

Cuba calls me back. My sister from another life lives there. We met in  Trinidad in 2013. Have you ever had an energy connection with someone across a crowded room? This could have been a scene in the movie, Cloud Atlas, with Hallie Berry and Tom Hanks. Of all the people currently on the planet, two of  my best are in Cuba. 

In what Kirt would call, “One of your but firsts,” I want to attend another writers conference and spend more time in Florida. Old dude chic resonated on the Gulf Coast last year during my trip to Orlando from New Orleans. It’s funny that in my twenties I had a fantasy about driving Florida alone in my TR6; come to think about that car would still be fine for the drive if I can still drive stick. 

The hunt for an affordable airfare or what free music offerings are in the area begins my planning stage. This time the search includes writers’ workshops and conferences. Maybe its all in my head, but I think my writing gets better after a little effort. 

Becoming the Old Girl

We made each other laugh and shared stories; wherever we were, we were home as long as we were together. I loved my life with him, loved being with him.
Adjusting to being single, that’s an adjustment! Without your other half life loses that cheery glow of sharing. At a time in your life when you’ve lost the people close to you, who cared about what you said or thought, you can end up depressed because nobody gives a damn. People who you can connect with remain on the planet, but you don’t know them.
Want to hear something funny? Recently people have asked if I’ve re-married, yet. It hasn’t quite been four years and casually people have said, “You married again?” The first time someone asked, I felt my eyes pop out of my head. What!!!
I suppose what amuses me the most about that question is that to other people finding a mate, someone to meld with just happens.
If the truth be told, I would enjoy a flirtation, maybe even a kiss, but by our senior years men and women have been so beat up by each other that damaged in transit is stamped on foreheads.
My journey without my husband has become about self-discovery. To do something until I say that I don’t want to do it anymore, put it down and try something else to see if it pleases will surprise you with the number of things quickly discarded.
Contrary to what I was taught as a child, you don’t have to stick with something if you don’t want to; knowing that gives me freedom.
Losing my inner circle within a few years has painfully given me the freedom to explore more life choices if I have the courage and will. As the years march, I no longer feel required to have either courage or will, but life is more interesting with I find.
Transitioning to retirement, old age feels like from toddler to child or teenager to adult; I’ve skinned my knees. Hated it, but here I am no longer a wife, a business woman, and on and on; I’m the not so little old lady wondering what I want to do. Who’s scared?
We are what we do, so I’m not too much at this stage. In the almost four years of widowhood, I’ve exercised at the gym the most. A sadness overcomes me when I think about all the wonderful food I no longer eat; utter desperation, all those poor baby things and I know I’ll break all the rules when I hit New Orleans, so hush.
Live music coaxes me out of the house and I’ve planned trips around music I wanted to hear, so I’m a live music fan, willing to travel. This is new!
Travel to me encompasses more than the new and wonderful sites; peeking at people’s lives in different places fascinates me. Sometimes I have to get a grip on my energy; I get excited like a puppy wagging its tail. It’s embarrassing to be the just too happy to be here senior lady.
I have some old friends and some new friends, so I am social, but I don’t feel needy for companionship. That’s huge for me.
Sometimes this self-discovery journey makes me feel like a kid. I’m the old girl.

Who Would Notice

Google disappeared from my screen; Facebook, blogger, my maps were just gone. One of those strange anomalies I’ve been witnessing happened to me; now, I’m worried.  In Puerto Rico we lose the internet from time to time, but Google?

We’re on the edge of the Bermuda Triangle so we make jokes about the unusual things that happen here. A modest size Caribbean island with people fleeing like rats from a sinking ship doesn’t get a second glance when it comes to small shifts. New dogs appear on my doorstep and others disappear. At this moment all of the dogs in this entire valley are howling; in twelve years I’ve never heard the whole valley howl at once. A small dog appeared in the middle of the road and my neighbor boy walked out to get it like he was in a trance.

Lucky my pit bull buddy began barking with the sound of fear in his voice, so I had to go to see. To my surprise, Lucky is barking at my neighbor boy or I should say young man of eighteen. Maybe five years ago of I found Lucky under a van in front of this boy’s house, so they know each other; something’s not right, but what.

We get tremors here, if you see ripples in your tea, we’re having a tremor. Most of the time, we’re completely unaware, but that’s the point; isn’t it?

Facts, factoids, alternate facts, as well as fun facts bombard us; so how do we really know when something’s important or not worthy?

So how do you know when an old lady is slipping some not so fun facts into her morning blog?

 

 

Not Too Bad is my Best These Days

As usual, the morning web post told me how to lose weight and reduce inflammation; apparently, I’m doing everything right. Hot dog!!

No, I’m not going to bitch about how fat I still am; I feel good and all things considered, I’m happy. But a woman likes to look good in her clothes and dumpy doesn’t do it for me. Remember the fire hydrant looking villains from Dr. Who, the Daleks? I look like a Dalek wearing a wig and a dress; that’s no one’s best image. But at sixty-eight who cares?

Hoping to go to Spain next year, so I’m practicing my Spanish attempting short sentences whenever possible, but all I hear is, “Don’t worry you don’t have to speak Spanish; I speak English.” Where were they ten years ago when my Spanish was practically non-existent? I’ve learned a good number of words in Spanish, so when someone says a whole paragraph to me and I don’t recognize a word, it overwhelms me with a feeling of stupid. 

Congratulate me for abstaining from bread for two whole, long weeks. Twice my sinuses have drained suddenly and dramatically with a foul taste in my mouth and stomach. The first time I thought it was an allergic reaction, but no swelling in the morning. After the second bout of drainage, I noticed that sinus areas were not as tender to my touch. Halleluiah! That was getting aggravating.

The results for all my hard effort came in the form of blood pressure in the normal range and reasonable test scores. My cholesterol tested a tad high, so I adjusted my diet accordingly, I believe.

Who knew I’d retire in time to be alone and almost broke trying to stay healthy, but there you have it. It’s funny that in my productive years I gained a fortune to lose it as my golden years began; what I miss most is my husband’s loving presence, but even that loss no longer holds the screaming sadness of nightmares.

It’s time to admit I’m glad to still be alive and healthy. My life has been filled with love and my career spent in pursuit of my passions; I’ve been blessed. Money comes as a byproduct of being good at something people want; it’s an ethical way to a good living. It’s also no guarantee to being able to keep what you’ve earned when rich crooks walk among us. Yes, I’m still pissed; you’d think I’d learn to get over things.

This weekend will go to the dogs, which makes me happy.

Please, enjoy yours.

Fighting Arthritis Pain

Off and on, sometimes excellent and other times lackluster, over the last four years I’ve exercised regularly; my back doesn’t hurt as badly, but it still hurts and I’m still fat. At the moment I’m grinding a tennis ball into a pressure point in my back for all I’m worth; ain’t life grand?

 As older people we stand differently, a little crooked or maybe slightly humped with head forward; in my fifties, I began a mean dowager’s hump. Arthritis limits range of motion or causes pain; taut muscles try to align the body correctly. This hurts, but then it gets better; that’s my priceless reward.

Rolling your head one way and then the other, a common part of stretch routines, tells where that devil arthritis invaded the neck. Have you ever rolled your head to a sudden “ouch” stop? Surprise, there it is and it hurts.

Swollen face and achy joints in the morning demanded I do something, so two weeks ago I had my last piece of bread. About five days bread free severe withdrawal struck. I got so crabby I couldn’t stand myself. I wanted to go kick a can. My symptoms had caused me to give up my prized comfort food; oh, harsh world.

In the last two weeks, I haven’t woken severely swollen; that’s good. Swelling around my eyes may be ever so slightly decreased or it may just be wishful thinking.

I had bread at every meal; the smell, texture, and feel of it on the tongue gave joy to the day. Cream cheese on kale doesn’t have the same ring as cream cheese on toasted French bread or on a toasted bagel with lox. In another week it should be out of my system so I can test if it’s bad for me. It just gets better. Vegetables replacing bread in my diet must be a good thing; just never mind how sad it makes me feel.

Pain-free, that’s my goal.

Bitch of the Day

Aging is a funny thing. I’ve spent most of my life growing up or at least growing into the person I wanted to be. Unlike some people, I’ve never quite had full satisfaction with that, but still, consider myself a work in progress. Now my memory falters, my face is falling, and my joints ache.

A box of thank you letters and citations remind me that I’ve been a good person. Smiling photos speak of happy times with loved ones long gone. Being a caring, responsible adult required effort; being an asshole always seemed easier, but that wasn’t who I wanted to be.

Negativity and problems entered every day; I called it proof of life. Each morning my staff brought their personal problems to work; one woman’s son was on duty in Iraq, so who could blame her? Every morning I listened to one complaint; I called it the bitch of the day.

After hearing one complaint, we were required to focus on having fun with the dogs brought for day care. Did I tell you I loved my work? But the point is after getting it off my chest; I need to move on to the positive possibilities in this day.

As a retired person, I have the luxury of focusing my day on what I choose, thanks to Social Security.

A scientist, Carl Maslow wrote about a hierarchy of needs people had to have a fulfilled life. Food, water, and air are obviously the most basic needs. When those needs are met we get to explore who we are and what we want. When you work all day, who has time?

Most folks my age will attest to the problems we share in our golden years. Putting into our trust fund allows us to search for the gold in our lives.

What’s NOT funny about aging is having some greedy asshole mess with your trust fund, speaking of which I vote Congress give back what they borrowed with interest.

And that’s my bitch of the day. I’m going to the movies.

60's People Do You Hear Me?

I want to be checking prices for car rentals and hotel rooms in cities I haven’t seen yet. Finding free concert venues should be my priority or at least searching for something that registers more than a yeah, so what on my joy meter.

In my life, I walked the walk, as we used to say. While still in my teens I went door to door collecting for cancer research. My dad died of lung cancer at the age of forty-two.

Marches in Chicago against the war in Vietnam frequently had me in attendance, as did later marches for equal rights, and various issues of the day. We have the right to protest, but nonviolently.

I will confess to being a blind sheep just wanting to live my life and munch my grass. A Democrat would get into office and do a few things for the people and I’d feel reassured that all was well in my world, which I had enough damn trouble handling.

After the Great Recession bankers should have been arrested and put on trial. That didn’t happen and that was a huge freaking clue as to how corrupt the system is. This didn’t happen under Obama’s term; I could cry.

Trump may have been a blessing in that our eyes are being opened to our masters behind the curtains. Things I didn’t understand in the presidencies of men I admired when you add the control layer of the man behind the curtain, the controlling world economics, all become clear.

Whenever I imagined it before I thought an elite occult layer controlling us too fantastic, but I’m just one of the ninety-nine per cent; what do I know?

Allow me to live out my life in peace. Don’t privatize or otherwise mess with my Social Security. And don’t threaten our children with bullets like Kent State. The sadness of that day still lives in my heart. Those were our children killed in our homeland.  

This is a battle for your future; the young will figure it out as best you can just like we did. 

Respect and Strength

After his accident, when he could no longer work my husband dealt with self-worth and identity issues. Who he saw himself as directly linked to his job. To me, my man was so much more, but men identify with a job description.

When Kirt could no longer function he lost identity and couldn’t hold his own, a couple of his buds came over to trim the yard. They discussed how they’d approach the problem. Kirt tried to get a word in only to be told, “Don’t worry; we’ll take care of it.”

“But, Guys, Guys, you need to know.”

They waved him off with a friendly dismissive and went to work whacking weeds. My husband turned to me.

“They wouldn’t listen to me,” he said helplessly.

“Now, you know what it feels like to be a woman,” I shrugged.

A short time later the two men flew out of the bushes with arms flailing wildly. They found the vine Kirt tried to tell them about. My husband had been devalued by his group. I felt his pain and saw it in his eyes.

My forehead slid into my eyes, my cheeks into my neck, which fell into my boobs that drooped to my belly bouncing against the door. If a man identifies with his work, a woman’s looks wrap up her self-worth.

My husband frequently told me I was beautiful and every day told me he loved me. He valued me and now I must find value in me or perish because who the hell else cares?

To find your inner strength you must have it. I always thought myself strong, but now old and emotionally alone, where is that strength?

I fought for my causes. I worked hard for a good life. I took care of my family. All of these things build character; I am nothing if not a character. Who I am has been determined by more than twenty-five thousand days. Some days have beaten me to a pulp, others I’ve scored and heard the roar of the crowd in my head.

I’m old and forgetful, but I’m the author of 25,000 days and counting. My history tells me the strength is in here.

Retirement

Retired at last; twenty-somethings tell me how lucky I am to be retired. After all, living on a tropical island, having lunch on the beach is the good life. Aches and pains picked up along the way, for all my mistakes enough things went right to allow me to be retired.

During my working or productive years, I couldn’t imagine not working. Every job or career I ever had became a springboard for something I thought I wanted to do more.

In my first job out of high school, I worked as a reconciler for an insurance company.  Within a couple of months sitting at that desk all day, I lost my mind and went to look for it in a park. Any young woman can fall back on a job as a waitress; right? One shift of lunch hour madness showed me otherwise.

Talk about inauspicious beginnings, my next job as a kennel maid cleaning up after, scrubbing kennels, and feeding dogs tired my muscles and taught me a ton about dogs and people; something that would come in handy in about a quarter of a century. I’ve done many things because I thought I might like it; some worked, and then others not so much, but give the young me a challenge so I could chew it to death.

The real estate market tanked with interest rates at 18.5%; a help wanted ad caught my eye. TRUCK SALESMAN WANTED: base salary and vehicle. My husband was a truck driver; occasionally I went on the road with him. No Sundays for me made him smile; he hated competing with clients for me on weekends. I’d only be selling Scouts from the lot until one on Saturday.

My resume impressive, my background diversified, and I could sell. The sales manager hated me; he sneered. The female office staff had never before enjoyed looking down their noses and made that clear; huh, boss. I followed him around the office and shop, telling him about why he should hire me until he slammed a door in my face.

Smug, nasty looks from the women followed me to the door; “The nerve” was all I heard. Three evenings later the phone rang. “Hi, this is Glenn from Herschberger.” Having a door slammed in my face humiliated me in front of three women who would soon be so jealous.

“You were by far the most aggressive candidate for the job. There is a woman in upstate New York selling trucks.” He wanted me, so I negotiated to work every other Saturday. I could sell.

The second woman in the United States of America to sell trucks, that’s what I believe I am. My best career came from doing what I loved for free.

In 1983 we bought Carrvilla, our home, A Better Dog School, and the end of a rainbow in Yorkville, Illinois. I knew no one; why I think myself shy, I’ll never know. I placed an ad in the local paper: WANT TO PRACTICE OBEDIENCE OR CONFORMATION WITH YOUR DOG it began. Before long word got out that if your dog had a problem behavior, see Pat Carr.

“Dog behavior interests me; I do this for fun. Let’s play with it and see what shakes out.” You wouldn’t believe the shit people brought me. They weren’t going to spend another dime on it, but as long as it was free, here they came. By the time I needed to be income producing again in 1988 I had a wealth of experience.

Doing what you love for a living is priceless; owning your own business is heaven and hell. For almost thirty years dogs were the core of our lives, and then we showed dogs on the weekends for fun. I wouldn’t trade my life for a million bucks right now.

Thank you, President Franklin D. Roosevelt, for Social Security. Retirement means not working beyond your capacity to do so. It’s up to us how we spend it.

Healthy Routine or Good Times

Been a goodish girl for days and this arthritis still beating my butt; how long does it take for inflammation to exit the body?

During exercise I felt the endorphin rush; I’m such a fool to discontinue what allows me to hurt less. DUH!!

How quickly I let my healthy routine slide surprises me. For those few days I wanted to indulge in dark chocolate and fun, to be a bad girl. I can picture my mother saying, “See what happens.”

I remember my husband tossing his healthy routine for more good food than he should have been eating. He lost a toe over it.

Exercising through arthritis pain hurts, so I seldom get carried away exercising like a mad woman. The last three days are an exception because it felt so good to be back.

Spoke with my mom who is going to be ninety-four on Friday, the thirteenth. I wished her happy birthday and thanked her for the genes. That I’d be pleased to take after her amused both of us which made an ironic moment we appreciated, damn few of those in a lifetime.

It’s time to go get a replacement part for my rooftop water tank or go to the gym. Perhaps, I shouldn’t exercise four days in a row after being off two weeks, but I need an endorphin rush and dark chocolate cake is out of the question. Mmmm, I shouldn’t think about that too long.

Enjoy your day.

Hello New Year

Sharing with another human being who also cares creates a beautiful bond. Family, friends, lovers it doesn’t matter; its rich treasure only increases in value with age. In 2016 I learned who I am without my other half.  

At this age many people congratulate themselves on who they have become; the unshakable confidence amazes me. It must feel wonderful to be that proud of yourself.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m far from ashamed of myself, but within a few years money gone in the recession, followed by life partner, best friend and lover passing has me re-evaluating how I want to spend these last years.

I’m a good person, so I’m proud of that, but my quirks and foibles cause me to wonder how much bad or negative I invite into my life. It’s eternal question number twenty. What could I have done differently that would have made a difference?

Weak, strong, smart, stupid, shy, bold, friendly, cold; I’m all of these in an old lady’s body on the short path to the finish line. I’m also the girl who still wants to enjoy the journey.

Welcome, 2017

Speaking Out on Social Security

If the next President and Congress of the United States don’t ruin my life by screwing with Social Security I intend to ignore politics, especially on Facebook, beginning in 2017.

The world belongs to the rich and the young; old people live on borrowed time. In my day, I’ve done walk-a-thons, manned phone banks, went door to door, and marched for my causes. I've earned retirement.

There’s great power in looking back over your life in your sixties; at least I believe this. I see me ever since I was a little piss ant. In my twenties and thirties, I wished to become a Woman of Substance from the movie of the same title, starring Deborah Kerr, which informed my sense of honor.

The questions I most wondered were: would I be ashamed or proud of myself and would I like myself when I got old.

I’ve done some amazingly stupid shit that I can finally laugh about, well, most of the time; other times I raise eyes to the sky shake my head. Smile.

All that being said, I’ll tell you that I’m happy with my life; as problematic as my life has been it’s been a fantastic voyage.

Reaping rewards in retirement meant work, being productive when I’d rather spend time following a muse. Sadly, I’ve ended up alone in retirement, but I’m here in the reaping.

I may be old and forget what I had for breakfast, but education was so much better in the old days, seniors have the skills; we can help each other.

My future is short. I worked all of my life with integrity. A decent retirement through Social Security was the promise of America, my country; leave it alone. 

What DID I Do This Year

Last Christmas strolling El Conde in the Colonial Zone of Santo Domingo, while peering in shop windows a tall dark-haired woman approached my companion and me. “You’re American; I heard you speaking English. I want to talk to someone who speaks English,” a woman blurted out in a moderately thick Serbian accent.

Seriously, I looked around for Alan Funt Jr. and the Candid Camera crew. We went for coffee, no joke, and then went to the caves, and shopped in the Mercado; the trip ended with a new friend, Olivera from Michigan.

Christmas in the Caribbean, my new holiday tradition will take us to the San Juan this year. Most months I listen to live jazz in Old San Juan, so I seldom get lost anymore. Olivera will dash through the snow at Detroit AirPort to join me for a balmy Christmas. With arthritis, I don’t ever want to see a white Christmas again or I never, ever want to see a white Christmas again; which is more emphatic?

If someone asked what happened this year, I couldn’t tell them without evidence, so I went through my pictures. 

Start the year in the Dominican Republic, in spring the Tennessee Williams Literary Festival

and the French Quarter Fest in New Orleans, and back to the Dominican in November.

It disappoints me so; that I’ve bitched my way through what by looking at the photos was a great year. All year I’ve listened to quality live music for little or nothing; I’m very pleased about that.

Driving the gulf coast of Florida on the way to Orlando, the sand whipped across the road reminding me of white outs in winter snows. The best oysters I’ve had all year came there; during that meal, I started thinking how I could live in Florida if I didn’t go back to New Orleans.

A week from today is Christmas; I’ll be doing as much freebie stuff as possible since I already spent this month’s allowance on my first outing in 2017. 

Changing Growing Grateful

Learning to live alone and be happy in your senior years can be a slog. So many things that seemed important no longer matter. My I give a shit about list is embarrassingly large. For someone, who always wanted to be liked and respected, it surprises me how indifferent I am to other’s opinions.

Opinions filtered through eyes that don’t see me, but similar folk who came before me. People all too often rank each other as better or worse. If you’re seen as better, there’s jealousy. If you’re seen as worse you don’t matter. I don’t wish to be seen as better; to be given a set of attributes that doesn’t fit chaffs. My self-respect, my ego won’t allow myself to be treated poorly as if I didn’t matter.  

What matters is a day spent embracing beauty, the salty air blowing off the ocean, the roar of the surf commingling with local music, or better yet, jazz.

As the star of our own personal production, we can choose to share the stage with others or grab the light and refuse to relinquish. Some feel they’re the most interesting in the room or simply hope to have something to contribute to the conversation; I confess upon occasion I’ve worn each.

Center stage is not something that came easily, as a child, being center stage was generally followed by a beating. Sitting on the sidelines, watching; that’s safest. But we’re all the star of our own life; sometimes you just have to deliver your lines. And when it works, it really feels good.

In a room full of people there’s always someone who’s jealous of the person taking center stage. That’s what this better or lesser comparison system creates; perhaps it comes from our eat or be eaten stage.

From the safety of my planet, I see the beauty and diversity of God’s creation. I surround myself with what reminds me who I am, a child of God. We all are, as the cells on my body are part of me. To wish the biggest asshole ill hurts me! My spirit, my soul doesn’t thrive when I get involved in jealousy or pride.

Healthy self-respect is the neighbor of arrogance, who always pisses people off. One’s confidence will be attacked by other’s insecurity, and sometimes you’re the asshole doing the undermining.

Focusing on me, at this stage in my life seems altogether appropriate, so like it or not, get on with it.

Tonight there will be jazz in the street; guess where I’ll be.

Enjoy your day.

  

On the Road in the Dominican Republic

Buen dia! Good day, it is!! After my adventure alone on a Caribbean Island, where a military man with a machine gun escorted me to the ladies room, it’s good to be home.

So seldom do things go as planned that I go with the flow, greeting it with a comfortable, and still a little wary familiarity.

Santiago de los Caballeros nestled in the mountains became the scene of driving lessons; the first being, don’t between dark and ten pm. The second is to always have a full tank of gas when desperately lost.

Travel allowed me to put beliefs into action, which gave depth to my soul. At the red lights, vendors swarm the cars, pushing their wares at the window. “Hey, American Lady,” many smile not trying to hide surprise of seeing me. “Mira, aqui!!” Suddenly the young men turn on the charm, going from big smile to equally grand pouty face when hearing my polite, “No, gracias.” Smiles and waves were exchanged.

My sincere gracias to all the wonderful people selling produce or adapters on the corner! With your help I found the autopista to head back to Santo Domingo.

A light rain in a strange city where crazy driving is a participant sport pushed me over the edge after an hour of being lost in rush hour. The window is down so I can peer around the five-way intersection. I look him in the eye to tell him, “No, gracias.” The short stature fellow with his directly close to the side of mine started telling me about his wife and child. I saw his eyes dart around the front seat and land on my belly pack for a second.

My stress level hit the roof and exploded into tears. In a wild combination of Spanish and English, I told how I’d been lost for an hour and a half and needed to get back to Santo Domingo.

I saw it in his eyes; I became a person. He sprang into action waving wildly, “Aqui, derecho.” He gestured forward, and then turned to face me, “Derecha, autopista!” “Derecha, derecha!”

He walked in front of three lanes of cars waiting for the red light, signaling them wait and me to come on; I followed in my little rental. We waved as the light changed and I was a little more confidently on the road again.

At the end of the long day on the road to Santo Domingo guess what; she who gets lost is at it again on the outskirts of town. I found my way to a marginal road heading toward a myriad of expressways, none of which came with a label. Tired with high stress feels cranky; do I scream or cry? Oh, hell, why not both?

Not the man described in  the story

Sitting in a long line gave me time to think out choices; oh, just show me a sign. Here comes a four foot something high guy missing a foot.  One crutch is held by the stump of his upper right arm.  The another crutch is held by a hand that holds a contribution cup. He ambulated towards me with hopeful eyes.  He broke my heart.  I reached into my belly pack as I asked the whereabouts of the John F. Kennedy expressway. He told me to turn left ahead with sagging hopes. Just then I popped what felt like a rather large coin into his cup. The light allowed me to get close, but not pass.

Do I turn left or a u-turn opting to try this major looking expressway? I decided on the obvious, took a deep breath, and looked in the side view mirror, where upon seeing the coin, and I don’t know how he did it, but he waved the crutch with his stump. I glanced at the light with the timer; it was going to be a while.

In the side view mirror, I saw this adorable little man ambulating with the skill of a primate and in a second he stood by the car, gesturing with the stump that secured a crutch he outlined the path I should take to be on the Kennedy. We made each other’s day; how priceless.

If thrown off the course I mapped out the night before, my plan b is to find wifi. In the poor areas forget it; if a place has wifi there’s a sign bragging about it. Driving down the shore I see a restaurant I ate at the last time in Santo Domingo, so I now know I’m near the Colonial Zone. Their food is excellent, oh, I hope they have WIFI.

No, I’m so tired and hungry; it’s four in the afternoon. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and the hotel I’ve reserved has a fabulous gym.

Again I prayed for a sign; I looked up. It said Sheraton; I have always enjoyed staying at Sheratons. My troubles would soon be over; I just knew it.

Lickity split, I’m walking up to the Sheraton entrance, which is completely overpowered by a Casino Entrance. What the hell, maybe casino has a restaurant with WIFI.

The sharp dressed man at the door gives me a smug, I’ve seen it all grin, as I smile and say hello, how are you in Spanish. Also in Spanish, I ask if the restaurant has WIFI. He gives me a face that says, I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about with hands to add emphasis. That seemed so odd after all the country boys I’ve been speaking with all week.

A casino next to a Sheraton is a Caribbean tourist capital is going to hire a front door man who is at least bilingual, but I don’t know this I’m just a woman.

“Habla Ingles?” I ask in a hopeful tone.  The pause that followed any drama queen would claim, and in a voice that spoke with difficulty finally squeaked out, “Yes, I speak English.”

“Does the restaurant have WIFI, the internet?” He pretended not to know. He was enjoying this way too much, so I walked out of the casino and into the Sheraton, where after cajoling the manager I was allowed to order a half hour before they opened for dinner.

With feeder streets on the way to roads to be traveled all listed my nearby destination hotel should be a snap to find, but no, I missed a sign someplace. I’m sitting at the light fuming when a tiny young woman carrying a doll-sized baby appeared at the window. Reflexively I shook my head. My mood foul I didn’t think. As she walked away, I called her back.

We are all the same thing, God’s creations. My soul could have been in that body; how could I send her away, when I had money in my bag. I handed her a coin; she bowed and left. I prayed for her to journey her hard road well.

Go and Do or Sit and Talk

Go and do versus sit and talk, or sit and watch TV; have you noticed how much of each you do?

 No TV in my house, so I substitute sitting online dreaming about travel. The planning stage of checking prices throws out nuggets of info on things I couldn’t have imagined. Be still my heart!

Sit and talk with interesting friends; can you envision a better evening? I can spend time sitting!

It’s the going and doing that forces me to buck up and get off my ass. And that ain’t easy!

Did I mention that DVD movies and excellent TV programs provide my entertainment, during which I’m more prone? I’m so lazy; it’s scary.

If I did what I felt like doing, sitting and whatever, I wouldn’t be able to walk. The arthritis in my back and knees wouldn’t allow it.

I tell my mother that I go to the gym and about the young men, who flex in the mirror after every rep. I prefer to talk in a positive vein, so when I finally told my mother that I hated going to the gym, she laughed. Ha-hah!

The good news is that after much repetition I now need to force myself to limit hard workouts to four days a week. There’s a Zen moment when you exercise that feels so good; it’s positively addicting. If you have any idea of the pain it takes to get there, your head is still nodding when I say it’s worth the trip.

My go and do’s can be quite corrupted; a night of wiggling through a food festival swinging to salsa has become instead nocturnal  wandering aisles of Wal-Mart for any number of stupid reasons. On such a night I found the Tudors, DVD. Winner!

Now that I’m getting better at being alone, I need to get better at limiting my sit ands.. Ugh!!