Wait. For. It.

This morning, I drove a friend to a surgical center for a routine medical procedure, after which he was not allowed to drive. I am grateful that the facility was efficient and that the procedure itself was a short one, as I was relegated to the waiting room for the duration. I lost count of how many times the automatic door opened and closed. Even though there was a second automatic door which one might think would prevent the chilly Florida Polar Vortex air from entering the waiting area, it was cold in there. But there was actually a sign posted in the room which was an FAQ of sorts. First question: "Why is it so cold in here?" The answer had to do with germs thriving in warm environments. Kudos to the facility, which offered a heated blanket if this was a problem for anyone.

So my friend went in for the procedure, and I, prepared with a book, settled in as far from the automatic doors as I could get. Checked my text messages, emails, and newsfeed, all the while having my ears overwhelmed by the non-stop weather channel on the waiting room television. Looks like the Midwest is going to experience record-breaking low temps in the next couple of days. Of particular note, Fargo, ND will experience a high of 19 friggin' degrees below zero. Now, it just so happens that my friend and I watched the Coen Brothers' classic movie, Fargo, just last night. So I'm still nightmaring about wood chippers and chain smokers and deplorables while fretting over a medical diagnosis for my friend and shivering in friggin' South Florida. Waiting.

I see nothing good about waiting. No, wait, let me rethink that. There are times when waiting allows one to contemplate all sorts of heady things. Time to reflect upon past joys (and sorrows), anticipate future joys (and sorrows), plot to create future joys (but not sorrows). So forced downtime can be good, I suppose. But more than likely, waiting lends way to frustration, fear, exhaustion, exaggeration, imagination (not the good kind), and regret. Too much negativity.

So what am I waiting for? Oh, not much. Just world peace, Trump's incarceration, a return to sanity, clean water in Flint, separation of church and state, equal rights for all, legalized marijuana, an end to everlasting war, proper funding and intelligent leadership in education, gun control, health care for all, tax reform, free Internet access for all, and the return of Last Week Tonight with John Oliver. Waiting. Just waiting.

I didn't even get around to opening my book before I was called back to Recovery. My friend's procedure was finished, and all was good. I'd waited in hopes of good news, and it was delivered. But how many people were in a similar situation at the same time, waiting for good news, only to be hit over the head and heart with bad news? I've been there. I know how painful the blow.

What are you waiting for?

Dark Side of the Moon

I was sound asleep for the lunar eclipse on Sunday night, but on Saturday night, I was outside on a balmy night, gazing at an almost-full moon and a handful of stars . . .  and blinded by a Pink Floyd Laser Light Show, enhanced by cheapo 3D paper glasses. Two handsome men, one on each side of me, kept me comfortably numb and ruminative throughout the two-hour show. The southern breeze seemed to be part of the experience, one that tapped into all my senses.

I still cannot understand how and why I was absent the day that Pink Floyd appeared on the music scene. I have always prided myself on being up on all aspects of that music renaissance of the 60s and 70s, but somehow, I missed out on Pink Floyd. Well, not entirely. I do remember struggling with "The Wall" in the early days of my teaching career. ("We don't need no education," if nothing else, demanded a lesson in double negatives. It was an awkward time to be an educator. "Teacher, leave them kids alone.") Maybe my unintended dismissal of the album is because I never did hallucinogenics?

Regardless of whether or not I was paying attention, fifteen million copies of Dark Side of the Moon have been sold, and the album spent 937 weeks on the Billboard 200. It was the first Pink Floyd album to break into the U.S. Top 40. Yes, that was over 45 years ago, but given that a Pink Floyd Laser Light Show still commands a sell-out crowd, the story lingers on. And the themes called up in the album are certainly present today: wealth ("Money"), armed conflict ("Us and Them"), madness ("Brain Damage"), squandered existence ("Time"), and death ("The Great Gig in the Sky") all speak to the Age of Trump.

The cartoon video that accompanies the song "Money," which includes sound effects of ringing cash registers and rattling coins, shows persistent, flying coins stamped with the letter "B." All I could think of was "bitcoin," a monetary concept which I do not pretend to understand. My subsequent research could not find a reason for the "B," so I am left pondering if the retro video has been updated to reflect the money of today? Or was Pink Floyd prescient?

Well, surely they were. Why did it take me so many years to take them seriously? I don't have the answer to that, but I know that whenever I hear "Comfortably Numb," I become aware of my need to escape from the politics of the day, to immerse myself in music and color and light, enough to blind me from the reality that we are on the precipice of darkness.

Photo by Matthew Van Houten

On the Basis of Sex

I am not a fan of history being Hollywood-ized. (Having said that, I will admit to the fact that my favorite TV show is Drunk History. The difference between the two is that Drunk History doesn't pretend to present an accurate account of historical events. It exists to make you laugh. And if you learn a bit of history in the process, cool.) My complaint is that On the Basis of Sex, the biopic of Ruth Bader Ginsburg, attempts to tweak events with words and actions that make me say, "What? Did that really happen?" I don't like having my emotions manipulated. Despite that, it's a captivating movie, and you will not regret seeing it.

The biopic begins in 1953 when Ginsburg enters Harvard School of Law, one of a handful of women in that freshman class. The story leads up to her argument in the 10th Circuit Court of Appeals in 1972, in which she takes on laws that discriminate "on the basis of sex." That case, Moritz v. Commissioner of Internal Revenue, was about a situation in which a man was discriminated against, but it makes the point. And there's been no turning back. (Despite continuing and current efforts to do so.)

The script was written by Ginsburg's nephew, so it would seem that he had access to credible sources. It's little things, like her microphone squeaking when she accidentally knocks it upon beginning her appeal to the court, that bug me. But, okay, no biggie. What's important is the story.

I was not surprised at the sexism in the story. I grew up in the 50s and 60s, and I remember well how it was. For example, as a child, I loved sweeping the sawdust off the machines in my father's workshop. I can still smell that wood. My father was a woodworker, a builder, and an Industrial Arts teacher. Did he ever teach me any of his skills? No. "Girls don't do that." Even when choosing courses for my senior year of high school, my request to take mechanical drawing was denied because . . . wait for it . . . "girls don't do that." In my 30s, I took a couple of woodworking classes at the local adult school, finally getting to fulfill that dream. So there. (I'm rather proud of the coffee table, medicine cabinet, and lidded box that I made!)

Title IX, which prohibits discrimination in school athletics, became law in 1972 when I was a few years out of high school. In my experience, girls could be cheerleaders or twirlers or pompom girls, and I did those things. I do remember that in my junior and senior years, I was on both the girls' field hockey and soccer teams. How could I be in two sports that both took place in the fall? Because each sport only had two games per season!

It was in 1972 that I graduated from college with a degree in secondary education. (Career choices for females at the time consisted primarily of teacher, nurse, secretary, or stewardess, the latter of which only became "flight attendant" after men entered the field.) Teaching jobs were hard to come by that year, and I had several interviews before I was finally hired. I will never forget being asked on one interview if I could coach football. Needless to say, despite my saying I could, I did not get hired for that position. At another school, I actually received a rejection letter which offered as a reason the fact that they wanted to hire a man. These are true stories, but the reality of sex discrimination was so embedded in the culture, it never occurred to me to file a discrimination lawsuit.

I used to love clambakes. Back in the 70s, it was not uncommon for organizations to host "stag clambakes." This pissed me off. So when the American Legion started selling tickets to one such event, a girlfriend and I surreptitiously purchased two. Although we had several male friends watching our backs at the event, the old guard was not amused. They called the cops. And when the police said they could not evict us, we were ushered into a private room to enjoy our steamed clams and corn-on-the-cob. I recall many of our male friends joining us there. And the clams were damn good.

I'm no Notorious RBG, but I am grateful for her and all the others who have led the fight for gender equality. My daughters do not have stories like mine to tell, and my son would never think himself superior to a woman just because he is male. I am grateful that most of the world has changed in this regard. But there are more battles to fight. News just broke the other day of Karen Pence, "Second Lady," taking a teaching job in a "Christian" school that discriminates against LGBTQ students, parents, and teachers. "Religious freedom"? Bullshit.

We have already begun to see changes in our elected officials. The new House is more diverse than ever, especially in the ratio of women to men. (The Senate? Not so much.) I am looking forward to continuing change before my time here is over. Thank you, RBG, and thank you to all those who continue to fight this good fight.

Popcorn Ceiling

Who the hell created this cheat of a ceiling? I hope he or she is burning in hell, if there is such a place. Popcorn Ceiling Hell. Where you are forever doomed to having tiny white balls of air showered upon you. Endlessly.

I had new window treatments installed in my condo today, and the tracks to hold the roller shades had to be drilled into the ceiling above the windows. So I was tasked with cleaning up the little puffballs from hell which scattered all over my floors, window sills, and me. Everyone hates them, even vacuum cleaners and garbage cans. The little shits just jump out of the vacuum cleaner or the garbage can and fly to far corners of the room, singing, "Nyah, nyah, come and get me!" I'm exhausted. (But my windows look good.)

My condo was built in 1995. Wikipedia tells me that asbestos was banned from popcorn ceilings in 1977, so I think I'm safe from mesothelioma. After that, they used styrofoam to continue selling the product. Popcorn ceilings are basically a way to hide imperfections in the drywall ceiling. Lazy. Just damn lazy.

I did some googling on how to get rid of popcorn ceilings, which went out of fashion around the same time as platform shoes, wide ties, and leisure suits. There was more success in eliminating those fashion trends than getting rid of popcorn ceilings. Why? Just imagine standing on a ladder with a mask on your face, scraping all that styrofoam onto your furniture and countertops and carpets, kind of like when it snows, but I assure you, those little flurries will NOT melt away. And then you have to repair all the imperfections in the ceiling, repaint, and oh no, I'm not up to the task. So I am stuck with the popcorn ceilings. I try not to look up too much.

After cleaning up the stubborn mess, what do you think I did? I ate some popcorn. Smartfood Delight (with sea salt) has only 35 calories per cup, so I went at it. And while I was scarfing down that airy, unsatisfying delight, I did some research. Did you know there are six major types of corn? There's dent corn, flint corn, pod corn, popcorn, flour corn, and sweet corn. Now, I'm from New Jersey, where we grow the best sweet corn in the world. I will only eat it in late summer, and I will only buy it from the farm stand down the road. As to those other types, I just keep mixing up the letters, pondering what cod porn or clour forn might be. Never mind.

So here are some other Popcorn Fun Facts:

~  In Mexico (where it was invented), remnants of popcorn have been found that date back to 3600 BC.

~  Popcorn (with milk) was a breakfast cereal for Americans in the 1800s. Take that, Lucky Charms!

~ Popcorn has been a staple in movie theaters since 1938, despite the industry's initial thumbs-down on such a messy thing.

~ A medium-size movie theatre buttered popcorn contains more fat than a breakfast of bacon and eggs, a Big Mac and fries, and a steak dinner COMBINED! I think there's even a movie about this.

~  Remember popcorn balls? Oh, and they were even dyed horrible colors! And we ate them! The world's largest popcorn ball is in Sac City, Iowa. It weighs 9,370 pounds. WTF?

I guess one of the sweetest things about popcorn is that old-fashioned habit of threading popped corn to make a garland for a Christmas tree. I confess to having done that  a couple of times when I was young and optimistic. Now, I won't rule anything out, but I doubt that I will ever have that kind of patience again.

So the 105 calories I inhaled earlier have left me hungry. I'm going to gaze at my new window treatments (careful not to look any higher than the valances) and scarf down something not white, not puffy, not round. Something that goes with Chardonnay. Cheers!

Where Have I Been?

It's been ten days since my last post, when I questioned whether or not I should continue this blog. I did get some encouraging responses, which made my heart glad. But my absence of ten days has little to do with the decision-making and more to do with the way life just grabs ahold of one's time and discourages one from sticking to routines.

So what the hell have I been doing for ten days? Or perhaps the question is what has life thrown in my orbit to distract me from this need to write?

For one thing, I had some company for a couple of days. There is nothing quite like reconnecting with old friends (and, yes, "old" has two meanings here). Dear friends whose connection with me dates back to the 70s were here to make me laugh, poke my memory, and just ease me into that comfort zone that only old friends can know. While we amused ourselves with visits to the ocean, a bird sanctuary (where we also got to see FOUR alligators and two iguanas!), a yacht cruise (complete with our signature drink, the Bloody Mary), a couple of happy hours, and a lot of trump-trashing, we also spent quite a bit of time traveling down memory lane, where we found ourselves peeing in the parking lot of Shea Stadium, swatting giant mosquitos in the Grand Tetons, and reclaiming our inner hippie at the corner of Haight and Ashbury. I began missing these dear companions the moment they left.

I dreamed that I got caught in a tsunami. You know those dreams when you simply cannot run, walk, or even move? It was one of those. I could see the waters rushing toward me, I could hear myself yelling to my son to get out of the way, and yet, I could not move. For whatever reason, the water stopped about five feet from where I was immobilized and turned into some kind of infinity pool. What the hell does this mean?

I employed some long-ignored culinary skills, creating breakfast nachos, perfecting the art of baking wild salmon, and revisiting my world-famous banana bread. (Why is it that the man I love is allergic to bananas, coconut, and walnuts, the key ingredients in my banana bread? My love could kill him.)

And speaking of the man I love, we have been working our way through Jonathan Weiner's The Beak of the Finch in preparation for a trip to the Galapagos Islands in a few months. The book, as well as the theory behind it, is challenging, but we are learning a thing or two about Darwinism. I find myself looking at birds differently now as a result. The wood storks at the bird sanctuary, the ibis in my front yard, the herons and egrets that fly overhead . . . in what ways have they evolved over time? It's fascinating stuff.

I have enhanced my living space with a variety of air plants placed here and there, marveling at their survival skills. I have planted the tiny garden on my balcony, visions of fresh organic lettuces dancing in my future. I will be visiting a renowned orchid nursery with a dear friend soon, eager for the opportunity to gaze at these beauties in my own home. How amazing to be able to surround oneself with living and growing specimens! Green has always been my favorite color.

And lastly, I have been pondering prayer. There's too much in my head to expose here, but perhaps a future post will tackle the myriad thoughts that have amused and befuddled me in regard to this simple human habit.

So I've been busy. And it's all good. I've been encouraged enough from readers' comments as well as from daily experiences and contemplations to not abandon this blog. I will try not to disappoint you as I continue my ramblings.

And thanks for visiting. Come back soon, ya hear?

Should I Stay or Should I Go?

If you recognized that title as a song by The Clash, then I am happy you are here! But why are you here? Is it because you like this blog? Or because you like me? Or because you're bored? Please don't take offense at those questions. I am just trying to decide if I should continue or take a break.

I've had a few blogs. Two of them required daily posts for a year. That got weary, so when I started this one last January 24, I decided I would only post when something inspired me. Initially, I eagerly posted several times a week. That didn't last. Although I averaged two posts a week throughout 2018, I've been slacking off. Blame the holidays? I don't think so. I guess I'm just at the age when I need to figure out how best to spend my remaining time on this planet. While writing has always been important to me (I still have my handwritten copy of the first poem I ever wrote at age seven), it seems that other things have edged out the need to write. Some of them are stupid, like spending too much time doing Sudoku and crossword puzzles, some of them are obsessive, like watching MSNBC 24/7 or checking my Newsfeed on my phone a gazillion times a day (wondering did I miss anything?), and some are good, like traveling and planning the next trip. And I love projects! Refinishing furniture, decorating my space, making 250 coasters for my daughter's wedding, putting together photo albums for my kids, etc. Hell, I love jigsaw puzzles. Whatever takes up my time, productive or not, works for me. I hate TV (except for MSNBC, of course), so that old habit is long dead.

If I don't continue this blog, what will take its place? A pottery class? Cleaning up my gmail account? Organizing my chaotic collection of photographs? Learning how to cook Thai food? Writing a novel? Well, I guess the possibilities are endless! I just don't know what I want to do.

What I do know is that I am trying to be more mindful. I spend way too much time living in memory and anticipation. I want to live in the NOW. Harder than it sounds, at least with a wandering mind like mine. I'm taking baby steps for now. When I go on my morning walk, I am training myself to be observant, to watch the birds, look for the alligator, admire the flora . . . instead of stressing about how long it will take to complete my regimen, what I need to get done today, how the stock market will impact my retirement, if my kids will still love one another after I'm gone. I am a work in progress.

Perhaps some of you struggle with the same issues. Tell me how you spend your time? How do you keep the devils at bay? What do you want people to say about you when you're gone?

Tough questions. Tough decisions. Must be a new year.