"Suspended in Mid Air"

    Did I tell you I injured my foot recently?  I couldn't for the life of me figure out what I'd done, but it hurt like hell.  I had a some difficulty obtaining an appointment with a podiatrist.  I didn't consider it a problem, however.  After all, it only hurts when I walk!  

     I began rooting through my closet trying on different shoes that I can wear that don't cause me pain, to carry me through until my appointment.  I discovered that my solitary pair of Sketchers are the most comfortable shoes I own.  (I am planning a trip to the Sketchers store, as soon I feel good enough to trek up and down the endless aisles of shoe heaven.)

      So, I finally managed to see the Doctor, and at first I was somewhat skeptical.  At his behest, I described my symptoms, including the pain I was experiencing, as well as pointing out the problem areas.  He was quickly scribbling notes, and when I stopped talking, he asked me if I was... experiencing pain!  I would have gotten up to leave except that I was suspended in  mid air in his examination chair, my feet six feet off the ground, waiting to be poked and prodded. At my age, I couldn't have jumped out of that chair if my foot wasn't injured! 

     They gave me an x-ray, and I was more favorably impressed during the second half of the examination.  I have a condition with a name a mile long.  Basically, what it means is that the muscle which runs the length of my foot has tears in it. From what I understand, it is as frayed as the hems of a hippie's bell bottom jeans.  

     The problem with this type of injury, of course, is that it never heals. Why? Because I keep walking on it!

     The solution is stretching exercises, limited walking for a few weeks, and...a needle in my foot.  I hate needles. And I know there are an abundance of nerve endings in the extremities, making this shot even less appealing.  So I sat shaking in the chair, on the verge of passing out.  In the midst of my terror, I couldn't help but wonder how I was able to bear three children, having needles and stitches in parts of my body that had never seen the light of day...I guess youth had something to do with that, or naivete perhaps...

     With my leg twisted like a pretzel so the doctor could reach the desired location on the inside of my foot, he sprayed it with some freezing solution, and pricked me quickly before I was able to faint.  With that, he whipped out an adhesive sponge the size of my palm, and slapped it on my tender arch. Literally.   He didn't apply it gingerly. He didn't place it on there carefully.  He slapped it on me, rather like the way sports figures slap each other on the backs when they win a game...I sat there, dumbfounded, and decidedly grateful that the numbing solution hadn't completely worn off...

     Kind of makes you wonder why I made a second appointment, doesn't it?  Well, I do have another appointment. Because, believe it or not, my foot feels better than it has in two weeks.  The reduced pain in my left foot enabled me to walk semi-normally today, alleviating the excruciating pain in my right leg, caused by my uneven gait... The down side of all this is that I'm going to need to start a diet after not being able to exercise for the next 2 weeks...For that matter, so will Buddy...

"The Color Red"

     I recently shared with you how I do things by rote.  That sometimes includes doing laundry.  I gathered up my (white) bedding, and absentmindedly tossed it in the washer and the dryer.   Entering the laundry room to retrieve my stuff from the dryer,  I heard something clinking around as it spun.  I was puzzled, as I hadn't included anything with buckles, or any kind of metal or plastic.  I was horrified when I opened the dryer, and found my bedding streaked with red.  There was my Bonnie Belle red Lip Smacker in the middle of the heap, completely melted...Always one to see the glass as half full, I reasoned that it could have been worse-I also sleep with my cell phone and remote control...

        I bought a set of sheets at a reputable establishment, not only because I needed them, but additionally, they were on sale for 50% off.  Imagine my surprise when opening the package, and I discovered they were somewhat soiled, not to mention, damp.   You know how sheets are packaged with cardboard?  Well, these sheets were wrapped around dirty, damp cardboard...some old box that the manufacturer had received a delivery in...And no, the sheets weren't manufactured in the good old USA...

     I have noticed more often than not, that there is very poor quality in a lot of the goods I purchase and pay good money for.  Permanent Press, for example, is a thing of the past.  (I can remember when it was the latest thing!  Women could throw away their irons. I was one of them!)  Not now. Everything needs to be ironed.  And do I hate to iron...

     Have you noticed how blues and blacks fade, and quickly?  Still new clothes take on a weathered look way before their time.  Additionally, the colors run...forever...  I need to be much more cautious sorting colored clothing to be laundered.  I have invested a small fortune in the complex laundry room, as well as the local dry cleaner's.  I could have filled my gas tank with what it cost me to have two dresses cleaned.  Ugh!  I know how to sew.  Maybe I should start making my own clothes...and sheets...

   

"Senior Student"

     Over the summer, the students from my college traveled to Europe.  I wish I'd known about the trip. I could have traveled as a student, and doubled as a chaperone!

     Some of the establishments in my town offer student discounts, provided you present your student I.D.  I wonder if I could utilize my Student discount and Senior Citizen discount simultaneously? 

     You know how grocery stores have convenient parking designated for expectant mothers and parents with young children?  Well, I have presented to my college that they incorporate "senior student" parking into their overcrowded parking system.  Believe me when I tell you, it's no small feat for me  to cross five parking lots to get to class.  I'm generally too winded upon arrival to even utter a greeting when I enter the classroom, the students viewing me with puzzled amusement as I attempt to catch my breath.  It's just not fair!  They don't require a nap after walking from car to class.   Besides,  I have to head to school thirty minutes earlier than the youngsters, and I arrive home thirty minutes later. I could take an extra class with the time and energy I expend dragging myself through the parking lot. 

     This coming semester I am registered for my favorite subject!  It's a writing course: Introduction to Business and Technical Writing.  I am looking forward to returning to school after my summer respite.  I hated that I didn't attend this summer, thereby missing out on having earned six more credits.  However, at this age, I recognize my limitations.  I am too old to over extend myself and to self impose that kind of pressure.  At this rate, I will have earned my diploma at the same time that I qualify for Social Security...I won't have to take off work to graduate-I'll be retired!

 

"By Rote"

       More often than not, I do things by rote, and that sometimes includes purchasing, and using, my "Miss Clairol" products.  During a recent hair coloring event, once applied, I quickly realized that the color on my head looked very abnormal. (Now if that isn't cause for alarm, I don't know what is!) It was, in fact, black, with a burgundy tint. My alarm turned to panic while I was rinsing it out, and the water and shower, grout and all, turned the most vivid color of Christmas cranberry!  I imagined that I might very well emerge a carrot top, while simultaneously pondering how I was going to clean the shower.  Once out, shower forgotten, I grabbed my spectacles and scanned the box to see what color I'd actually purchased.  The box indicated #20 (medium brown), my color of choice, followed by a barely discernible "R".  Ugh!  Why do they do that?  Don't they realize the people buying this stuff probably have failing eyesight?  (Not to mention, short attention spans.)  I already carry a magnifying glass with me (a fiftieth birthday present from my BFF).  Apparently the $700.00 bifocals I'm wearing aren't cutting it.  Maybe I should attach the magnifying glass to a lanyard, and wear it around my neck so it's handy while I'm shopping!  When the magnifying glass no longer works, I could use the lanyard to hang myself....

     In reality, the color of my hair actually turned out pretty nice. It was a soft brown-not too dark for my aging complexion.  The roots, however, oh the roots!  What had been grey was now a strikingly bright....orange!  What is it with the roots, that they never get dark, no matter how long the dye is on them, while the remainder of your hair is dark, regardless of how briefly it is exposed to the coloring?  What the Fudge!  

     So, to make a long story short, I spent the next three weeks with a tiger stripe all along my hairline.  (I'm not only stubborn, I'm cheap!)  Thank goodness for bangs and long hair.  They can camouflage any number of hair coloring blunders...

"Pricey Pie"

     More often than not, my eyes are bigger than my stomach. Both are bigger than my wallet.  I've had this insatiable craving for a peach pie for most of the summer.  (God forbid I should make one...)  Yesterday I had plans with one of the sons to go to his place and watch a classic movie, so I determined that this would be a good time to indulge, especially since it would just be the two of us.  (Okay, sometimes I'm a little greedy with food, especially where sweets are concerned).  I headed to the bakery behind my apartment (how convenient is that? Oh, and there's a Friendly's within walking distance.  Sounds lethal, don't you agree?)  Anyway, I decided instead to get a "very berry" pie, because that is what my son likes.  Well, by the time I got to the bakery, they were sold out of both.  So instead I chose a deep dish apple blackberry pie, requesting that the girl box it without asking the price.  That was mistake number one.  "That will be $17.99" she announced.  I responded quicker than a baker can peel an apple:  "I beg your pardon? $7.99?"  No ma'am (she would call me ma'am. If she were a waitress, that would have meant no tip).  "$17.99", she reiterated.   I briefly considered sarcastically suggesting that they may keep it, but ultimately,  I (grudgingly) opened my wallet and forked over the one cent shy of $18.00, more than a little furious that they would charge such an exorbitant amount of money for a pie. A pie!  Now, I make one of the best apple pies ever, so while driving over to my son's house, I seriously pondered a change of career. 

     My son was absolutely incredulous when he saw the size of the pie I brought for just the two of us.  Observing the magnitude of the pie in his kitchen, I had to wonder myself ... especially considering it wasn't even the kind we really wanted! Oh, and did I mention...we're both on diets? 

"Determination"

     I have been in a writing frenzy this weekend.  Recently, I had gone from writing for hours on end each day, to not writing at all.  There were days last summer when I would sit contentedly at my computer for eight hours at a time, happily writing away.  Then, much to my surprise, when I was out of work, I was too depressed to write very much.  Oftentimes when I'm depressed, I am able to work it out in verse or prose.  Not in that instance, however. 

     When I went back to work, I found myself too exhausted at the end of the day to expend another ounce of energy.  I would think about writing, briefly, then subsequently remain idly on the couch, an unproductive lump of human flesh, recovering from a demanding day (believe me when I tell you, part of that exhaustion is attributed to being just plain old). 

     The other day, however, I was inspired by a line in a movie.  I was watching Capote, and in one scene, Capote's partner, an author, indicated that he was heading to Spain, "to write".  Now, I have no intentions of going to Spain, but that singular line reminded me just how much I love, and have missed, writing.  I promptly wrote three pages in my journal, composed a poem, and am now on my third blog post. 

     Writing had become an integral part of my life, especially during the course of the last five years, when my life changed so abruptly and so radically.  I have written some of my most beautiful poems (in my estimation) as a means of expressing my emotions, my tears sometimes spilling onto the pages.  Be it pain, joy, love, or even some current events, my writing is my outlet.  It is a healthy means of expelling emotions which could prove damaging if kept locked up inside.  Additionally, I have found humor in my back to school escapades, in my dealings with young professors and even younger classmates.

     So, here's hoping that I've reached a turning point, and that my journal and my blog will once again be overflowing with the fruits of my writer's imagination and dogged determination, preferably without the tears...

"Get the Message"

     It is 7:47 A.M. on Sunday, and my day has been very productive thus far.  Buddy and I had our thirty minute daily walk done by 6:30, after which I cleaned my living room windows, made my breakfast , checked my FB page, began composing a blog post, and I updated my personal info with my car insurance company. Which brings me to my point.  I am totally fed up with self service and automated service, be it by phone, internet, or even in stores.  For example, when I go to the grocery store, I absolutely refuse to utilize the self service check out.  Why should I?  Are they providing me with a discount by having me do the work myself?  God knows they are saving money in salaries and insurance costs by employing fewer people, but who reaps the profits?  Not the average working man, that's for sure. They do not pass a nickel of those savings on to us.  We are constantly compelled to pay higher prices for smaller quantities.  Then, to add insult to injury, they want us to weigh produce, check prices, then ring up and bag the groceries ourselves!  I watch with marked incredulity as one singular, solitary customer service rep "trains" the customers to utilize the half dozen or so self serve contraptions, at very little cost to the store, rather than the store employing a half dozen people who would be grateful to have a job.  What the fudge! 

     This morning, for instance, I spent about thirty minutes online with my insurance company, registering and updating my address and phone numbers.  If I had called to make the changes, I may have spoken with an actual person, after answering a mere thirty five questions from a computer generated attendant, and thereby utilizing a scant ten or twenty minutes of my precious time, rather than thirty.  Those automated phone systems are so annoying!  Don't you agree?  I become so angry in my futile attemps to gain access to a to a human being, that the anger is obvious in my curt responses, as if the recorded voice on the other end would get the point, and promptly transfer me to the ever elusive human.  Obviously, that is not the case because...it's automated!  So, all of these corporations are earning oodles of profits, while we are inconvenienced more than ever, and the unemployment lines grow ever longer...Oh, I almost forgot, that's automated too! 

     So, what is the solution?  Well, to begin with, I say, no more self check out.  It's not much, but it's a start.  If everyone stopped using them, we could have an impact.  Someone might actually get the message...

"Antiquated"

     I am compelled to share my "prescription" saga with you.  In mid May I went to the doctor for my annual check up, and I had her refill my prescriptions, which she did electronically while I was still seated on the examination table.  Now, I had recently transferred to a new pharmacy which is more convenient to where I am living.  I can, and often do, walk there.  The problem is, they have antiquated methods.  Most doctors submit prescriptions electronically nowadays.  This pharmacy, however, wants prescriptions either phoned in or faxed. (What's a fax machine?)  Due to their strict requirements, plus the fact that my doctor has very limited office hours, I was waiting-are you ready for this-six weeks to get my prescriptions filled.  It took a multitude of phone calls and visits to the pharmacy, as well as phone calls to the doctor, all in an apparent exercise in futility.  It got to the point where I instructed my doctor to submit the prescriptions to my former pharmacy before I ran out of my meds. (Did I previously mention convenience?)  Would you believe that my former pharmacy phoned me within the hour to advise me that my prescriptions were ready to be picked up?  So I retrieved my medicine, and put the incident out of my mind.  About a week later, my new pharmacy texted me (they are updated in that respect) to tell me that my prescriptions were ready to be picked up.  Needless to say, I retrieved them.  This way I'll have a little extra stored for the next six week lag  (rather like a squirrel preparing for winter).  No-that isn't the end of the story.  The new pharmacy texted me again this week....to inform me that my prescriptions were ready for pick up!  I was somewhat puzzled, but I retrieved them anyway.  They had filled the prescriptions again!  So, because the my new pharmacy is anal and antiquated, I got my prescriptions filled three times!  Kind of defeats the purpose of being so controlling, don't you think?  Ah well, I don't have to go back to either pharmacy for about two years!  Now that's convenient!   My insurance company is going to love it...