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Tossed Salad Friday

~~ She asks me about my Thanksgiving. I answered that it was fun. When I turn the question around, she says, “Please don’t ask unless you want an answer that involves slapping, pie on the floor, and at least two people joining AA.” I was happy to get a more detailed answer, but she was next up on the bathroom line, so we left it there.

~~ The yoga teacher says she’ll be doing lots of twists in class to “wring the extra stuffing out” of us.
I wonder if the ancient yogis in India ever said, “Let’s form a discipline that contorts the intestines of over-eaters!” (If they did, it would have been in Sanskrit.)

~~ There’s a public school teacher over here wailing about Trump’s nomination of a private school proponent for Secretary of Education. Over there is a Bernie Bro bitching about the Goldman Sachs’ers swarming into the administration. See that Jew in the corner outraged that anti-Semitism is running neck and neck with Islamophobia? She shares a common trait with the teacher and the Wall Street hater: they all voted for Trump. The teacher told me, “I didn’t like how cruel and creepy he was, but I wanted change.” Lucky you, getting just what you wanted — smaller public schools and the disappearance of wide-ranging education.

~~ Oh, yeah, I almost forgot to mention the grandma who had no problem overlooking Trump’s mocking of a disabled reporter though she has two grandkids with disabilities. She says she voted for him because “He’s not her.” She told me she’s “incensed that there’s any talk about Social Security decreases” in the upcoming Congress, claiming that’s “off the table forever.” I responded, “It’s OK to take away women’s rights and LGBTQ rights but you can’t touch Social Security?” She replied, “Oh, those aren’t rights. Let’s change the subject.”

~~ If you get all your news from Fox and faux-Fox, you probably aren’t reading my blog. But if you’re here and think the Trump kids, particularly Ivanka, are so great, how about reading this? http://www.newyorker.com/books/page-turner/ivanka-trumps-terrible-book-helps-explain-the-trump-family-ethos. Here are two awful passages describing her autobiography:

She offers a story about being forced, by her mother, to fly coach to the south of France as the moment she realized she needed to make her own money. She has a sour sense of humor: she describes attending the élite prep school Choate Rosemary Hall as an opportunity “to look at the world from a whole new angle. Even if it meant living in a building named for someone else!”

She and her brothers finally tried to sell lemonade at their summer place in Connecticut, but their neighborhood was so ritzy that there was no foot traffic. “As good fortune would have it, we had a bodyguard that summer,” she writes. They persuaded their bodyguard to buy lemonade, and then their driver, and then the maids, who “dug deep for their spare change.” The lesson, she says, is that the kids “made the best of a bad situation.”

~~ Want to know what’s going on in Dementia-ville? Well, the aide who was explicitly asked to do the wash on Monday did it on Thursday and yelled at someone in Creole for almost one hour at the top of her lungs as her patient screeched and wailed. I tried to break it up twice, but inasmuch as this aide has decided that the proper response to my saying hello is [crickets], she didn’t really give a rip that I objected to her scream-fest.

~~ To the man in the store who asked, “Are pints and gallons close in size?” the cashier was dead wrong when she said, “Pretty much, yeah.”
Have a great weekend!
J!-E!-T!-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!
LET’S GO RANGERS!
GO, NY KNICKS, GO!

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ The weekend aide took silverware from our drawer and washed it with dish soap. "Those are clean, you know," I say. "Oh, you can't tell," she replies.

~~ The Monday aide was a giant piece of work. That is. she loomed large and wide, though her brain was seemingly quite undersized. Neither one of us has the time to go through all her quirks, but I will share a few. Such as her being asked not to do a wash so that I could do mine, only to soon see a load of wash spinning round. I confronted her, but she claimed, “The lady poo’ed all over herself.” What could I do but pound one fist into the other a few times and walk away — the patient’s needs are always paramount. Except I didn’t walk far enough to not hear her eventually take the clothes from the dryer and walk them up to her room. Excuse me, but did you wash your own clothes? She looks at me contemptuously, turns on her heel, and lumbers away.

~~ She complains her room is cold, so my husband says he’ll raise the thermostat. He finds that she didn’t sleep in the room and goes to investigate what else could be wrong. What was wrong was that the window was open and it was 40 degrees outside! When I next see her, I inform her that the window was open. “Oh,” she says. “My mind doesn’t go there.” Where the hell is there? Does it take a superior intellect to check the window if a room feels cold?

~~ The dementia patient is screeching at the top of her lungs, so I go to check. In the corner, on a prayer mat and veiled from head-to-toe in a diaphanous fabric, the aide stands rigidly while silently moving her lips. She’s praying while her patient cries out. This happens again a few hours later, so it is apparent that she is both agitating the patient and ignoring the resulting discomfort. Religious accommodation is one thing, but paying no heed multiple times per day to the person you’re charged with watching? That’s not good.

~~ Later on, I need to tell her something. She’s sitting, looking dazed (or empty-headed). As she turns to answer, her right breast falls out of her shirt. OK, never mind. Get out of my house and take that breast with you.

~~ A recent aide returned again on Thanksgiving, so we’ve had three (or is it four?) aides in the space of 10 days. On purpose, arranged by the agency. The same agency who swears this doesn’t happen.

~~ I’m done recounting aide stories for now. It’s just too damn much.

~~ Two women at yoga are discussing plans for Thanksgiving. One is having six people over, the other 11. The six-woman asks, “Are they all big eaters?” The 11-woman snorts, “You could say that. I think they eat their own weight before dessert.”

~~ I don’t know what your Thanksgiving meal was like, but mine was quite nice. Politics was discussed, but not in an incendiary way, as we’re all on the same page. The two most popular discussions were the Knicks and fondue. I had no freaking clue fondue was such a hot topic [wink] but it animated a majority of the table for an extended period. Near as I can figure, chocolate fondue is wildly popular (though not as well liked as “chocolate pudding pie”) and cheese fondue is three steps below pumpkin pie. If you had asked me before Thursday to list what I thought would occupy the conversation, I’d have nailed the politics and Knicks, but would never have imagined a long, lively, and eventually hilarious conversation about dipping skewered food.


Have a great weekend!
J!-E!-T!-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!
LET’S GO RANGERS!
GO, NY KNICKS, GO!

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ Hello from dementia-land, where nothing is actually good and not worse is the best you can hope for under the circumstances. I won’t swear to it, but it sure sounds like the patient is currently screeching Swing, batter, batter, batter!, at the tip-top of her very robust lungs.

~~ The current aide monopolized the washing machine all day on Monday. I needed to do laundry but waited until Tuesday. I strip the bed etc. and bring the overloaded basket down the stairs. Wait, what’s that noise? No, it can’t be the start of a wash because I am not yet there… but it is, indeed. It's infuriating how I can't do laundry using my own washer and dryer when I need to do so.

~~ The day deteriorated from there. My nerves were fraying rapidly as other assorted assaults exploded my lack of autonomy and privacy, including the operose screaming, incessant Creole phone conversations, and the regular stink that delivers a punch-in-the-nose.

~~ The next day, the health care agency insisted it had to send a nurse to evaluate the aide. The aide who has been here a couple of weeks? Yes, her. The aide who says she’s leaving in two days? Yes again. A nurse arrives at 8:45 pm (seriously?) to review all the duties and responsibilities with someone who has been doing the job for quite a while. One responsibility is to never to be on the phone when she’s working — ha! The nurse should only hear the chatter, but what’s the difference? The agency needs the aide to work for them to collect the Medicare money, so they won’t do a damn thing about it. When I say something, the aide looks at me with complete disdain.

~~So, days before Thanksgiving, we’ll be getting a new aide. The nurse says she’ll be back Monday night (gimme a break) but I’ll lay you odds the new aide bolts before Thanksgiving. Unless of course she’s so bad my husband insists that she leave first.

~~ I know what I sound like, but you’d be jaded, too, if you lived like this. I’m certain even Mary Poppins would have her gears ground by this situation.

~~ Indifference; must practice indifference...

~~ With all the dreadfulness taking place around us, it was at first infuriating to listen to a conversation happening nearby. Then I grew amused at its absurdity — two women were earnestly debating whether it was “sleep like a dog” or “sleep like a log.” I believe we all know it’s “log,” but as I type this, my canines rival any fallen tree for deep slumber.
~~ Speaking of trees, I wood would like to declare how much fun it is to watch Kristaps Porziņģis play. I’ll have something besides politics to talk about at Thanksgiving — most of the family doesn’t cotton to hockey, the Jets stink worse than any cauldron of fishy goat stew the aide boils up, and we talk about the Mets’ off-season stupidity ad infinitum. But Porziņģis is likely a new and exciting Thanksgiving topic!

~~ Have a wonderful Thanksgiving in the presence of those you love. But please don’t eat a turkey. Adopt one and eat stuffed squash instead! http://www.farmsanctuary.org/giving/adopt-a-turkey/

Have a great weekend!
J!-E!-T!-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!
LET’S GO RANGERS!
GO, NY KNICKS, GO!

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ I’m not feeling very well.

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ There’s non-stop shrieking in Dementia-ville, so I inquire as to what the patient finds so agitating. You! she says. Go away! I do.

~~ The aide is talking so loudly on the phone as she does her laundry that I can’t hear the kitchen radio. I felt like I was back in my college dorm as I turned up the radio volume to drown her out. Except I wasn’t cranking up Lay Down Sally and New Kid in Town to mask Muskrat Love and Barracuda!  With apologies to Heart, what the hell do these lyrics mean?  

"Sell me, sell you," the porpoise said
Dive down deep to save my head
You, I think you got the blues too
All that night and all the next
Swam without looking back
Made for the western pools, silly, silly fools
If the real thing don't do the trick, no
You better make up something quick
You gonna burn, burn, burn, burn, burn it to the wick
Oooo, Barra-Barracuda

~~ Walking along the sidewalk, I passed a man without hair yelling into his phone. The other side of the conversation will always be a mystery, but his side was clear as a bell: “Your father is almost 70 years old, Julie. He is never going to smarten up! He’s as dumb as I’m bald!”

~~ I spoke to a woman on the phone and she called me back five minutes later to say this: “We hung up before I could confirm your phone number.” Read that again if you have to, but it still won’t make sense.

~~ I apologize if you saw this on my Facebook feed, but about one minute of Halloween was very traumatic for me. Here’s what I wrote at 5:21 pm on October 31:

How do you know when you're completely over Halloween? When three boys of about 7 or 8 grab and then dump your entire bowl of treats into one of their bags and start to run. So you yell, "Hey!" and they call you "Bitch!" and your 11-pound dog runs out into the street and a mom in a cigarette-smelly witch costume swats her ugly-ass hat at him and screams, "Bad dog!" That's when.


~~ Who knew knitting wasn’t just a creative outlet and a way to keep others warm? According to this site, knitting is a post-apocalyptic survival skill!
http://incaseofsurvival.com/knitting-a-post-apocalyptic-skill-you-must-learn/1493

~~ Driving along, we saw a sign on a telephone pole that said, Heil Trump! Our New Fuhrer. As it bore a GOP symbol, I’m betting that wasn’t sarcastic.

~~ I reached my limit with hearing many in the media say that no one is enthusiastic about voting for Secretary Clinton. I got so fed up that I popped onto Huffington Post to have my say:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/58139c64e4b096e870696529?timestamp=1477680562946

~~ This election is the first one that truly scares me. Not rankles me, not troubles me, but flat-out frightens me. Our country doesn’t need sanctioned racism, applauded anti-Semitism, and endorsed sexism. We sure don’t need someone who could be Mussolini without the black shirt. Please vote for the candidate that embodies intelligence, experience, and inclusiveness, not for a “smart businessman” who stiffs everyone and never pays a fair share, or a “straight talker” whose venom is officially endorsed by Nazis, Klansman, white supremacists, militiamen, and other cesspool dwellers.

Have a great weekend!
J!-E!-T!-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!
LET’S GO RANGERS!
GO, NY KNICKS, GO!

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ We’ve had three health care aides in Dementia Central since I last wrote, so I’m going to blend them together today. Otherwise, it’s more effort than either of us need to expend to keep things straight.

~~ The water in the cooler is all gone, and the aide’s holding a large mug with liquid. “If you drain the cooler, please let us know,” she’s told, “so the warming element doesn’t burn up.” Her retort: “I didn’t take any water. It must have all evaporated.”

~~ “Is that your microwave?” the aide asks with a sniff. Of course. “It’s not a new model. Does it work?” she wonders.

~~ “Excuse me,” the aide says at 8:30 am. “I’ll need help with something at 11:00 am.” When I notice that it’s 1:30 pm, I seek her out to ask what happened. “Oh, sorry!” she says with a dismissive flip of her hand. Except I skipped going where I needed to get because she specifically said she needed my help at a very explicit time.

~~ Three of us are standing in the kitchen when the aide walks by. “Good morning!” two of us say to her. “Oh, yeah,” she replies.

~~ What’s doing with the dementia patient? Well, if they ever write the musical of Donald Trump’s life, we already have some melodic/profane lyrics to supply. She has a lovely, strong voice that bores into my soul as she belts out vulgarity after vulgarity.

~~ I was also treated to her expletive-laden shouted instruction to the aide to Shove those damn potatoes into your tuchis
                    followed quickly by a directive that she Get out! Get out! Get ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. The aide did nothing except continue to gab into her phone and ignore the patient.

~~ I went to the dentist yesterday, and the hygienist says the election is stressing her out. I agree but tell her we’re lucky that New York isn’t in play — we don’t see a barrage of repugnant presidential ads. “Oh, I wouldn’t mind that,” she says, “as I still haven’t made up my mind who to vote for. Have you?” The moment I open my mouth to answer, she says, “Never mind. It won’t help.” But a bunch of partisan ads would assist?

~~ In last week’s blog, I promised you the story of the Canadian disease. A woman I was speaking with answered, “How are you?” with a 10-minute recital of how she picked up an intense and lengthy GI sickness after going to Canada. Two different tropical disease doctors were consulted but no one could figure it out. After hospital isolation and a battery of testing, she disclosed that she fell ill shortly after eating cherries from a farm stand.
“Were they washed?” a physician inquired. “No,” she admitted sheepishly, before begging the doctor not to tell her grown daughters the basis for her barfing and pain. To me she says, “I badger them all the time to wash fruit before giving it to my grandkids. I’d never hear the end of it if they found out how reckless I was.”

~~ You can take away what you like from that, but I’m going with how odd the words Canada, cherries, reckless, and quarantine are in the same story.

~~ I drive the same way every Tuesday and Wednesday morning at 9:15 am, and there’s always an elderly woman meandering around her property, pulling weeds, gathering sticks, or doing other landscaping chores. I often make eye contact and smile. Last week she waved, so I waved back. This week I happily waved to her on Tuesday and she gave me a vigorous one-finger-salute. (I don’t know what would have happened on Wednesday as I had a flat tire.)
Have a great weekend!
J!-E!-T!-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!
LET’S GO RANGERS!
GO, NY KNICKS, GO!

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ I’m not someone who offers excuses for not writing too often. From 2006 until 2013, I wrote this blog religiously five days a week. However, this week I got waylaid and sidetracked (yes, both) by the newest development in dementia-ville. So I need to postpone the story of the medical professional who shared with me (unbidden) the details of the nasty stomach bug she picked up in Canada and a whole lot of political ranting.

~~ I’ll skip all the updates on the aide who looked me in the eye and said she wasn’t doing what she was so obviously doing and lashed out at me to stop talking to her “because I don’t know who you are.” And the aide that had to leave because her ex-spouse committed suicide but never heard me offer a word of condolence as she was constantly chattering on the phone and refused to acknowledge my presence.

~~ Let’s skip to yesterday. A new aide replaced morning aide Wednesday evening. I didn’t have occasion to be home until 12:30 pm Thursday, when I see her emerge from the patient’s room. “Hi,” I say. “Good morning,” she says. As I look up from chopping carrots, she says, sternly, “I’m addressing you.” I advised that I’d said “Hi” but as it wasn’t morning, I didn’t return the greeting. “Harumph,” I believe was the reply.

~~ Up the stairs she goes to her room. When the aide doesn’t return after a few minutes, I check on the patient, who has slumped down. The only thing stopping her from falling on the floor is the wheelchair lap strap across her windpipe. I call the aide, “[Name] she’s slipping from her wheelchair and is about to hurt herself.” Nothing happened. “[Name] she’s slipping from her wheelchair and is about to hurt herself.” No response. So I check on patient again and yell, “[Name] she’s slipping from her wheelchair and is about to hurt herself!” [Name] slowly lumbers down the stairs and asks, “Who?”

~~ It’s obvious as she futilely tries to re-right her patient in the wheelchair that [Clueless Name] doesn’t know what she’s doing. And I’m starting to doubt she’s all right in the head, to boot. She retrieves the lift that raises and lowers the patient and runs it over my flip-flop wearing foot. She then smashes it into the patient’s leg and aimlessly moves it about without connecting with the target. I propose we put the patient on the couch and instruct [Clueless Name] to watch her carefully until my husband can get home and (re) train her.

~~ There are details I’m not sharing but know that my husband’s call to the agency yielded an immediate visit by a nurse. Seems the agency knew they’d sent someone who wasn’t experienced — just a damn warm body they could throw into the mix when the mourner needed out.

~~ As my husband and I walk into the patient’s area with the nurse, I spy a round, pink, scored pill on the floor. “What’s this?” The nurse grabs it but the suddenly swift aide lunges, snatches it away, and proclaims, “It’s a vitamin.” (One of my scavenger dogs could have ingested that and also, I was right — she’s on something.)

~~ Stuff, more stuff, still other stuff happens and then… [Clueless Name] walks into the kitchen with pots and food to start making her dinner. Except I’m cooking dinner already, so I ask her to come back when I’m done. She stands there blocking my access to the cabinets and drawers, and after I ask two more times, she walks back toward the patient, who is wide-awake. I remark, “You need to be in there watching her while she’s awake, not cooking.” She replies, “Oh, I asked her and she said it was OK for me to cook.” What? “She has dementia,” I blurt out, “and you’re here to interact with her and look out for her safety.” Her comeback: “She has dementia?”

~~ Today we’ll have a new aide.

~~ The weather was lovely for the past few days. Though I rarely “do lunch” anymore, a housebound friend with a broken foot enticed me to take her out for a couple of hours. It was awesome! The company was delightful and the 80-degree temperature allowed us to dine outside along the water. Remind me to do this again in 2017, please?


~~ I’m having my “Nasty Woman” card laminated. You can make one, too!
~~ Is this clever marketing or just sheer stupidity writ large?
Have a great weekend!
J!-E!-T!-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!
LET’S GO RANGERS!

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ Please promise you’ll stay with me now, as it may get confusing in this week’s recounting of life in dementia-adjacent land.

~~ The aide that wasn’t supposed to leave last week and did? The one that replaced her turned out to be the most knee-jerk liar this side of Donald Trump. The first day she arrived, she trots up and down the back stairs to “her” room (our former guest room) at least three times that I hear/see. When my husband says to her later that first evening, “When I drove up, I noticed the light is on in your room while you’re down here,” she immediately says, “I haven’t been up there yet.”

~~ It goes on like this for almost a week. She “fries up a bake” on the stove and leaves flour all over the counter, but she didn’t clean because it wasn’t her mess She heats up something red and smelly in the microwave, but when I have gobs of red and smelly stuff clinging to the inside of said appliance, it wasn’t she that cooked.

~~ She places a fork in front of her patient and tells her to eat. My husband says, “She needs to be fed.” [Lying aide] says “[Prior aide] says she eats by herself.” Sure.

~~ The patient has an open cut and [Lying aide] is told to keep it bandaged. During the course of the day, she comes to find me for plastic cutlery and other sundries. That evening, my husband sees there’s no bandage on the open wound. Why? [Lying aide] says, “There are no bandages here.” What? You come in to ask for plastic flatware and Pine Sol but not a Band Aid? Shrug, double-shrug.

~~ I tell her clearly that we have a very old cesspool and under no circumstances can we do more than two loads of wash a day. On Tuesday, I hear her do a wash, then another, and I know my chance to wash the towels just got delayed. Then I hear a third load go in and I ask her what gives. “Oh, they told me to do it.” They? “Yes, the agency called and said [Prior aide] is returning tomorrow and I need to wash the sheets for her.” Ummm, wouldn’t you wash them tomorrow, because you’ll be sleeping on them tonight? Shrug, glare, double-shrug.

~~ Next day (“tomorrow”) she moans to my husband, “Oh, I am sick. I called the agency for a replacement but they told me [Prior aide] is in the hospital.” WTF? She told me yesterday she was leaving today!

~~ My husband calls the agency and is told, “[Prior aide] is out-of-state and we just found out [Lying aide] is so sick. You’ll have to help her out until we can find someone.” My husband related that it was Yom Kippur, we were on our way to services, and we were being played by [Lying aide] who either lied about the laundry/leaving or is lying about the sick/leaving.

~~ [Lying aide] leaves and new aide comes in. She takes a look at her room and says it’s disgustingly filthy. I sympathize and she says, “It’s OK. [Lying aide] was sick.” No, she was a slob. And a lying denier.

~~ I made a note to write to day about stagnant stench. However, I forget which stink on what day. Your loss, I guess!

~~ I have so much to say about the disgusting man who wants to be POTUS despite being a thin-skinned serial assaulter, megalomaniac, racists, would-be tin pot dictator, perv, misogynist, xenophobe, and thug who looks like he’s never been in a locker room. I’ll just let this stand:
~~ In a very interesting discussion about the browning of the USA and why so many people in this country think the country is “broken,” a reporter cited a man he’d interviewed. That man remarked that we’re trying to hold together a democracy when we’re really a plurality. There’s no template for that — the USA is different from the homogenous empires of the past. White kids in pre-school today will be in the minority and those who wax nostalgic about the 50s and 60s can’t accept that any more than they can accept a black man or woman as POTUS. To quote Cher, “Snap out of it!” Or to quote me: We are who we are and we are who we will be. We can accept and thrive, or splinter apart. (OK, Texas can go. And maybe one other state.)

~~ How about we ponder something even deeper and potentially more meaningful? This fortune from a cookie might say it all…
or it might be some giant head game being played by a bored copywriter in the fortune cookie factory!

Have a great weekend!
J!-E!-T!-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!
LET’S GO RANGERS!

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ “Happy new year!” I say to the dementia patient. “It’s Rosh Hashanah!” I don’t think so, she responds. You are wrong, wrong, wrong.

~~ The aide agency says there’ll be a switch of persons. Then there won’t be. Then there obviously was one, because as I’m driving home yesterday, I see the (former) aide walking down the street. Not pushing her patient in the wheelchair, but alone. At noon. Walking away. Inside, there’s a new aide, barely minutes into her stay, already messing with the washing machine and talking on the phone.

~~ Overheard: “She gave him three chances to leave his wife. Don’t you think that’s plenty?”

~~ How about these generalizations?


~~ While trying my best to convert an undecided voter into a Hillary Clinton voter, I thought I was prepared to counter any propaganda. Yet the question, “Don’t you think a woman who wants to be president should wear a dress?” threw me for a momentary loop. I finally answered, “Not since 1952.” He laughed and continued the conversation, but frankly, that’s the lamest indictment I’ve heard since “hormones.” Dude is concerned about the IMF and Syria, and yet he wonders if dresses make a difference.

~~ Someone shared a Facebook post about the difference between being broke and being a millionaire was a person’s “mindset.” When I replied that broke can happen for any number of reasons other than those she enumerated (including watching TV instead of reading, holding grudges, and being fearful), she came at me full-force for trashing millionaires! She’s a Trump supporter, and I respected that because she never seemed overtly racist, sexist, or deplorable. However, once you praise or condemn someone solely based on what’s in a bank account rather than in his or her heart, that’s a step beyond politics. Apparently, she had no more use for me, either. Once she delivered a rousing missive on the good qualities millionaires possess as a group, she un-friended me.

~~ This was a very bad week for me. I found myself surrounded by people who love me, and I’m coping due to the wise words shared by a smart woman, yet I sank into an abyss all the same. Stick around for the navel gazing below, or come back next week, please. I’m OK with whatever choice you make.

~~ The state of my finances and the status of my household meant that I couldn’t reciprocate for Rosh Hashanah dinner as we have done for decades. That provoked some very dejected episodes. It also meant that I peered into a closet filled with clothing that ranged from early-George W. Bush times to pre-Bill Clinton times. I’ve never been a trendy person, but in pre-W times, I bought good quality, semi-timeless clothes that suited me just fine. Since W drained my coffers completely, I’ve bought clothes that cost under $20.00. They fall apart at the slightest provocation or gape, sag, pill, droop, and fade after the first wearing. But they ensure I won’t get arrested for public nudity and keep the cold away, so I never complained. Until I ended up going to the first day of holiday services wearing a shlumpy sweater and yoga pants. Yoga pants!

~~ The next day, everything I wore to services was older than my quarter-of-a-century-old son. Except my tights. My tights are definitely Obama tights.


~~ I don’t need clothes like I did when I practiced law and dealt with the public on a daily basis. I can type 800 words in a This is What a Feminist Looks Like tee shirt and no one’s the wiser. But geez, I never really expected to show up in photos taken 16 years apart wearing the same damn thing. Or have to wear black yoga pants to shul because the derriere of my good-quality pants (circa 1998) have become so tissue-paper thin that sliding across the car seat might cause me to moon the congregants in the parking lot.

~~ Then the Mets broke my heart once again. I could blather on about the excitement of the season, the wild ride towards the playoffs, the over-exceeding expectations. Nevertheless, I won’t. Because it’s my pity party and I’ll cry if I want to.

Have a great weekend! If you’re observing Yom Kippur, have an easy fast and an auto-entry into the Book of Life.
J!-E!-T!-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!
LET’S GO RANGERS!

Tossed Salad Friday

~~ Imagine a boiling pot with soap, wool, mulch, and gym socks (but far less pleasant). That was the smell permeating my nostrils the other day. I won’t be surprised if I have a nightmare about a giant cauldron spewing malodorous zombies that slay citizens with just their fetid odor.


~~ I hear the cabinets in the kitchen opening and closing. The rapidity and frequency unnerves me, so I investigate. I see the home health aide pouring a stream of our salt into whatever she’s preparing. I question her because she’s supposed to supply her own food (and hadn’t asked to use ours). Her response: “Salt isn’t food.” OK, let’s try it again. It’s a seasoning that costs money. “No, no. Salt isn’t that either. It’s just salt.” Next time you go to the store and they are giving away salt, let me know, please. I want to pick up enough for me and Ms. Saline.

~~ It’s not the salt I begrudge her.
It’s the total violation of personal space and sanctuary.

~~ The dementia patient is screaming very loudly as I start to write this post. Is everything OK? It seems so, but there’s no way to know because most sentences end without finishing, and she runs the gamut of emotions in the space of seconds. Anything I can do? No, you are stupid!

~~ Oh, wait. She’s yelling Shit! Shit! Shit! Shit! so I start to walk that way again. I turn around as soon as I hear the maniacal laughter.

~~ A woman is texting as she walks along the sidewalk. A guy parked on the street opens his car door.  She’s about to walk smack into it because her head is down. “Look out!” I yell.
She halts, assesses the situation, turns to me, and blurts out, “You didn’t have to startle me so loudly.” I shrug and keep walking.

~~ The freelancer doing a job is not a native-English speaker. She professed that it wasn’t going to be a problem, but apparently it was when simple written directions confused her (so did illustrations, but that’s another story). At one point, after she repeatedly mixed up a list of people I’d put into alphabetical order — despite my communicating my displeasure — I made the mistake of telling her why the order was important. “That’s not alphabetical!” she responded. Since when is:
E
H
M
P
S
T
W
not alphabetical?

~~ So Don-the-Con has a “bigly” plan to defeat ISIS he won't share unless he's POTUS? That's possibly jeopardizing people’s lives right now, all over the world.

~~ I was going to jump up on my soapbox and rant more today, but you already know where I stand. I’ll take the time to work on HRC’s campaign instead. It’s easy if you want to help, too: https://www.hillaryclinton.com/forms/volunteer/


~~ I’m wearing a NY Jets tee shirt. Before yoga class starts, a guy says to me, “So, are you a Jets’ fan?” I wanted to answer, “No, I found this dumpster diving,” or “How many times have you repeated first grade?” I didn’t. I just laughed and answered, “Of course. Who’d want to advertise that they’re crazy unless they really are a fan?”


~~ The woman squashes a bug in front of me in another class. “Oh, I would have taken it out!” I say sadly. “Are you a Buddhist?” she asks. No, a vegan. “Well, then, relax. You didn’t eat it!” she declares.

Have a great weekend!
LET’S GO METS!
J-E-T-S! JETS! JETS! JETS!

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