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Tossed Salad Friday

~~ A guy stumbled coming out of the deli. I trapped his brown bag between my arm and the yoga mat bag slung across my hip. “Wow, thanks, great catch!” he says. “You coulda been a Yankee.” Wearing a Mets’ tee, I winked at him and said, “You shoulda stopped at thanks.”

~~ Speaking of tees, the woman on the next mat in yoga class had a great one: TALK TO ME WHEN YOUR CHAKRAS ARE ALIGNED.

~~ This is a transcript of a phone conversation I had yesterday after saying my name:

Real Estate Agent: Hello, you’re the attorney for sellers, Mr.  & Mrs. ________. We have an accepted offer.

Me: Hi, I’m no longer in practice. I’ll let the sellers know.

REA: What? We can’t waste time — this house took a long time to sell. Just do this deal, OK?

Me: No, but I can give them a referral when I call.

REA: mumble Bitch mumble [click].

~~ I startle easily; I’m told it’s likely due to an excess of stress hormone. (Imagine that!) I’m sitting at my kitchen table, eating lunch and reading an excellent article, when the health care aide walks into the room gabbing on her cell phone. Abruptly shaken from a temporary oasis of aloneness, my heart raced in alarm. I calmed down, of course, but couldn’t shake the resentment that I was vulnerable to such a disruption.

~~ The geriatric dementia person in my house is screaming at the top of her very ample lungs. Dylan Thomas’ poem, Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night, comes to mind as she rages against the changes that come at the close of our figurative days. She’s unpleasant and downright disagreeable, but who can blame her on a certain level?

~~ Then again, I wonder if I am absorbing some of her repellent demeanor. I worry that if I become as feeble and void of control as she, my subconscious will ignite and spew this same sourness towards those who love me and care for me. How can I possibly apologize in advance?

~~ I went in to see if I could distract her from the shouting. When I inquire as to the circumstances, she says, “I’m not shouting. You are.”

~~ As I turn to walk away, I try to catch the aide’s eye. But she’s too busy texting. Or maybe she’s typing up her own version of this story for an alternate blog, “Barely Working.”

~~ The screams quiet as I reach the door. She goes from frantic to asleep in seconds flat. I stay frenzied for hours, days, months.

~~ The desire to comment on the politics of this past week is eclipsed by the adoration and admiration I have for some Olympic athletes. There’s the vegan weightlifter, the face-making swimmer, and the fastest man alive. I tell you what, if I was having a girl baby soon, I’d be naming her Simone. Her middle name might be Gabby, but it would definitely not be Hope.

Have a great weekend!



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April 2019


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