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Tossed Salad Friday

~~ I believe we left off in Dementia-ville with the aide who shows up from time to time, blows a fuse that de-powers my office, and always says, “I didn’t do anything.” It has NEVER happened except when she’s here, and it ALWAYS happens when she’s here, so why do I doubt her professions of innocence?

~~ The good news is the cesspool buster is gone, gone, gone! Before she departed, she caused a large explosion in Dementia-ville. Seems she decided to microwave a hard-boiled egg. (Who does that?) When queried as to the setting/time she used to nuke said already cooked bundle of moisture so that she could achieve a near-sonic boom and bust the appliance’s door open, she shrugged and said, “Two hundred.” Two hundred what? Seconds is too much, minutes is insane. She shrugs again and says she can’t recall.

~~ If a tornado and hot molten lava hit a henhouse at the same time, I’d guess the stench would be approximately the same as it was at my house following the egg detonation.

~~ I hope that living in Dementia-ville is all escapist bliss for the permanent resident, though I doubt it. Perhaps her moaning was unrelated to the fact that her offspring was asked to examine her [redacted for privacy] and then share a photo of same with an off-site stranger managing the patient’s “care”?

~~ Let me state semi-publicly that I am begging — nay, praying — to never, ever be in a position like that, literally or figuratively. If G-d exists, I’d like to stay active and of sound-enough mind for many, many years, and then be struck down by a bolt of lightning as I leave a yoga class.

~~ My blood and body have been thoroughly parsed, and the verdict is that, despite all the things I try to do (and not do) to keep the stress from overwhelming me, the pressure has gotten to be far too much. A series of events, coming in proximity, along with the state of this country, have proven to be much too much for my normal-sized shoulders. When you’re at the breaking point before the cement blocks fall on you, it’s exceedingly hard to whistle a happy tune and hold your head up high.

~~ Thanks to those readers who reach out to see how I am. Although I am unraveling right before my own eyes, I cannot express enough my gratitude for those who share that they care. My complete capitulation to circumstances has been slowed by people who impart a story, a joke, an emoji, some Reiki, or a hug. When this text arrived from one of my yoga instructors, a genuine smile broke out on my face:

~~ Without insulting all dental hygienists (just all the ones I’ve ever met), is there a class in superiority offered during your training? Whatever you do to care for your teeth is never enough for these judgmental people.  Do you brush and floss? Yes, well, hmm… do you also massage your gums? Yes, well, hmm… do you do it for 15 minutes a day? (Does anybody?) Do you use an electric toothbrush? Yes, well, hmm… do you use [only this brand]? Do you drink………. Ah, forget it, Ms. Hygienist. Clean my cavity-free teeth and let’s call it a day. I’m just not into playing pretentious games.

~~ This week, I read We Are Never Meeting in Real Life: Essays by Samantha Irby. At first, I had a bit of trouble figuring out how her life was progressing (or stagnating), and whether she was into men and pork rinds or women and salads. Then it dawned on me that the essays may not actually be in chronological order and should each be appreciated individually. There’s a lot of pathos in her life, but she is an observant and bitingly funny writer. If you appreciate the struggle to leave the couch, and sometimes abandon said struggle to hang out with a cat named Helen Keller (or some variation thereof), you should enjoy this book.

~~ Has the man in the White House made all divorces no fault and instantaneous? I mean, you merely have to declare that you intended to say “I do not” instead of “'I do” and you should be able to wiggle out of your marriage faster than Vlad Putin can tug Donnie’s strings.

Dasvidaniya. Have a great weekend!




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