Maybe it's Me!

Maybe it is me.  The last ten days have proven to be challenging in the humaning department.  Interacting with others.  Playing well in the sandbox.  When I have one or two odd encounters, I chalk it up to an anomaly.  But when I have a steady stream of odd encounters, I have to wonder:  Is it me?

The first was with my daughter.  As a mom, the words "I want to talk to you" can strike fear.  They sound innocuous enough, but history has taught me to take a breath and wait for the onslaught.  I won't get into details here out of privacy and respect.  But here is a word to the wise.  Never start a conversation with me using the word 'expectation".  Just sayin'.

Last Monday I was meeting a friend in LiDo.  That is a moniker that has never caught on. Here in the Denver Metro, we all know RiNo and LoDo, HiLo and whatever other fancy pants name a hipster coined.  LiDo is Littleton, downtown.  I guess DoLi sounded even worse.  I arranged my swimming to be timely and geographically close to our rendezvous.  I like Buck Recreation Center, they have a three-lane lap pool, a warm water therapy pool and a year-round outdoor hot tub.  They also have a leisure pool with a lazy river that is quite swift.  The last time I went in there I was facing backwards and guiding my granddaughter and whacked my head against the tiles with no warning.  So, for this blog and in the interest of my physical safety, let's not mention the not so lazy river.

I have the same routine; laps first, then into the warm water for stretching and a general feel good for my body, then the outdoor hot tub.  I was in there minding my own business (note to self:  should have continued that behavior).  Out comes a woman with a cadre of kids.  A couple of whom jump into the hot tub, messing with my Zen.  Two little boys were running around the concrete patio and letting all of Littleton be aware of their presence.  A/K/A they were loud.  I was happy to be almost done and hoping that I would not meet them again in the locker room.

One of the boys came up to this lady, I am not sure she was mom as no one called her by any name and asked if he could pick the dandelions.  Newly yellow and straining for the sun.  Coincidentally I had just heard an NPR story on these misnamed weeds and how important they are to bees as the season's first pollinators.  And as life would have it I couldn't help myself and felt the need to inform this woman that the dandelions are first pollinators and bees need them and perhaps picking them isn't such a good idea.  Like I said, I could not resist, and I think I also mentioned I should have minded my own beeswax.

She quickly informed me that she knows what pollination is and that - and I quote - "I am not digging your hyper-agro vibe right now".  Lucky for her I forgot for a moment I am from The Bronx and decided a hearty guffaw would be a sufficient reply.  BTW - I exited the area and did not see her and those climate affecting children again.

Two days later I was on Hanukkah Hill (take that millennials) partaking in an art project.  It doesn't matter where I was (JCC), or who was the sponsor (KAVOD) or who ideated the Art Box (DAM).  What matters is that I was sitting at a table with two other women following instructions and trying to open this box of Monet inspired supplies that could easily have withstood a nuclear explosion.  I was wielding my scissors and cutting through the flowered packing tape when a woman burst through the doors in the back and declared "I'm Late!".  I resisted the urge to inform her that this is not an airport and there is no need to announce her arrival.

The facilitator waved her over to my table and she took her place between me and an older lady who couldn't manage to open her box.  I asked her if she needed help and when she said yes, I started to make my way over to her.  As I went to grab my scissors the tardy tart grabbed them out from under me and announced that her shears were dull and did not open widely enough.  I ignored her, and helped this other lady, while surreptitiously reclaiming my scissors.  As I sat back down and placed the snippers on the table they were reclaimed with an announcement that she was not done with them yet.  It is very important for you to know I kept my mouth shut.  I didn't tell her the rules of the airport are different than the rules of craft class.  I didn't tell her she was loud and in my space and could have cut me while grabbing the scissors.  I kept my mouth shut.

I have a Yeti cup that keeps my drink cold all day.  It is not the kind with a screw-off cap, but just a press on lid with a little hole for sipping.  This woman grabbed my yeti - bear paw style - and moved it across the table.  I was a decent germophobe before COVID, and a border line OCD'er now.  Again, I did not say one word.  I just quietly cursed her grubby hands all over where my pursed lips would go.  I took a breath because I know I have a backup water in the car.  I reasoned with myself that there is no point in saying anything because the deed is done, cannot be undone and what would the point be?  This woman could be mentally challenged (there's my compassion!), or socially awkward (ya think?) or just in complete oblivion.  I did however move my cup closer to me because at thirty dollars a pop, one must keep an eye on such possessions.  As I did so she said, “You know, that was in my way".  OK, higher power.  If this was a test of my patience this was where I failed.  I retorted that I did not need her hands on my cup, where I drink from.  I was as nice as I could be.  I didn't curse or raise my voice or let loose the string of expletives that were swirling in my brain.

She became huffy and once again announced her departure.  This time from our formerly cozy table for three to an empty one behind us.  She said things like she knows where she is not welcome and don't worry about her.  She picked up her marbles and went home.  Again, I refrained from comment.  You know how old people are sometimes hard of hearing?  This abrupt departure was a surprise to my companions, and I thought it best to just shrug my shoulders in lieu of an explanation.  After all - the speaker was speaking this whole time.

I bet you thought that was the end of it.  I hoped so as well.  Our capable facilitator noticed a lone table sitter, asked the ladies name, and invited her to move up and join the others.  Just like Mrs. Hoffman, my kindergarten teacher would have done almost six decades ago.  I can be obedient when I need to be.  This was one of those times.  I sat rigidly in my chair and looked nowhere except straight ahead of me.  And then came the tirade "Considering the present circumstances, I think it is best I sit alone.  Back here.  At my own table".  and I could not have agreed more!

Next up was an oil change, tire rotation and alignment at my local service shop.  I liked that I could wait and get some writing done in their lobby area.  Also, they have good snacks.  The oil change was uneventful,  The tire things?  Not so much.  Apparently there is a wheel lock key that is unique to each car and a necessity to get the tires taken care of.  I had my tires rotated about a year ago at the dealer and they forgot to put the blasted thing back in my car.  So, I thanked the local place, cursed the dealership, and went on my merry way.  Once home, I called the service department of Hyundai expecting a confrontation of sorts - like not their fault - must be my problem kind of thing.  But Joe was really nice and said it happens all the time and come in and they will give me a new one.  What?  Something free from the dealership?  Since they were doing me a solid, I scheduled to just have the whole tire thing done there.

Here's an aside.  They take their time at the dealership, but do provide complimentary Lyft rides to and from,  I dropped off my car and waited for a stranger to invite me in their car.  I hoped they would have candy.  When the Lyft arrived, I asked the driver to please wear a mask, whereupon I was informed that masks don't work and COVID is a hoax.  I took that deep breath that I am getting really good at and responded that I was not there for medical advice or political opinions.  I just needed a ride by a masked motorist.  He complied and I took the ride.

Back to the car...  I picked up said vehicle that afternoon and it drove like crap.  Pulling to the right and grinding.  But I needed the car first thing the next morning for a doctor's appointment - who would want to miss an endoscopy? So, I made an appointment to bring it in later the next afternoon.  My daughter drove me in my car and the word she used to describe the way it felt was dragging.  Pulling, grinding and dragging.  Not the three words I would choose to describe how a car should drive after a simple tire rotation and alignment. 

After a bit the dealership called to tell me that the alignment checked out fine on two machines and they were stymied.  OK.  They would need my car for a few days to investigate.  Not OK.  I asked about a loaner, and did you know they are in short supply?  I said - hey - how is this my fault that an alignment goes awry and now I will be without a car for days with company coming?  Oh - and I had another doctor's appointment the next day and needed a vehicle.  We decided I would pick up my misbehaved car and return it the next afternoon. On the ride over to get my car, I thought  "What next?"  I arrived at the dealership and my advisor was notified of my presence.  I waited and waited to see my car come around the front.  I stepped outside and spied Joe and another man in the far parking lot looking at the back driver's side of my car.  Joe started walking back and the mystery man hopped in to drive.  I am intuitive, but it doesn't take a psychic to know something was going on.

Joe got to me first and told me that when he went to pull my car out of the narrow spot it had been wedged in to, he scraped the abutting vehicle.  "Oh!"  I said aloud.  "That is what happens next."  No yelling, no name calling.  Just another one of those very deep breaths I was perfecting.

My car pulled up and I learned the valet was the  service manager. I grabbed him and said something like I never would have even come to the dealership for a tire rotation and alignment but had to because they jacked my wheel key, and now my car drives like crap, and what if I'd had a flat in the last year and had been unable to change my tire off and why do they need my car for days? And now I need four tires and bodywork!  And dammit! Where is my loaner?

Whew.  To be clear, I never raised my voice or accused them of purposely messing up my Elantra.  I'd been poorly peopling all week and wanted to have a change of attitude.  I had been asking my higher power for patience - not to test my patience.  All in all, I was better behaved than my car. Keith said they'd fix the body damage on their dime (duh), and miraculously a loaner appeared and off I went!  Good thing because I had a stress test first thing the next morning.  You cannot make this kind of stuff it.

Keith, the service manager called me after my time on the treadmill and told me it was two bad tires.  That I never would have noticed this because when they were on the rear of the car they remained in a fixed position,  On the front they moved and that is what caused the pulling and growling.  Great - another word to describe the problem.  He said I would need four new tires, and another alignment.  After an amateur interrogation by me, Keith acknowledged that 26,000 miles on tires that were guaranteed for fifty was a fluke.  Lo and behold, he admitted that both of these tires had a broken 'cord' and were thereby defective.  He also mentioned that these were a brand people bought when they wanted a cheap(er) brand.

Well, Keith I said...  I bought those tires at your dealership on your service advisors recommendation.  Why did they tell me to buy inferior tires?  And do you know what else?  I want you to go to bat for me with the distributor and advocate for me, because obviously I can't call them myself.  And really, Keith, why did the service technician rotate obviously damaged tires back onto my car - you yourself said there was a noticeable bulge - and maybe you need to have a staff meeting on safety and integrity and all like that.  I have a loaner so take your time, Keith.  Call the distributor, educate your staff, advocate for me, the woman who HAD to come in for a key and leave with four new tires and a big fat bill.

It took two days, but Keith came through.  I got four new tires, gratis.  A different brand.  I was relieved when Keith called and told me my car was ready and it was no charge.  I gleefully drove up Broadway thinking my spate of dealing with people was over for a good long time.  After all, what could possibly happen next?

I don't want to jinx myself but stay tuned!

 

A Check Up from the Neck up

I was reclined in the narrow examination chair at the dentist this morning having my biannual prophy.  Teeth cleaning for those of you who didn't work in the dental field, as I briefly did in the 1980's.  I was a bit miffed that they were running behind schedule at eight am - not a good sign for them for the ensuing hours.  For me?  Just a minor inconvenience.  I had grabbed a magazine from home and was reading all about fig farming in California.  Waiting time is not wasted time!

When the time came for the polishing, I had a memory of my childhood dentist, Dr. Seminara.  His office was walking distance away on Lester Dr., but we always drove there.  His practice was in his house which allowed us to trick or treat there on Halloween.  You would think he'd have handed out mini-toothbrushes or sugar-free gum.  Nope!  He always bestowed us with the sticky stuff - Charleston Chews, Turkish Taffy, Sugar Daddy's.  My mother said it guaranteed him repeat business.  What came to me over the whir of the handpiece (dental lingo is hard to shake) is that he always used Mynol Prophy Paste with a chocolate-mint flavor.  It ruined that flavor combo for me forever.  I can't stand chocolate chip mint ice cream, and always push my Olive Garden after dinner mints across the table to my dining companion.  

That led me to thinking about how our pediatrician also officed in his house.  Dr. Winikoff lived on the corner of Edgewood Dr. and Orangeburg Rd.  We could not only walk to his house, but my cigarette smoking mother actually ran there once with me in her arms.  I faintly remember a few occasions where he came to our house and examined me in my pajamas, while I was lying in bed.  In retrospect I think that is creepy and invasive.

He had a solo practice in those days - before Dr. Boris joined him in a new office building down the road.  If he were unavailable the doctor in the next town over was our go-to guy.  Dr. Stern had an office a few doors down from our dog, Queenie's, veterinarian on Middletown Rd. in Pearl River.  As circumstance would have it, I did have to go to this big colonial house when I was four or five years old.

My brother, Harry, and I were horsing around in the back room of our house.  Some people called this the den, or family room, but we liked to reference geography and blueprints to explain this small room where the TV was, along with some bookshelves and a small closet that held my mother's fancy coats.  It also had two couches of the Danish Design variety.  This was way before IKEA built behemoth stores filled to the brim with DIY furniture and other items that make married couples quarrel.  The uncomfortable couches we had in the back room were cushions placed atop a hard wooden frame with mitered edges.  I was on my brother's back, and he bucked me off.  I thought we were playing, and he thought he gave me fair warning that I was going to be sent flying.  Either way the result is the same.  I somehow managed to land right on the sharp edge of the couch with the back of my right ear enduring the impact.  My ear was a bit a dangle, there was a good amount of blood, and I was ready to howl.  But when your big brother tells you to just lay down and be quiet, that is what this little kid did.

This only lasted until my squeamish sister came into the room to witness the bloody aftermath of our roughhousing.  There were screams of horror, and rushing in of parents, and I don't know exactly what happened to my brother at the moment, but I will guess not much.  Tatala* never had many consequences.  What happened to me is this.  My parents called the doctor and the doctor said - no more little Janie landing on her head.  No.  What really happened is that my dad drove me to Pearl River to Dr. Stern's office.  I remember the fish tank in the waiting room vividly.  Then it was into the exam room where the fill-in physician and my dad chatted while I laid on the table scared, in pain and uncomforted.  

I am going to say my dad was smoking a cigarette while Dr. Stern cleaned his pipe.  The doc had a long-handled knife with a big blade and was turning the point into the bowl of the tobacco pipe while my dad puffed away on a Parliament or a True.  I was laying on my good side eyeing the aquarium through the open door and most likely was whimpering.  I wasn't paying much attention to the smoky, manly conversation, but I do remember my dad asking Dr. Stern if that was the knife he was going to use to cut off my ear.  Now I was paying attention but who could hear me sniveling over their good old boy chuckling?

I received several stitches at the back of my ear.  No outward evidence of this minor misfortune.  When I started to wear corrective lenses a few years later, I needed to have the arms of my eyeglasses adjusted to sit lightly along this scar.  For many years they were the only sewing of skin my body endured.  That changed when I cut myself with a hot out of the autoclave instrument in Evergreen, where I worked as a dental assistant.  A doctor sewed it up, but the dentist I worked for removed the stitches.  Two C-Sections and the removal of a precancerous mole from my face provided a few more battle scars over the years.  And just to bring the dentist back into this - I had oral stitches when my wisdom teeth were removed.

When COVID came around and I had to wear a mask with ear loops as to not inhale or exhale another human being's breath, that little ear scar became raised and irritated.  I had it removed last year, sans anesthetic, and it seems flatter and more manageable now.  My brother was recovering from his own bout with the perils of a worldwide pandemic, and I chose not to tell him that his antics of almost six decades ago still affected me today.  

All this rambling in the course of a prophy that took less time than the half hour I sat in the waiting room.  All these memories of a semi-bucolic childhood that included a dentist who pushed candy and a pediatrician who visited little girls in their bedrooms. I put my mask on right after the fluoride was applied.  No tell-tale sign of past injury.  No one smoking in the operatory.  No jokes about removing body parts against my will.  My teeth and my ear are doing well.  Now if only my therapist hadn't cancelled this morning I'd be all set from my neck up!

* tatala - a term of endearment mostly used for boys - meaning Little Father or Little Man

 

Does This Bathing Suit Make Me Look Trashy?

I swim once or twice per week at the local rec center.  The pool is clean and not too crowded.  I also swim when I visit my son up north.  The town pool there is new with wide lanes and a diving board. As a kid I used to love diving into the unknown waters at Idlewild Swim Club.  Unknown because that 'pool' was actually a large man-made lake with a sand bottom.  The diving pool had four boards.  Two low to the water, one at about three feet, and my favorite, the ten-foot board.  The waters would churn  from all the belly flops and back flips, and I had to trust that I would have a clear entry into the water. 

The rec center pool is shallow from end to end with a slightly deeper depth in the middle.  It is not a diving pool; it is a strict lap pool.  The diving board up north is only open to the swim team, and the blocks are folded up during lap swimming.  Occasionally, I will go headfirst into the pool at my condo complex, but it is more an outward reach than a deep plunge.  I don't want to become a statistic of poor judgement.

Nowadays my swimming is a full-on apparatus experience.  I wear a unitard type suit, nose and ear plugs, goggles and a bathing cap.  I don't bother with fins, pull buoys or hand paddles. I just go in, go slow and keep going until my body says enough.  I practice some water yoga after laps, treat myself to the hot tub and call it a day.  All of this gear, plus two towels, toiletries and a change of clothes requires me to bring two bags to the gym on swim days.  One for all my dry stuff and another for the soon to be wet stuff.

I don't know if it stems from being a mother, bygone girl scout leader, ex soccer mom, former event planner or maybe just neurosis, but I like to prepare.  For me that means lining up all the bags for the pool, letters to drop at the post office, papers to be notarized, by my front door.  Not enough to trip over in an emergency, just enough to not forgot anything in the morning.  Yesterday I took the reusable bag I use for recyclables and put that by the door as well.  Add two water bottles, my purse, a pair of sunglasses - I am good to go.

Everything got piled on the front seat, save for the bag to shake out into the large bin of recyclables.  Usually, I walk to the bins to do this, but oh no!  Not yesterday.  I put the bag of bottles and newspapers on the floor of the passenger seat and drove over to the little hut that holds all the secrets of the complex where I live.  You know, trash and recycling.  There was a car parked at an odd angle, kind of not too far forward, and not too far back and he messed up my mojo of jumping out, dumping out and getting going.  I was so concerned about where I was going to pull up, that when I exited my car, I wasn't paying close attention.  As usual, the two recycling bins were nearing capacity, what with people not breaking down boxes and such.  Oft times that bothers me, but on this day it proved to be a Godsend.

I grabbed a bag from my car, hopped out, walked around the bin blocking vehicle, hoisted the bag in the air by the handles and holding on tightly, started to shake the contents into the mini roll-off.  Imagine my horror when I saw my bathing suit, flip-flops, towels, and zipper bags full of soap and lotion sail freely into the dumpster.  I was so shocked I couldn't even stop myself until the pool bag was empty.  This might have also be due to age and slowing reflexes, but I am not quite ready to admit that.

I was happy that the dumpster was almost full because it allowed me to quickly regain my composure and recover almost all of the contents of my tote, now resting atop empty cans and beer bottles.  Remember my anxiety about being hyper vigilant and prepared for the coming day?  The night before I had taken two travel sized bottles and replenished them with the expensive shampoo my daughter buys me to help hair regrowth.  This may be another sign of aging, or the negative effects of medication, but again no confessions.  These two little bottles with my handwritten SHAM and COND in black Sharpie were just out of reach.  I had carelessly tossed them in the top of the bag after refilling them, instead of taking the thirty seconds it would have required to unzip a little bag and secure them.  My bad. 

I am resourceful.  And cheap.  I drove back to my place, snugged a step ladder in the back seat of my car, and headed back to the dumpsters.  I opened the ladder, placed it close the to rusty edge of the metal bin, and carefully reached in and successfully retrieved my hair care products.  Voila!  Eureka!  Atta Girl!  I had just proven to myself that I can be stupid and smart within the span of six minutes.

Contents back in place, recyclables properly disposed of, and finally ready to go swim.  Or was I?  Could I put on a bathing suit I knew had just cozied up to cardboard cartons?  Use a towel that had touched discards?  I sat in my car and pondered the possibilities.  I also chuckled that the only diving I would do that day was of the dumpster variety.

In the end, I decided that the five second rule, mostly used for food dropped on the floor, applied here.  That the chlorine of the pool would instantly kill any germs lingering on my suit.  That I could pay attention to the inside folds of my towels and only place those sides against my body.  Everything could get a proper wash when I got home.  I knew that once I hit the water my faux pas would be a just a blip on the radar of my day.

But it didn't stop me from asking the lifeguard "Does this bathing suit make me look trashy?"

o

Nails and Magnets

I have a 'date' tonight and I'm ambiguous.  Not about the guy, about the process.  My last relationship ended four years ago, and it has been a drought ever since.  No asks, no on-line perusing.  I've long ago stopped looking at left hands for tell-tale signs of singlehood or the dreadful alternative.  Oh, that sounds bitter.  Maybe that is because I enjoy being a table for one.  A single gal in a seemingly double world.

But there is a guy who came into my magnetic field a couple of years ago.  He was in my memoir class.  This class meets for eight-week segments, albeit sporadically.  We are a casual crowd of writers.  We write and share details of our lives and recent adventures with relatively perfect strangers.  I am very used to that.  I sit in church basements and meeting rooms three times a week and do practically the same thing.  It's called Al-Anon.

From his looks and his words, I could infer he is a real western gentleman.  Rugged. Outdoorsy.  Handsome.  Flannel or western shirts and boots.  Yep.  Boots.  That footwear I can no longer tolerate due to rheumatoid arthritis.  But damn, they look good at the end of his Wranglers.  He recited a piece on rafting some river and that confirmed it.  He is a west of the Mississippi kind of guy.  A Coloradoan.  Maybe a rare breed.

One day in yoga at my local rec center he showed up.  Now I was intrigued.  A writer and a yogi?  Someone who wouldn't pooh-pooh my literary efforts as frivolous or depressing.  (My poetry is a tad dark) A man who I could perhaps share that part of my life with?  This was an awful lot to think about just moments before downward dog and savasana, so I turned back to the teacher and paid attention.  After all, yoga is about me and my mat.  Not about me and my overactive imagination and fantasies and the guy in the back of the room.

That was a while ago, but I remember a hug and expressions of surprise that we both lived in proximity to the rec center.  I allowed a bit of heart softening and then he stopped going to memoir class.  I stopped seeing him at yoga.  I let it go.  Not meant to be, and all those other cliché sayings hanging on therapist's walls everywhere.

He did however share a nice poem he had written with me via e-mail.  I am the self-proclaimed poetess of our memoir class.  It was a great ditty about horses and riding, and bandanas and petrichor. Remember that word: Petrichor. I looked it up and it means the sweet smell of the earth after a rain. A great word, perhaps even a romantic use of language by the poet.  I gave a bit of feedback and off to the ranch he went for several summery weeks.  I am not kidding.  Did I say he was a dude?

A year and half goes by and nada.  Nothing.  I don't see him much and communique via e-mail has ceased.  No exchanging of poems.  Nil.  It's OK.  He is handsome but if I had a hat I wouldn't hang it on a guy anyway.  Then he reappears at memoir and I must admit, I felt a bit of pitter-patter.  At this age, it could have been A-Fib, but I'm going with the emotional heart symptom.  He comes up to me after class and tells me he liked my reading.  Yep, its a pitter-patter.  He also tells me I seem stressed, which is an accurate assessment of my life at that moment.  I am further impressed at his intuition and sensitivity. Nonetheless we part ways.

A few weeks later the word petrichor appears in my Merriam-Webster word of the day email.  That was a word I didn't know existed before this cowboy sent me his poem.  I take it as a sign to reach out to the wrangler.  I forward the email and tell him seeing the word petrichor in my email had me thinking of him.  I struck a lode.  He replies and I reply and we are actually having an electronic conversation.  A few emails later and we have agreed to see an improv show at the Mercury on an upcoming Friday evening. Tonight.

I share a couple of my newer poems with this man and he responds with thoughtful comments.  Here's an excerpt of one of the e-mailed poems:

My poetry.  Nothing more than a vessel

Holding my heart full of nails

Jagged words

His reply hints that I should be careful getting to close to a magnet.  Hmm.  Maybe a little pull on my heart would be good for my soul.  I am definitely interested.  He's nice looking and nice.  I am beginning to think he is either introverted or shy.  I wonder if the first move will be in my court for anything to progress.  I am a pretty forward person in many arenas, but to put myself out there to pursue a guy?  I'm not too sure about that.  Don't men chase women?  What year is it?  Do I have the energy to do anything about this?  Am I being open, honest and willing?

Meeting 'organically' as such is a delight that has drawbacks.  Without filling out an on-line profile the excavation of information could be a long archeological dig.  Coffee or tea?  Age, religion. political affiliation, job history...  I know he has a daughter and two grandbabies. He has a woodshop in his garage (I divorced my husband to reclaim an indoor parking spot), and drives a truck. He lives pretty close-by.  That's about it.

Will our 'date' to an improv show be a series of small talk snippets?  Will we connect in a way that the conversation and the silences are equally comfortable?  Will he drink and then want to drive - compelling me to call an UBER and never see him again?

Here is what I would want a man to know about me before diving into my pool.  I have RA and it can be limiting, but I do my best to lead a full life.  I am a cynic, a skeptic and sarcastic.  I am quick witted and can be sharp tongued, but also know when to hold back.  I love my kids and grandkids more than anything - I do much for them - and that isn't likely to change.

I love to exercise and take long walks, but I amble slowly.  I don't mind if my hiking companion goes ahead of me and circles back every once in a while.  I stop to look at bugs and hug trees and talk to little kids.  I am a dog person, but am happy to not have the responsibility of having one in my home.  I can pass on cats and birds confined to cages.

I am a vegetarian and a great cook.  If a way to a man's heart is through his stomach, I should have arrived long ago.  I don't comment on other's food choices, and won't tolerate judgement about mine.  I like coffee and tea.  I am politically left, but not so far as to fall off a cliff.  I'm retired and want to stay that way, so I am not paying for a guy's way to anything.  Let's 'Go Dutch' is fine by me.  Spontaneously treating me is a bonus point for manners and old-fashioned traditions.

I don't celebrate gift-giving by a calendar.  I may forget it is Christmas but buy you something I see at a random time.  I like small, thoughtful gifts.  Never buy me jewelry.  Books are great.  So are funky socks.  My next birthday is a milestone.  I'll let you know if my thoughts on gift giving change this coming year.

I think Starbucks is ridiculous. So is avocado toast.  I volunteer sporadically and am generous to causes I think do good works.  I am a compassionate friend, but at the same time find myself liking people in general a bit less as the years go by.

My parents are dead, my siblings do not live close, my kids don't mind my business.  I stay on my side of the street, try to keep my front porch clean and like to live and let live.  I go to Al-Anon two or three times per week.  It is my religion, my spirituality, my therapy, my fellowship.  Just don't ask me anybody's last name.

I like to be on my schedule, but am willing to flex.  I respect alone time.  Mine and others.  I try not to gossip.  I write a lot of poetry.  I spend much of my day typing, tapping, texting, and transmitting.  Anything someone says or does may appear in a blog.  Maybe this guy deserves a heads-up in that department.  I'm already doing it and we haven't even gone out yet!

Back to magnets and nails in my heart and attraction and softening...  Let's see how tonight goes.


Time to Write,

Jane