Nobody is Promised Tomorrow. . .
Trigeminal neuralgia continues to nibble at the edges of consciousness.
I am not looking forward to my visit to the hygienist next week.
So I made a plan.
The day after the dentist, I am going to Pittsburgh.
Something to look forward to.
And why would one look forward to a trip to Pittsburgh?
That’s why.
Still on the nostalgia kick.
GHBC Bag Ladies PSA – Late April 2020
Twenty-five years ago today, I made my first personal “web logbook” entry.
I had been knitting websites together for various organizations for three or four years before starting my own.
Twenty-five years is a long time in the technology universe.
In 2001, it was still the wild days of roll-your-own HTML. Most people connected via dial-up. Acoustic modems were probably gone by then. AOL was still alive, well, and profitable.
And Gmail was still three years away.
This is the first entry. And it is still online:
28 April 2001
On 28 April 2009, the blog moved to WordPress.
Nobody is more surprised than I am that I have kept this going.
Maybe 9,000 posts.
I started it for myself and continue doing it for myself.
And I am grateful for anyone who stops in from time to time.
(About the header image, I asked my ChatRobot to make me a header for the 25th Anniversary of the blog. That’s what Robot came up with.)
Did a bit of digital house cleaning this afternoon.
Old-timers here at The Asylum will remember Covid LockUp Dinner Time.
I am still annoyed that COVID stole a year of my life.
Grateful I survived.
And I did make a lot of videos.
My old MacBook Air flatlined during one production effort. Fortunately, the Apple Store had same-day delivery.
Adapt and continue.
Today’s good news:
One of the newest batch of orphan orchids has its first bloom stalk.
Now I get to wonder what color it will be.
At dinner last night, at a table near mine, three 100+-year-old men were dining with a near-90-year-old woman. She is the long-time companion of the youngest of the three.
That got me thinking.
If I am very lucky, or very unlucky, I could be living here in the Old Bat’s Cave for another twenty years.
All three men live in independent living. They do their own laundry. They move around the building under their own power. They enjoy wine with dinner and say yes to dessert.
I often see the oldest of them out walking, well beyond the grounds. So it’s possible.
The idea of still being in this same room, a perfectly nice 590-square-foot room, in 2046 is… unsettling.
On the positive side, if I make it another 20 years, I will have survived #47 and his Reign of Terror.
So there’s that.
And then there is this.
Another grocery-store horror:
Stay safe, people.
We’re going to need every one of you in November.
Chicken paws?
Really?
$1.36 a pound.
Chicken feet, also known as paws, are apparently full of collagen and other beneficial substances.
Nevertheless, I did not purchase any.
Moving on.
If you can trace your ancestry to Canada, you might be eligible for Canadian citizenship.
Which suddenly sounds like a useful option.
Or at least a comforting one.
I have never been even slightly interested in genealogy.
Not mine.
Not Carlton’s.
Not yours.
Not anyone’s.
But now I find myself wondering.
Perhaps dear old Dad’s Cajun maternal line came down to Louisiana in the late 1700s from maritime Canada.
Or perhaps they wandered down from Montreal or Quebec in the early 1700s.
Wayward French trappers.
Ask three different Large Language Models about your eligibility for Canadian citizenship, and you will get three different versions of your family history.
My family tree is… scraggly.
Additional research is required before I learn all the verses of “Oh Canada”.
Another lazy old-woman day. Even took a nap. Right now I am enjoying the sound of rain.
That’s a big one. It means I can still hear.
That’s old age for you. It sharpens the focus on what actually matters.
It should come as no surprise: people die here at The Asylum. Sixteen already this year.
In late February, a very interesting 97-year-old woman got dressed, put on her makeup, and lay down for a short rest before going out to lunch with her family.
She did not wake up. We were all happy for her. She became our model for a “good” death.
Then last week, during a birthday celebration in the main dining room, a resident in his late 90s died.
It wasn’t free wine night. He hadn’t had his dessert yet. But his passing was remarkably uneventful.
The party continued. We had our dessert.
We live with daily reminders.
Nobody is promised tomorrow.
And that’s OK.
Like seeing your own DNR on the door every time you leave your apartment.
It isn’t depressing.
It’s life.
And it’s Happy Hour today.
Now and then, some trick of the light turns the Washington Monument gray.
Or maybe the Monument is just embarrassed to be so close to #47.
The wall art is apparently finished.
Turned out to be a delightful day.
And I practiced being an old woman.
A ride was offered.
I accepted.
I could have taken the bus.
I could have called an Uber.
Instead, I accepted help.
Progress.
A lovely afternoon.
Cookies and conversation in a sunny backyard with a friend.
Totally old school.
No tech.
Just a late spring day, well spent.
Easy, lazy day.
And that is a blessing.
Acceptance.
Peace.
Virginia voted for gerrymandering yesterday.
Back to acceptance and peace.
So what did I do?
Went for a walk.
Cleaned out the freezer.
Made an excellent “garbage” soup.
Bought bread and cheese.
Plotted my next escape.
Control the controllable.
I like exterior wall art better than interior wall art.
But, I am just a renter here.
Election Day here in Virginia.
I voted for gerrymandering.
Desperate times require desperate measures.
And I made it to in-person yoga.
Voting and yoga.
That was it.
The rock.
Years ago, the hospital chaplains cleaned out their office and put a box of rocks in the trash. Being a long-time urban recycler, I rescued the largest rock and placed it on the Old Bat Cave window ledge.
This was before the orchids. Back when I could actually lower the blinds.
I briefly considered that the rock might belong to a Wiccan. Possibly imbued with powers.
According to Google — so you know it must be true:
Clear quartz is known as the master healer. It amplifies energy, thoughts, and vibrations. It connects you with your higher self, intuition, and spirit guides.
It does not appear to be working.
Unless my spirit guide is a slug.
Life is fairly tranquil right now.
Tranquil is good.
Not exciting but good.
The wheels can fall off at any time.
So we enjoy the quiet while we have it.
Today’s accomplishment:
I learned how to make a small butterfly that slips neatly over the corner of an envelope.
That’s it.
No mushroom cloud. Yet.
So far, so good.
Chores today.
And a nap.
Trigeminal neuralgia was acting up. Eating triggered small zaps.
A sensible person would have chosen cottage cheese and herbal tea.
I decided that if eating was going to hurt, it should be worth it.
Filet.
Broccoli.
Onion.
Red pepper.
Cut small. Briefly sautéed.
Washed down with a Guinness. Excellent.
Good to know there is still something in DC not under the thrall of the current regime.
I spent most of the day chasing accounting dust bunnies, as evidenced by my desktop.
I got everything within sight of the finish line.
And then.
ID.me.
Or something equally determined to prove that I am not myself.
At that point, my ChatterBot, Robot, advised:
“Go do something human.”
Sound advice.
So I did.
Went outside.
Looked at the light.
Took a photograph you are not supposed to take — directly into the sun.
