Category: The DayBook

End of the month, and I still had a pile of use-or-lose funny money on my Asylum Food Service account. So I “went shopping” in the lunch buffet line today.

I see steak, potatoes, and eggs here. Maybe a steak salad. Or a filet-and-brie sandwich? The carrots will probably end up in the next batch of garbage soup. It cost me nothing — the funny money disappears tomorrow anyway.

Got serious about the crane wreaths today. My neighbor and I have abandoned any grand plans for October’s craft sale for the Foundation. At this point, it’s just “origami death cleaning.”

After the sale, whatever’s left will head for recycling or the dump. Then I’ll get my Origami Dojo under control. It looks under control — but open almost any drawer or box, and origami is lurking.

End of Month. End of Patience. 

The WiFi came back on around 9 AM. I was relieved — it’s stressful having to turn one’s own lights on and off. Not to mention remembering to turn the coffee pot off.

The weather has been so unseasonably cool that I pulled some of my “not summer” clothes out of the storage box and swapped in some “not winter” things. I even culled a few pieces and took them to the thrift shop.

Mostly, I pondered how to attach cranes so they’ll make a reasonably sturdy wreath. I glued some today with the same glue I used a couple of years ago. We’ll see tomorrow how well they stick.

Hat pins would be much easier. But I don’t love the idea — fifty pins in one wreath feels like asking for trouble. Not to mention expense. Hat pins aren’t cheap. But I am.

Carlton and I had just moved into a brand-new apartment at the corner of Glebe and Fairfax. We were in our early 60s and 70s. Almost all of our parts still functioned. Life was good.

Speaking of functioning — the WiFi is down here at The Asylum. This could get ugly. I may have to turn on my own lights. Alexa can operate the ZigBee mesh net if the WiFi is completely down. But right now the WiFi is technically “working,” just not connecting to the internet. That seems like an ISP problem.

Since the WiFi itself isn’t down, it will be interesting to see if I can turn my lights on or off. The trick is remembering the lights’ official names — not the friendly aliases I use.

Still, I had a very productive day for an old woman. Working on staying focused. Staying offline helps with focus. And no connectivity helps with staying offline! It’s all good.

 

Haven’t done much today. So I’ll just leave you with this from Jesse Welles carrying on the the best tradition of Woody Guthrie.

Our much-loved breakfast cook is hopefully on vacation. I say hopefully, because with ICE, who knows? She might go home and not be able to get back into the country. Or she might just decide it’s too dangerous to return.

In the meantime, we’ve got a substitute brekkie cook. Poor man. I’m not sure he’d ever poached an egg before this morning. And poached eggs are very popular among my age group. We are also very fussy about our eggs — poached or otherwise. I hope he returns tomorrow. Then again, he might race back to his old job after this morning’s adventure.

And I hope our regular cook returns after a much-deserved vacation.

At The Asylum, funeral flowers end up in the “Art Center” with a sign: Free to a Good Home. A $300 standing funeral display gets picked apart like a Christmas goose by the inmates.

This is the proposed Halloween-to-Christmas trip route. The only things bought and paid for are lodging in Kona (Halloween to December 18) and a Tokyo hotel (December 19–25). I’m also thinking about spending a few days in San Diego before Halloween.

That December trek to Tokyo — plus 12 hours of “going east” jet lag — might actually kill me. But if that’s so, you can always say: “Well, she died doing what she loved.”

I always wondered why people didn’t say that about someone who OD’d on heroin.

The weather is absolutely perfect. The country. Not so good.

Today’s accomplishment was making it to in-person yoga class — and surviving. Bonus: I learned a new word. 

trumpery | ˈtrəmp(ə)rē | archaic
noun (plural trumperies)

1. 1. Attractive articles of little value or use: None of your woolen drapery, nor linen drapery, nor any of your frippery or trumpery. I hate ostentation.

   2. Practices or beliefs that are superficially or visually appealing but have little real value or worth: he exposed their ideals as trumpery.
      adjective
      – Showy but worthless: trumpery jewelry.
      – Delusive or shallow: that trumpery hope which lets us dupe ourselves.

Now isn’t that a wonderful word? And no, I didn’t make it up. It’s real. I’m pretty sure we’ll all find more opportunities to use it than we’d like.

All about the crystal. And the garnet.

Still enjoying this stretch of lovely weather. It’s not supposed to be this nice until after Labor Day — but I’m not complaining.

I think I’ve developed my phone/camera insect-shooting skills about as far as they’ll go. I’ll never capture a compound eye, but I can get enough detail — considering I’m using my telephone to take photographs.

Today’s good deed: I went to the liquor store for a friend. Such an easy mitzvah. And no, I didn’t buy myself a treat while I was in the ABC store. That was about all I accomplished today. Well, that and the fact that I didn’t kill anyone. Yet.

The older I get, the less I seem to get done. Wonder if that’s “normal.”

Never mind the autumnal equinox. In my head, summer ends on August 31. Then there’s an interregnum until Labor Day. Fall begins the Tuesday after Labor Day and lasts until November 30. Winter starts on December 1. Spring on March 1. And summer, of course, on June 1. That’s my personal take on the seasons.

More fun with the phone/camera this morning while doing my miles.

Now, of course, I am waiting to see how this year’s Pixel phone/camera performs in real life. Do love my toys.

A little before eleven this morning, I decided to go into DC and check on Democracy. She isn’t well.

I did not see tanks rolling about. I only saw this small knot of troops. But I did not go where I thought I would find them. I just went to The Mall. Our nation’s front yard.

In case you have forgotten, in early March, The Orange Leech wanted The Declaration of Independence moved to his office. I head off to inspect the White House. But first, check out the Archive’s Gift Shop.

Most of Lafayette Park was fenced off. There were very few people around.

There wasn’t any overwhelming police/military presence. But there was something “off” about the Mall/White House area. There were nowhere near as many people as should have been out and about on the glorious late summer day. 

By 3pm, I was back in the Old Bat Cave. 

Still, I’m rather fond of lens flare. Whatever happens is exactly what I planned.

I’m still puttering around with my phone/camera. And last evening, the light was just right for the Shrine in Northeast DC.

I’m still mulling over whether to go ahead with the crazy Tokyo trip the week before Christmas. I’ve reserved a room at my second-favorite Tokyo hotel. My first favorite is too outrageously expensive — especially when the second-favorite is literally across the street.

Most likely, as long as I’m physically able, I’ll make the trip. Because looking back, I have far more regrets of omission than regrets of commission.

A lot of looking back happens when you are somewhere between 80 and dead.

Ten years ago today, I was preparing for the scariest move of my life. The move into The Asylum. An old folks’ home. And, I had to give them $171,516.00 for the privilege. I moved in late in September 2015. 

But, it was the right thing to do. Never mind that I get annoyed with the place. I dislike the food. The list goes on. But. This is where I belong. 

The Old Bat Cave is where the orchids live. The Asylum is where my friends live. It is home.

Little hints of blue sky today. Strange weather for August. Of course, everything feels strange these days.

Near the toad-truck, I picked up a dime. Which, of course, reminded me of Carlton. I’m glad he missed the end of life on the planet as we knew it.

Carlton ended every talk he gave at Harpers Ferry Park by pulling a piece of paper from his pocket and reading—always with theatrical flair:

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Charlestown, Virginia Dec 2, 1859

I, John Brown, am now quite certain that the crimes of this guilty land will never be purged away but with blood. I had, as I now think vainly, flattered myself that without very much bloodshed it might be done.

(The note John Brown handed to a guard on the morning of his execution.)

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There are small signs that real resistance is emerging. Or maybe I just want to see signs. In the spring, peaceful protests might have turned things around. But now—it feels like 1859.