Category: The DayBook

Not an auspicious start.

My watch informs me that I require more aerobic activity this week.

Does it not know that I am an antique old woman?
Yes. It knows.
It simply does not care.

Still planning to go to Pittsburgh on Wednesday.
The forecast is not particularly encouraging.
But you take the weather you get.

I will be grateful to be out of The Asylum.

Where…

Where…
Grape Jelly Planet Based Meatball was featured last night.

The meatball did not receive stellar reviews.
Think about it.
Grape Jelly Planet?
In what universe?
I had grilled cheese.

Ending on a better note:

Note the tiny winged insect.
Whatever happens is what I planned.

Twenty-five years ago: 4 May 2001.

Sunday.
Orchids.
Laundry.
Boring day.

All good.

At my age and in the current environment, boring is good.
Very good.

And then…

I haven’t had a real book in years.

Twenty-five years ago – 3 May 2001

Good thing today:
Finally got through the ID.me process.

It took two weeks.
And culminated in a two-hour wait to get online with my “ID.me Reviewer.”

Dear Reader: If you need ID.me for something important — start early.

Do not give up.

It is possible.

You just have to outlast the bastards.

Bad thing today:
The trigeminal neuralgia continues.

I am working very hard at continuing to live my life.
But it is difficult when, at any instant, an electrical shock might rage through the left side of your face.

For no damn reason at all.

I have an electrical short circuit. Somewhere.

I once had a car like that.
A little red Fiat.

While waiting for my online document review this morning, I culled and cataloged photos.

Twenty-five years ago: 2 May 2001.

Not my best Friday ever.

I WOULD wish TN on my worst enemy.
And you know who that would be.

Twenty-Five years ago: 1 May 2001.

 

Woke up this morning feeling depressed about the state of the country.

And what it is doing to the rest of the planet.

Just wondering:

Did Caligula cause this much universal misery?

So I went for a walk.

And photographed weeds.

Show weeds some love today.

Twenty-Five years ago: 30 April 2001.

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?

The Heinz History Center.

That’s why.

Still on the nostalgia kick.
GHBC Bag Ladies PSA – Late April 2020

Twenty-Five years ago: 29 April 2001.

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.

25 Years Ago: 28 April 2001

(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.