First World Problems:

I was at the farmers' market last Saturday, picking out some luscious peaches.  I went to pay, opened my purse & heard myself say "oh, no - I only have euros...."

 

We are recovering nicely from the big trip.  We can almost stay awake during normal Central Time hours and only require one- to three-hour naps every afternoon.  Suffering severe gelato withdrawal and we’re noticing there is way too much English spoken wherever we go.  Sigh, we’re not in Italy anymore…

The first day back it rained.  All day, as if the earth itself was in mourning for our lost Italian adventure.  But, of course it rained.  It was a day.  In Louisiana.  In the summer. Not that we noticed much.  We were too busy examining the insides of our eyelids.

I came to understand Frances Mayes (although in our case, the book would have been Out of the Tuscan Sun- yes, it was that hot).   Had we the resources, there would have been no way we would have left after our vacation, either.   Eventually, I might have been able to do more with the language than order wine, although that was a superb limitation to live with.

This trip was a result of a posthumous gift, and, as “found” money, we were determined to do nothing practical with it.  We already had what we needed.  This was what we wanted.

Not really interested in a guided tour, yet unsure how we would negotiate trains & sightseeing with limited language skills, we booked a compromise – three days in each of three cities, with half the time each place completely on our own.  It turned out that it was a lot of fun traveling WITH people without having to constantly. And there was always someone to help move suitcases onto the train!

Coming up:  Three Days in Rome, or why we wore pajamas to the Vatican.

the pain of greatness!

I’m in enough pain that I know I had a great weekend.  I have large bruises on my calves, shins, knee.  My shoulders hurt. I found it difficult to reach out to adjust my rear view mirror last night.  My right arch is tender; there is an odd, traveling ache in my lower back.  Fade to black: flashback…….

My riding lesson was Friday afternoon and I had that irrational feeling of invincibility.  I won’t fall if I push my luck, I told myself.  I believed me.  So, after warming up by riding at a walk a few times around the ring, when my trainer told me to trot, I went for it. 

I clutched the posting strap for dear life and made it half-way around the ring before calling for a walk. Then I did another half-round.   I realized I was okay.  Next time, I got the entire way around.  And a second time.  Then the time was up.  I was so proud of myself for believing nothing bad would happen if I trotted through the fear.  It was true.  After I got off the horse, I noticed there were two huge bruises on the inside of my calves.  Looks like I might have been squeezing that poor horse to death to stay on.  But Thelma didn’t mind and I love my purple-y, greening badges of courage.

Last night we went to a wedding with the best reception I’ve ever been to.  The couple had hired an 8-piece brass band that played everything from Stevie Wonder to the Stones with that distinctive New Orleans beat.  The amalgamation was amazing.  We were up dancing, trying to remember our best Michael Jackson moves to that NOLAfunk version of Beat It.  Dance like no one is watching?  Fat chance with a videographer, a photographer and a hundred cell phones working constantly.  We just hope we didn’t shame the hosts, but that is really what you get when you throw a party with an open bar……

The party ended with the band strapping their drums on and leading the guests on a second-line out the door and down Fulton Street. The couple danced in the gazebo while the guests danced and waved handkerchiefs, the band jammed and herds of tourists snapped away to preserve their memories of serendipitous local cultcha.   

So the shoulder, arm, back, and arch strain came from a night of wild dancing.  The extra bruises on my knee and shin?  Taking a nosedive on the notoriously uneven pavement before the drinking began.  Yes, I fell, cold stone sober, and danced the rest of the night away.  That’s the Big Easy way. 

So ache on, body.  You had a great time this weekend.  Thank you, Thelma, for not dumping my overconfident butt off your saddle and congratulations to Cleveland and Jessica: may your marriage be a great as your party-planning abilities!

Bucket List

I may be overreacting, but last week's 60th birthday freaked me out.  It freaked me right onto a horse.  This morning around 9:15, a young, fit riding instructor rolled out half a staircase and stood by while the older, unfit rider struggled gamely first to lift her left foot the rest of the way in the stirrup and then to find the strength to actually swing the right leg over to sit.  There was no turning back: Carly took away the stairs.  There was no way down, except for the easy way.  She let me balance for a bit while I made friends with an attractive redhead, Thelma.

Thelma was quite patient with me.  She was content to follow her trainer while pretending I was steering. In time, Carly distanced herself slightly to let me ride at a walk around the ring, steer, start and stop. 

Then it was time to get off.  As worried as I had been about looking like a fool trying to get on the horse, it never occurred to me how I would get off.  Carly gave me great advice, but I froze, completely blanking my comprehension of simple words like "lean," "swing" and "slide."  The trainer called over a second person for my security.  Why, I wondered, would two people watching me do nothing be more comforting than one??????  But they convinced me hanging onto the saddle would ease my way back to earth.  As my feet led me slowly closer to the dirt, I watched in amazement as Thelma's back and saddle gradually got higher until I landed safely, eye level to the stirrup.  Damn, Thelma was TALL!  I hadn't noticed that from the portable staircase! 

So, bucket list item #1 accomplished. Carly had wanted me to ride a trot, but I declined. I intend to survive to try item #2.    I scheduled a second lesson for next week, though.  Maybe then.

Crustathrustphobia

I’m going to be drinking a lot this year, I can tell. My 95-year-old mother just moved in. Fresh out of the hospital, partially disabled but gets around astoundingly well after we invested in her wheels. We’re calling her “Helen” now – “Helen Wheels.” She has the coolest walker in town – Schwinn red, with handbrakes reminiscent of a 10-speed bike, complete with fabric basket and leatherette seat for when she prefers being pushed. A matching wheelchair is coming by UPS next week. She’s full of stories of the good old days. My drinking will come in handy because the stories she is full of are the same ones, repeated and repeated and repeated.


My great-niece’s friend nailed it last weekend – you mean, he said, she’s a right-wing Republican moving to the Big Easy to live with a couple lesbians? Yes, that’s the case. Let’s pitch it as a reality show. I could use the cash.

After two days, I dreamed I was in the kitchen, making dinner. Mom was in the living room, talking and talking and talking and, yes, talking. I started throwing shrimp at her. Flinging crustaceans in my sleep. Is there a fear of having shrimp thrust upon you? Crustathrustaphobia?

In the last 8 days, I’ve become adept at pounding dozens of meds into a powder, thinking but dismissing thoughts of straws and a misspent youth, and mixing the nasty concoction into chocolate pudding. Got to be a waste of perfectly good pudding. I’m horrifying her with exotic cuisine. Exotic by Ohio standards, kind of tame for New Orleans. She gamely tries most of my dinners, but I hear her in the night hitting the cheese curls and cookies.

We’ve managed, at length, to change her address with Social Security, make a doctor appointment, tire her out with shopping trips, get her clothes that actually fit and finish furnishing her room with a comfy chair and writing desk. She’s trying to do her own laundry, even though the effort requires a nap immediately after. Actually it’s kind of like having a cat. Feed her & let her sleep.

We’re admittedly still in the honeymoon period, she’s grateful to be out of the hospital and it's been less stressful than I’d thought. She’s trying hard to edit her racist comments before they’re made, which I appreciate. But 95 requires a lot of attention and I’ve never been responsible for another human being before. Gulp. The adventure begins. Cocktails, anyone?

In March I had a new adult voice student register for an hour lesson at the end of the day.  The office staff said he wanted to learn a particular song so he could sing his wife into forgiving him for unstated wrongdoings.  He dropped a CD of the song off to the receptionist, so I could hear what he wanted to learn to sing.  His time was held for several weeks, he never showed up, he was dropped from my schedule.

In late April, a young woman went missing, to be found dead on the side of the highway in early May.  Her ex-husband was arrested this week for her murder. 

Yes, this is the same man.

Uncharacteristically, I am speechless.

I'm spending a very lazy day at home by myself.  Jane is out gathering stories for her column, the cat is sleeping on her favorite dining room chair, ignoring the urban wildlife just outside the window, and I am doing much the same, thank you very much.  The second sock is going unknitted, the bookmark is firmly set in the unread pages, my lunch is finished.  Time for the joys of light reflection.  Not the kind that bounces off mirrors, though....

10 best things about spring break

1. the break
2. I haven't heard an alarm clock in 9 days.
3. working on the house. I'd intended to paint the living room, but removing nonessentials made it look so much better I left it the original color.
4. two dinners with three friends.
5. lap time with 2 cats.
6. initiating the new barbecue.
7. appreciating how much the back yard trees have grown: there is actual afternoon shade now, meaning it will be a splendid summer for sitting out.
8. quality time with Jane, doing projects and doing absolutely nothing.
9. lunch in Orlando, champagne for no reason.
10. sun, flowers, new garden, freshly mowed lawn, culled closets and white wine by the pool.

1 not-so-good thing about spring break: Easter is not a holiday, it's an end.