Ten Years After

TAB in his current incarnation*

It was 10 years ago this evening — 6:15 to be precise — that The Amazing Bob shuffled off this mortal coil. He had been in a second battle with cancer — mantle cell lymphoma — and the forecast was not looking bright at all, when acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS) opportunistically came in and cut him off at the … well … lungs.

Me and TAB on his last birthday

When we was young

 As I wrote two weeks afterwards, I am and was so damn lucky. Jen, Oni and Celeste (my sister) were with me on TAB’s last afternoon. Jen and I had actually gone in at zero dark 30. The nurses had called her (couldn’t phone me because I’m all deaf and shit … remember?) saying that TAB was spiraling down and might only have a few hours left. We zoomed in.

Later, all together, after he was no longer conscious, we watched TAB’s life signs on the monitor like it was the Green Monster scoreboard at Fenway.

I’m stunned that 10 years have passed. So much has happened in this decade.

I met Ten through this here blog. He helped me, supported and consoled me in my grief. He did this from 3,000 miles away. We fell in love. Seven years later we’re still in love. Neat, huh?

I find this pretty amazing actually. Even when I’m healthy I’m a goddamn handful and I haven't been in the general neighborhood of good health in over six years.

I mean, look at this — over the past six-seven years I’ve had three brain surgeries (one which robbed me of the use of my left leg but, HAH, I stole it back!), three spine surgeries, proton radiation, some vision threatening eye issues, a metric fuck-ton of rehab (both in and outpatient), and I’m still getting used to having to use a rollator to get around. Also, compression socks. WHAT the fucking fuck!

Welcome to Valhalla, grab a hard hat and some steel toe boots!

Other big events over the past 10 years? My MOST awesome father checked out of the Hotel Life five years after TAB. Fellow NF2 warrior Felicity Lingle lost her battle and, just this past September, so did Michie O’Day. Grief and survivor guilt much?

As you all know, and as my dearly departed father accurately but unintentionally offensively called it, I have the soul of a fucking cheerleader. That is, I seem to always be looking for an upside, a glimmer of light in the gloaming, an excuse to feel hopeful or at peace. 

            //shrugs// Go me, eh?

The down side of TAB dying is that TAB fucking died! He was in a lot of pain; in just awful, uncomfortable shape, and he knew his prognosis was shit. Of course that’s the downside! Motherfucking cancer was on him hard. The docs said he had, at most, six months left. ARDS just got to him first. 

The “upsides” of TAB checking out are:

• He was done with all that unavoidable pain, misery, and wild discomfort.
• He didn’t have to see our former feral rescue Rocco (at left) die, the year after him.
• He didn’t have to see our sweet baby Coco (at right) succumb to cancer just a couple of years after him.
• He never had to see Trump elected or inaugurated or the Republican Party’s destruction of this country.

Grief isn’t linear. It doesn’t have a fixed progression and end point. Life — humans — don’t generally work that way. Today I’m going to attempt to feel all the feels. If I don’t greet and experience them now they’ll just come out later in some unfortunate way. e.g. me snapping at a loved one for no good reason or me biting the head off an innocent stranger for the crime of, dunno, not reading my mind OR me not paying enough attention to where I'm walking (because I’m cranky and unhappy) and reinjuring my foot.

I believe this day of self reflection and care  might require ice cream, margaritas, and snacks that are not necessarily healthy and that’s okay. Possibly I’ll need to add in an episode of Buffy and a few chapters of the latest Murderbot.

You will lose someone you can’t live without,and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp. 
~ Anne Lamott

* We mixed TAB's ashes into the roots of the cherry tree we planted in his memory. The idea was that, as in life, he would continue to feed the neighborhood birds and other passing wildlife.

Caturday

First – It's Caturday. All hail our feline overlords.

Second – I found a white hair on my head yesterday. Huh. This is a first. Sure, I’m an old broad and a bit slow to the realm of silver manes. //shrugs// What can I say, I got a genetic package deal from mia madre – big boobs, small waist, very late greying, and a brain and spine full of tumors. Lucky me, eh? Also, at the rate I’m going, I’ll be fish food before I’ve attained a proper white crown.  *sigh*

Third – If The Amazing Bob had survived the slings and arrows of outrageous health, he would be turning 83 years-old today. I raise my glass to TAB’s amused, absurdist, untamed, accepting, supportive, free-range soul.

Fourth – While you can’t necessarily believe everything you see on the internet (DUH!), it would be reckless (wouldn't it?) to fail to consider all possibilities. Right?!

I mean, just yesterday I read that Renee Good’s murderer, Jonathan Ross had a Grindr page – deleted just a couple days ago. You know Grindr? It’s the gay dating app that crashes whenever a lot of Republicans are in town. The app itself referred to the Republican National Convention as the Grindr Super Bowl.

US Republicans with headless and blank profile images are crashing Grindr as they look to hook up! Yes, despite the obvious jokes and that the behaviour is totally at odds with the Republican anti-queer agenda, attendees seem to love spending their time at conventions looking for a bit of fun.
~~~
Data showed that there was a 166% increase in Grindr activity during the US Republican National Convention, underscoring the contradiction between the RNC’s public anti-LGBTQ+ stance and the private behaviours of attendees.
~~~
Reports of the Grindr app crashing increased by more than 90% during republican events, according to Downdetector, a digital platform that tracks service issues among apps. (source)

Unsurprisingly, Grindr also went down during Charlie Kirk’s Memorial extravaganza in Phoenix.

The murderer’s wife is a Filipino immigrant. This Daily Mail article says that both her parents are doctors so she wasn't some poor, desperate mail-order bride type who only hooked up with Ross to get out of the depths of poverty. Who knows what her situation is/was though. Maybe she’s self-hating and has no self-identity OR maybe she’s just a fellow asshole like Melania and Usha? I wonder if he threatens to deport her every time they have an argument.

The post dispassionately describes Ross as a solid red MAGAt, which will come as a revelation to absolutely no one. This is the violent, orange pedophile worshipping, willfully ignorant, entitled motherfucker who coldly, inhumanly shot a fellow human three times, IN THE FACE for no fucking reason. He blew her brains out, called her dying body a “fucking bitch” and calmly walked away. 

Noem. Vance, and Trump  continue to spout ridiculous lies and there’s precious little, if any, pushback, from the mainstream media. WE’VE ALL SEEN THE VIDEOS! There’s nothing there to absolve him. He’s a stone cold murderer and our government is protecting him. 

The murderer Jonathan Ross and his family are now in a safe house somewhere. It’s a jail of his own making. I hope he's in it for the rest of his damned life.

Rebecca Good, meanwhile, published a statement saying: “On Wednesday, January 7th, we stopped to support our neighbors. We had whistles. They had guns. We were raising our son to believe that no matter where you come from or what you look like, all of us deserve compassion and kindness. Renee lived this belief every day. She is pure love. She is pure joy. She is pure sunshine.

“Renee was a Christian who knew that all religions teach the same essential truth: we are here to love each other, care for each other, and keep each other safe and whole.” (source) 

Things that matter. Things that don’t.

In our younger days

Friday was the ninth anniversary of when The Amazing Bob died the first time. For some reason it’s hitting me hard this year. I thought, nine years on, the pain would be less. Some years have been bearable, not quite so acutely harsh. This isn’t one of them.

TAB in bloom

Ten suggested that world events and the despicable state of our country right now are underscoring, spotlighting a pain that’s always lurking under the surface. Yup. As uszh, I believe he’s right.

Some things in life cannot be fixed. They can only be carried.
~ Megan Devine 
~~~
I see that Bezos and his Mar-a-Lago-faced blow up doll got hitched. With all his money, he had to go down the hackneyed, done-to-death, SO 19th century, wedding in Venice route? Honestly, how trite. That and he had D list celebs like the Kardashians there? Was he unable to pay anyone with actual accomplishments, elegance or sophistication to attend? For Bast’s sake, even bean shilling Ivanka was in attendance. I wonder, was Kim Gargoyle unavailable or were the wedding planners afraid she’d outclown the bride?

Re: the plastic fantastic bride – I was surprised by her choice of wedding dress. As with her other sartorial choices, it was skintight BUT her chesticles were actually ON THE INSIDE! I don't think this has ever happened before (at least not on camera). Not even a hint of cleavage. This is truly shocking.
~~~
Yesterday was the funeral for Minnesota House Speaker Melissa Hortman and her husband Mark. They were assassinated on June 14th by a crazed Trump cultist (I know – redundant). Gilbert, their beloved golden retriever who was murdered with them, lay in state at the Minnesota Capitol rotunda also. Joe Biden, Kamala Harris, and, of course, Tim Walz were in attendance.

Who did NOT attend or make mention of the assassinations, funeral or, grieving family, friends, and constituents? I bet you can guess. The bodies are cold; the fire’s out; the arsonist’s work is done – he doesn’t need to be on the scene anymore. 

Given Anus Face’s cruel, crass, barbaric, and subhuman immediate response, I’d be stunned if he did show up to the funeral. 

Days after a Minnesota state lawmaker was killed and another was injured in a "politically motivated assassination," President Donald Trump said Tuesday he would not call the state's governor, eschewing a traditional presidential response to tragedies. 

"Why would I call him? I could call and say, ‘Hi, how you doing?’ The guy doesn’t have a clue," Trump said, referring to Democratic Gov. Tim Walz, who was the vice presidential contender facing off against Trump's ticket last year. "He’s a mess. So I could be nice and call, but why waste time?” (source) 

I imagine everyone in Minnesota is grateful that Stinky stayed on the golf course this weekend. The old orange idiot didn’t bother to send his radically inept Vice Prez either. That would’ve exposed the administration to even more public humiliation. Couchfuck would have undoubtedly spewed some awkward, insulting, socially banjaxed, gros mot. Not that this would've stopped Anus Face – it just never occurred to him that someone from the administration should have been there.
~~~
Question – will Lauren Sánchez keep her name, hyphenate or change it to Lauren Bozos?

It’s Alright, Ma

At so many points yesterday different lines from Dylan’s song It’s Alright, Ma (I’m Only Bleeding) rang in my head like a gong.

The first one:

Pointed threats, they bluff with scorn
Suicide remarks are torn
From the fool’s gold mouthpiece the hollow horn
Plays wasted words, proves to warn
That he not busy being born is busy dying

This in a sort of arch, maybe darkly humorous way. Ya know, I best get my fat arse outta bed and get busy being born (AKA doing the physical therapy exercises that keep me semi-mobile).

Temptation’s page flies out the door
…
So don’t fear if you hear
A foreign sound to your ear
It’s alright, Ma, I’m only sighing

That’s me – the last sigh (and groan) before getting up, putting on my sweats, resigning myself to Exercise Land.

Disillusioned words like bullets bark
As human gods aim for their mark
Make everything from toy guns that spark
To flesh-colored Christs that glow in the dark
It’s easy to see without looking too far
That not much is really sacred

Dylan wrote this in 1965. That’s 60, count ‘em, 60 motherfucking years ago and NOTHING has changed. Things have only gotten worse.

But even the president of the United States
Sometimes must have to stand naked

Maybe but will that ever matter? Will he ever be held responsible for his crimes against humanity? I doubt it. Will any of his asskissing minions – Rubio? Bondi? Bessent? Kegseth? Lutnick? Noem? McMahon? Gabbard? Zeldin? Vought? 

Them? Maybe.

An’ though the rules of the road have been lodged
It’s only people’s games that you got to dodge
And it’s alright, Ma, I can make it

If the Fascists (AKA Republicans) succeed in dismantling Medicare and Social Security, there’s an excellent chance my life will be FAR shorter than it would be otherwise. I’m still alive, ranting, and moving right now thanks to the wonders of chemistry (and my perennial pigheadedness). Chemistry ain’t cheap though, especially when you buy in bulk.

Speaking of a shortened life – you’ll never guess who showed up on my doorstep again yesterday. The Jesus peddlers, the Jehovah’s Witnesses. These ASL fluent JWs stopped by a couple times before. I made it clear right from the get-go that I was NOT interested in their religion BUT I enjoyed the ASL practice.

THAT was a mistake – they viewed it as a opening. The second (or third) time they dropped by was nine years ago, right after The Amazing Bob died (no, they were unaware). I told them it was a bad time, I wasn’t up for company as I’d just lost TAB. These carnivorous fucking social reprobates heard that and went in for the conversion kill. Lemme just tell you folks, there is NO better way to lift me out of depression than to make me angry. Boyhowdy mes amis, come after me like I’m some low rent carnival mark and, babies, you’re gonna reap that whirlwind. Bet. I will NOT be victimized.

Yep, the twats skedaddled and didn’t return. Until yesterday – nine years later. I was on the elliptical (which is by the front door) when Ten answered the doorbell. They said, apparently, that they’d come to see me. I didn’t recognize them and didn’t invite them in – safety first – don’t bring strangers into your home. I was beginning to get a sense of who and what they might be as they began signing. It came back to me that the clueless faccia di culo on the left was the one I’d deservedly berated off my porch almost a decade ago.

What did I do this time? As I slowly got off my elliptical and looked them over, trying to understand what the fuck was going on, I started playing up the tired, deaf, old, lame broad shtick. “Ooooh, Ten honey, I can’t stand” (which was actually true as I’d just finished a 30 minute workout). He wheeled over my rollator like a mobile throne. Once seated, I turned to the woman I more or less recognized (but refused to acknowledge) and asked in a pleasant but all business tone, “so, who are you and what can I do for you?” Ten had brought out my tablet on which the voice to text app Live Transcribe is always running BUT it didn’t pick up either woman’s voice. I choose to believe this was the machine’s conscious choice. This, plus chatter between the women and between the women and Ten went on for a few minutes before the women basically said, I believe, nevermind and vamoosed.

You lose yourself, you reappear
You suddenly find you got nothing to fear

I could have been more direct and ferocious when she said “remember” (one of the few words I lipread). Yeah, I remember your swinish attempt to take advantage of me while I was in the very heart of grief over my husband’s death. I remember your empathy devoid conversion effort. Tell me, do you get paid for each new recruit? I’m an atheist now, hon – that’s the harvest you’ve sown. (okay, that’s just dramatic flourish. I’d be an atheist/agnostic anyway)

Why didn’t I? Eh, I didn’t immediately recognize them and it was more fun to toy with her slowly — watch their faces, obviously uncomfortable and embarrassed, as they hurried away. Asshole? Who me? I like me!

Although the masters make the rules
For the wise men and the fools
I got nothing, Ma, to live up to

My experience with the god bothers yesterday was a small thing. What we’re facing as a nation is huge. The lessons, for me, are the same,

And if my thought-dreams could be seen
They’d probably put my head in a guillotine
But it’s alright, Ma, it’s life, and life only

Baked

Today is the eighth anniversary of The Amazing Bob’s death. EIGHT YEARS!

I totally understand that it was his time to go and he was ready even. I can wrap my brain around the fact that it’s a mercy he didn’t have to live through the Von ShitzenPantz reality show “presidency,” COVID and Von ShitzenPantz: the Enfecaling years.

Selfishly, I still miss TAB—his humor, knowledge, wit, the way he smiled and his deep gravelly FM radio, midnight jazz DJ voice.

How is it that I’ve happily had Ten in my life for the better part of six years yet I continue to miss TAB? Because grief isn’t some formulaic linear path, that’s why. Also, humans have the ability to do this one really weird trick where we experience different, sometimes wildly divergent emotions and they all exist at the very same time on the very same plane. It can be confusing as hell but so is pineapple on pizza, dark chocolate covered pretzels and Baked Alaska. Amiright or amiright? (you know I am!)

For as much as I hate the cemetery, I’ve been grateful it’s here, too. I miss my wife. It’s easier to miss her at a cemetery, where she’s never been anything but dead, than to miss her in all the places where she was alive.
~ John Scalzi, Old Man's War

TAB’s ashes are mixed within the roots of one of our cherry trees. He’s in the front yard with a sweet view of the water. With my banjaxed balance, I haven’t been able to go out and visit him as much as I’d like. Maybe Jen and Ten can wheel me out there later this morning.
~~~
Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.
~ Neil Gaiman, Coraline

Trump, Trumpism, the totally UNSupreme Court and the fascist Republican Party CAN be beaten.
~~~
These are some songs that have been buzzing my bean recently. Remember, if you will, I lost all my hearing 20 years ago so none of the tune-age is current.

• The Shape of Things, Jeff Beck Group
• Tropical Hotdog Night, Captain Beefheart
• Exposure, Robert Fripp, Peter Gabriel, Terre Roche
• Feed the Tree, Belly
• Still…You Turn Me On, Emerson, Lake and Palmer
• Even Flow, Pearl Jam
• That's When I Reach for My Revolver, Mission of Burma
• Mission Impossible Theme Song, Concussion Ensemble
• Baba O'Riley, The Who
• Straight Up, Paula Abdul
• Immigrant Song, Led Zeppelin
• Mr. Music Head, Adrian Belew

Also, in the Oh PUH-LEEZE lyrics category we have Closer to Fine by The Indigo Girls:

And I went to see the doctor of philosophy
With a poster of Rasputin and a beard down to his knee
He never did marry or see a B-Grade movie
He graded my performance, he said he could see through me
I spent four years prostrate to the higher mind
Got my paper and I was free

Prostrate to the higher mind? They were in college in the ‘80s, getting undergrad degrees in English at Emory University. While that’s a good school, we’re not talking about the brain-breaking academic ordeals of MIT.

Ahhhh BUT Ray and Saliers pre-address their upcoming drama mamma hyperbole in the very first stanza.

I'm tryin' to tell you somethin' 'bout my life
Maybe give me insight between black and white
And the best thing you've ever done for me
Is to help me take my life less seriously
It's only life after all, yeah

TAB helped me take life less seriously.

Funeral for an Acquaintance

A man I worked with absolute eons ago has died. He was 101 years old and went peacefully while sleeping.

We weren’t close though we worked in the same building for yonks. He was old school and I was trying to grow and learn in a male dominated industry. Women in pressrooms were salespeople at most, not Production Managers.

While it was sweet that Peter told me, on more than a few occasions, that I reminded him of his youngest daughter, it felt as though he couldn’t see past this. That is, as long as he was seeing me as just like his kid, he wasn’t paying attention to what I was telling him about the print work we were trying to produce for his customers. Maybe he took me seriously, maybe he didn’t. I wasn’t exactly the most patient human in my early 30s.

None of this matters now (and hasn’t for 30 years). I could have employed diplomacy and grace. He could have refrained from treating me like a little girl. Neither of us did.

The point is that he lived a long, happy, healthy life. He had a wonderful wife, loads of grands and great grandkids and a shitload of friends. Good for him. I’m sincerely happy he had such a full, wonderful life.

I’m also angry—that doesn’t feel like the right word. I’m, perhaps a bit jealous (?), maybe resentful (?) that he got to live so very long and The Amazing Bob didn’t. I’m peeved (?) that Peter had such tremendous health but TAB didn’t and I don’t. That’s not especially evolved of me but, to be fair to myself, it’s just a petty shadow, not the full picture by a long shot.

Peter Orlando in the radio room aboard the USS ATR-2 in 194

I imagine that his wake and funeral will be huge events. He was dearly loved. The family might need to rent out a coliseum. I mean…fer reals. On top of being a nice guy, he was one of the last veteran’s of D-Day still standing.

Fer Bast's sake, the President of France awarded him the Chevalier of the Legion of Honor,
“as a sign of France’s infinite gratitude and appreciation for your personal and precious contribution to the United States’ decisive role in the liberation of our country during World War II.” (source)

Should I go to the wake? I want to pay my respects but also it’d be nice to see so many people not seen in years.

Is this crass of me? Ultra déclassé? Not cool? Yeah, probably.

I’d like to apologize to a few folks. For what? Having been a rabid wildebeest and just generally socially weird in my early-mid 30s. I’d like to completely avoid a few. Then there are the ones I’d like to embrace and thank for their grace, support and kindness.

I’d like to go but this has the potential to be a MONDO awkward occasion. The last time I saw any of these folks, I had hearing, my face wasn’t twisted with nerve damage and I didn’t need a walker or wheelchair to get around.

I think I probably won’t attend. 

I’m envisioning the co-worker who gave me shit about needing more volume on my phone (he was in charge of the company’s phone system). He attempted to shame me for even mentioning my failing hearing because TAB had REAL health problems—NOT me. Dude, I’m not two dimensional—I can take care of and love TAB and be concerned about my own health AT THE SAME DAMN TIME. Neat, huh?

I’m thinking about the manager I had who mocked my hearing loss, saying, amongst other things, that I had “selective hearing” as opposed to brain tumors that would grow and steal my audio. Yeah dude, nice “jokes” at my expense. When did you become an expert on my auditory system and Neurofibromatosis type 2?

I was completely deaf five years after these boys had their fun.

Yeah, I’m gonna stay home. Maybe donate to some charity in Peter's name.

Tune in, Freak out

One of my bigger fears—losing my mind. I mean, have I not lost enough? C’mon man!

Dementia is not a specific disease but is rather a general term for the impaired ability to remember, think, or make decisions that interferes with doing everyday activities. Alzheimer's disease is the most common type of dementia. Though dementia mostly affects older adults, it is not a part of normal aging. (source)

That last sentence puts my mind and heart somewhat at ease—that dementia is NOT standard operating procedure for aging.

In the first nationally representative study of cognitive impairment prevalence in more than 20 years, Columbia University researchers have found almost 10% of U.S. adults ages 65 and older have dementia, while another 22% have mild cognitive impairment.  (source)

In my current read, The Last Devil to Die by Richard Osman, the husband of one of the main characters is falling deeper and deeper into dementia. Osman paints Stephen’s decline so clearly and empathetically. It’s easy to understand and feel the fear, panic and chasm deep wrenching sadness.

Life is a crisis (a phrase from the book).

It is. There's nothing new and scary happening here—knock on wood. I’m not expecting anything fresh and horrorshow to go down anytime soon. Maybe I’m bummed in advance about this coming summer’s potential brain slice up? Perhaps I’m just feeling the weight of my collective, jam packed vida Loca.

Over the past few days I’ve felt as though I've been experiencing each and every loss, every significant wound as though they were brand-y damn new. It’s as though grief just jumped out of a dark alley, ran me down and stole all my exuberance and vigor. (FYI, grief's a sneaky-ass motherfucker)

Mind, I’m not in any way forgetting or failing to appreciate all my good fortune.

The fact that I had music in my life for 46 years. I completely enjoyed the fuck outta my audio system while I had it. Still…

I had 30 beautiful years with The Amazing Bob. I miss him—I always will.

Kevin Alexander Scott—now gone for longer than he was alive.  How in Winsor & Newton's oil soaked name did that happen?!

So, there have been monumental losses but isn’t that just how life rolls?

Buy the ticket, take the ride...and if it occasionally gets a little heavier than what you had in mind, well...maybe chalk it up to forced consciousness expansion: Tune in, freak out, get beaten.
~ Hunter S. Thompson, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas

Words to live by.

And in the streets, the children screamed
The lovers cried and the poets dreamed
But not a word was spoken
The church bells all were broken
And the three men I admire most
The Father, Son, and the Holy Ghost
They caught the last train for the coast
The day the music died

And they were singin', "Bye-bye, Miss American Pie"
Drove my Chevy to The Levee, but The Levee was dry
And Them good old boys were drinkin' whiskey in Rye
Singin', "This'll be the day that I die
This'll be the day that I die"
Don McLean—American Pie

Apparently, the heavy metal band Disturbed covered Sounds of Silence and it, according to reliable sources, kills. I absolutely loved Paul Simon’s reggae inflected version. A heavy metal one? Goddamn I WANT to hear that. Always disliked the original version—the sappy, overwrought strings were just TOO damn much.

N'est-ce pas?

Opinions and Other Random Bits

The planet Jupiter has 95 moons. 95!!! Io is the third largest of Jupiter’s collection and is a bit bigger than Earth’s single celestial body. Io is the most volcanically active world in the Solar System, with hundreds of volcanoes, some erupting lava fountains dozens of miles (or kilometers) high.

How cool is this? WAY! Could there be life there? If so, it’d have to be made of some intensely strong, resilient shit, eh?
~~~
Most, okay ALL, country music sucks. Mind you, I’ve been deaf for the last 18 years but an epic musical evolution would've had to have gone down during that time for me to feel any different. This is the only music genre where I can find NOT ONE song worth hearing.

While I respect Willie, Dolly, Johnny Cash and The Chicks as righteous humans, I was never inclined to buy their albums.
~~~
Twitter (now X—how utterly uninspired) is a cesspool of morons and ads. Yes, I still check in there on occasion (because there are still a couple folks whose posts I don’t see on Post or Spoutible). Know what I spend most of my formerly-Twitter time doing? Blocking ads and assholes. How do I justify this waste of time? When I see (and then block) the weasel brains, I think “there, I’ve seen an asswipian right winger's opinion. I’m not living in a bubble.”

Having said that, living in a bubble is self care.
~~~
Jason Momoa is mega easy on the eyes—just flat-out gorgeous—but you knew that. The odds of us meeting and hooking up are way fucking south of zero. Even if we met, I would have to turn down the opportunity to make the beast with two backs. Why?  At 6’4” or 5” and 214 pounds of solid muscle, I’m intimidated. Yes TAB was 6’3” or 4” and in wonderful shape. He was not a muscle mountain though. Also, at 44, Jason’s 20 years younger than me. Fer fuck’s sake, I’m old enough to be his mother! //ewww//

I’d rather view Mr. Momoa as I would a fine sculpture. Some people are museum quality art—no touchy the art, just enjoy the view.
~~~
Liquid soap is a scam to sell MORE liquid soap. A bar of soap (at a buck or so per) can last a couple months or longer. A 20 ounce bottle of liquid shower soap (at around seven bucks per) lasts a few weeks. The liquid stuff leaves a residue that takes an inordinate amount of water to rinse off. Also, there’s no real way to strictly limit the amount that comes out of those planet polluting plastic containers either.

Why have I been using it? Remember those years (2020-2022) when I spent too damn much time in hospital and rehab facilities? They had the liquid which, given my fragile and newly disabled state, was easier than bar soap. Now that I’m more able, stable and less of a fall risk, it’s time to switch back. Less waste (of both water and soap), less money down the shower drain, fewer polluting plastic bottles in the ocean and less time spent trying to wash off soap scum.
~~~
What conclusions have I come to after today’s mind wanderings?

• I’d like to visit Io. Maybe in my next life when I’m Wonder Woman. I’ll just zip on over there in my transparent jet for a nice tour.
• Blocking is self care.
  
• I can admire a person but not love their art—the two are not inextricably linked.
• Just because someone is blindingly stunning doesn’t mean I want to bang. Yeah, not even if they’re personality is every bit as beautiful.
• I think it’s time to do some online soap shopping. Maybe I’ll start at LUSH?

The Fourth

Sometimes—okay, all the damn time—I need to listen to my body. Yesterday I’d planned to do a big (for me) walk in the early morning. I still need a chaperone, a just-in-case spotter so I texted Jen at 5AM (of late, we’ve been going out at 5:15) to give her a heads up on my readiness. At 5:10 I texted again—nope, I’m not quite up and at ‘em, how about 6:30 instead. At 6:30 it was raining but supposed to quit by 8:00. Finally, I got my ass out of bed, donned my duds and we were off for walkies by 8:30.

I barely made it down to the seawall, said nope, not happening today, turned me and my rollator around and slothed my way home. I didn’t even do the elliptical later AND I took not one but TWO naps. I guess I needed a day off—I hadn’t taken one in a week AND I’d had quite the active week at that. On three out of six of my exercise days, I clocked over a mile and a half—a first. YEA me!

Ten, busy at the grill

I’m now wondering, how much of my exhaustion was due to those four in two years mega neurosurgeries (from which I'm still recovering), proton radiation and chemo and how much can be laid at the doorstep of age—I'm not, after all, a kitten anymore. How much is due to the time of year, the anniversary of The Amazing Bob’s second, final death? Could my double nap Monday have roots in all three?

Yup, probably. It seems like there are few things in life that have a single, clear cut origin.

Nice thing about this whole late-loss-of-hearing (I was 46 when my auditory system hit the road to nowhere), yesterday was the big Neck-wide Independence Day party. Our normally quiet neighborhood was, to all but me, loud as fuck. On top of rando fireworks being set off, the health center up the street hosted a big, well-attended decorate-your-bike party. I can’t hear them anymore but, apparently, kids are still rambunctious and noisy as all hell. Also, annoyingly drunk adults. Huh.

TAB used to spend July 3rd and 4rth in his study blaring Louis Armstrong while reading and/or writing poetry. The 4rth of July, with all its triggering booms, bangs, kids and drunks was always exquisitely hard for him. Viet Nam memories. Is it just chance that he exited stage left on this much despised holiday or was this his ultimate poetic statement/performance. If I believed in the basic after-life fairy tale, I’d visit a medium, ring my good man up and ask him. He went out with a bang and explosion of color.

Jen took me out for my early (6:30AM) walk this morning along the rubbish strewn seawall. It, honestly, wasn’t as crapped up as in previous years (I imagine the large police, after dark, presence may have had something to do with that). I don’t understand litterbugs. Were these polluters raised by overindulgent, tiny brained parents who neglected to teach them respect for the environment and those of us with whom they share it? I imagine so. They should all fall into a Death Star garbage compactor. Okay, I can name a whole slew of asswipes who also deserve this fate, starting with Coca-Cola Company, PepsiCo and Nestlé who are ranked as the world's top plastic polluters for the 5th consecutive year.

I  want to be bioluminescent like a crystal jelly or a firefly squid. I think that’d make up for having lost TAB AND my hearing, wouldn’t it? No, probably not.

Things

SOME, by no means all, of my random tiles

Despite all the weight I’ve lost (and am still shedding) and the strength I’m building, I still have unattractive, chubby looking knees. This is distinctly unfair and causing me some distress. I’d like to speak to the manager.
~~~
Ten is in the last quarter of the kitchen rebuild. He’s replaced the ceiling, laid most of the new floor, upper and two lower cabinets are in. Next up—sink, dishwasher stuff. I’ve picked out countertops and we have an installer lined up. What to do about backsplash? Do we use some/all of the tiles I’ve collected over the years or buy recycled glass tiles to match the countertops?

Decisions, decisions.
~~~
I believe that my Christmas Cactus needs a new name.  Why? Maybe my trés pretty plant isn’t a Christian. Quite possibly, like me, it’s agnostic and resents being named after a once religious, now capitalist holiday (it can be argued though, that capitalism IS, in fact, a religion).

Its scientific moniker is Schlumbergera kautskyi—kind of a mouthful. Maybe I should just call it Gary?

Gary used to only come into bloom around Santa Claus time. Now? It sprouts bright pink flowers whenever it damn well pleases. I have no complaints about this but it further points up the fact that Gary’s been misnamed.
~~~
Having just finished Louise Penney’s twelfth offering in her Inspector Gamache series (A Great Reckoning), I’m between books…again. I’ve got six books on hold at the library but the soonest any of them are available is two weeks from now. Fer fuck’s sake, I CAN”T WAIT THAT LONG!

John Scalzi’s next (Starter Villain) won’t be out until September. Will the Boston Public Library have it right away? How long will the wait be?

Considering that I read like some folks eat popcorn and/or binge watch Andor or Wednesday, I really do need to expand my stable of go-to authors. Yes, this would be much easier if I still bought books instead of relying exclusively on the BPL.
~~~
Nothing new to report on the Cake front. Our boy hasn’t attempted to explore the great, yet scary, outdoors again since his little B&E (break and exit) the other week. I think, in his pre-Valhalla life, he spent more than enough time on the streets. Now, not only does he have a comfy cot (okay, it’s mine but we share), he gets three squares a day plus snacks, playtime and all the naps. Cake is ten now—I think he’s left his adventuring behind. Considering that I’m unable to chase him around the neighborhood, like Coco when she’d do her bold daredeviltry, this is good.

Seven years ago today The Amazing Bob died for the first time in the space of a week. I can't believe it's been seven entire years. Pretty sure I'm gonna need to hit Fratelli's for some solace bestowing cake.

Two Words

Cèilidh
[ kay-lee ]
     noun
a party, gathering, or the like, at which dancing, singing, and storytelling are the usual forms of entertainment.

Apart from parties that Jen, Oni and I held when we, (including TAB) lived in Cambridge (TAB and I on the 2nd floor of a triple decker, Jen and Oni on the 3rd), I’ve never cared much for big hullabaloos. I feel a ridiculous pressure to chat entertainingly—to be a regular Dorothy Parker or Fran Leibowitz.

Before TAB and I moved in together, I had a few themed gatherings in my tiny studio apartment—pumpkin carving, Easter egg painting, movie watching (on my microscopic black and white teevee)—activity focused events. If no one had anything to say, well, we could talk about what we were painting on our eggs or what expression, scenes or patterns should appear on our pumpkins. Watching a movie? No need to talk.

In my solo travels around Scotland and Ireland, I went to a few cèilidhs. The best one was in a small pub on the Aran island of Inis Mór. What made this one glorious was that everyone in the joint knew or knew of each other and they welcomed me to join in. They were buskers on holiday before the big tourist season kicked in. I didn’t need to start conversations, introduce myself, make awkward chit chat—the musicians, artists, storytellers, puppeteers and others were all already on it. I was subsumed by this happy party beast made up of so many fascinating people. We asked each other questions, told tales of our respective travels. I’d just met these folk but felt utterly comfortable. Singers would stand and sing a tune a capella. Someone would get up and spin a yarn or two. The whole crowd would break into song. Brilliant!

Deafness was years away at that point.

The Cambridge parties were always a gas with friends from all different corners of our lives. There was big (recorded) music, dancing, convos and wondrous eatable’s courtesy of Jen and Oni (Cook? Me? Oh my no, that’s inadvisable). These shindigs weren’t like the Inis Mór cèilidh—they held a different sort of unbridled joy.

TAB did NOT enjoy parties and that was okay. After coming up to greet guests he would saunter back downstairs to read, watch teevee and chat with friends who sought him out.

Quaere
[ kweer-ee ]
     verb
ask; inquire (an imperative used to introduce or suggest a question).

Used in a sentence?

Quaere, will the insanely negligent parents of the Michigan 15 year old (now 16) who shot and killed four of his fellow students (injuring six other kids and a teacher) with his daddy’s semi-automatic be held accountable for their role in the slaughter?

Used in another sentence?

My wonky left eye is red this morning; quaere, does this mean I'm now in for the orb shutting surgery I'd so narrowly escaped just four months ago?

Six

Six years ago this evening, The Amazing Bob shuffled off this mortal coil.

In the gardens of memory, the palaces of dreams, this is where we will meet.
~ Lewis Carroll, Alice Through the Looking Glass

Today is also the 160th anniversary of the first time Carroll told Alice's adventures to Lorina, Edith and Alice Liddell.

No one is actually dead until the ripples they cause in the world die away.
~ Terry Pratchett

Unable are the loved to die. For love is immortality.
~ Emily Dickinson

Me and TAB in our early days.

If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character, would you slow down? Or speed up?
~ Chuck Palahniuk

Grief is a most peculiar thing; we’re so helpless in the face of it. It’s like a window that will simply open of its own accord.
~ Arthur Golden

Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.
~ Dr. Seuss

I will not say: do not weep; for not all tears are an evil.
~ J.R.R. Tolkien

It's so curious: one can resist tears and 'behave' very well in the hardest hours of grief. But then someone makes you a friendly sign behind a window, or one notices that a flower that was in bud only yesterday has suddenly blossomed, or a letter slips from a drawer... and everything collapses.  
~ Colette