Dragging it out

As you know, we recently visited our Kentucky family to meet our great grandchild. What you don't know is they took us to a Star Wars themed drag brunch. OMG, was THAT fun.

It's a new world, a better world when your daughter, granddaughter, and future granddaughter-in-law take Grandpa and Grandma to a drag brunch. I had to laugh when R texted me and asked if we'd like to go. My response? "Are ya kiddin'? YES!" For some reason, she wasn't surprised. 

As each one sashayed past our table, we whooped it up and handed them tips. I was overcome with grandmotherly love for all the performers. Since I was sitting at the end of the table I was able to I tell each one either "You are my favorite" or "You look beautiful!"  Okay, make me say it, I threw a few kisses, too. 

Bedpan Politics

Lest you mistake me for a good person, let me confess a sin.

I did something that might be a wrong, or at least not politically right-on. It has to do with hospital bed pan politics. I found the bedpan experience humiliating while I was in the hospital. The nurse who helped me the first time was wonderful, and she joked me through it.

The second time I had to "go" she was off duty and a young male nurse came to help me. I kindly told him I wanted a female nurse to help me with the bedpan. He seemed fine with that, but the female nurse who came in gently scolded me, saying that the male nurse was fully trained and could do these things. I imagine she didn't appreciate the extra work, and I can understand that. However, I tend to think anything that involves another person's involvement with my body is about me, first and foremost.  

Of course he could do that task. He was extremely competent, and very kind. But his technical ability was not the issue, was it? I'm an older woman who has been pricked, prodded, and poked by strange medical men my entire life. I draw the line at going to the bathroom.

Later I apologized to him, and attempted to let him know it wasn't a judgment about his abilities, it was about my still having a choice in a very intimate and private experience. I don't think he was buying it. He was thinking about himself.  I was thinking about myself. Oh well, as long as I am able to speak up for myself, I win.

I'm quite sure I would do the same thing again. I wish I was more open and accepting of these things, but I am not. And for crying out loud, this was about me exerting some semblance of control over my broken body.

If you think I was wrong in doing this, I hope you will feel comfortable telling me in the comments. I don't mind being wrong, and I can take a punch. More than anything, I want to know right from wrong.

Some people make me sick

I'm currently sick of interacting with people and need a break from reality. 

I am not a misanthrope, au contraire!  I like people very much. I am a social being, and I care deeply about society. I am able to forgive, and I trust easily. I admit my mistakes and apologize when I lose my temper. When younger, I had an endless capacity for love.  Or perhaps it was simply an endless capacity for the bullshit of others.  I dunno.  Hard to differentiate.

At any rate, I am cranky and snippy. I have just alienated a person with my bad temper and I feel bad about it.  However, she still makes me sick. 

I hate when I do this.


"Speak when you are angry and you will make the best speech you will ever regret.”
― Ambrose Bierce

The Venus of Willendorf in Blue Jeans

My husband and I dug up and divided Louisiana Irises this morning.  I was gloriously filthy by the time we were done. The sunscreen I slathered on my face was smeared with dirt and sand. Yes, sand. That is what is REALLY supposed to be on the ground here, sand.  Demon developers came along and dumped dirt upon this land. Then they set about to destroy the primeval beauty of Florida with endless housing developments and soulless gated communities. But I digress. Different post.

Starting again: My blue jeans were covered with dirt and mud. What to do? I simply turned on the hose and sprayed myself down with water. Easy peasy. I'm getting too old to struggle trying to finesse these housewifery things. Jeans dirty? Stand outside and hose 'em down.

After both my showers (...) I went in to check my social media pages. I recently joined a FB group called Crones of Anarchy. Hilarious name, but the site leaves much to be desired before it could truly represent anarchistic crones. I know a few. They could eat these pretenders, baked in a pie. 

Synchronicity being what it is, I found this post on the Crones of Anarchy page:

Stop wearing jeans?  As the song goes, "That'll be the day-ay-ay, when I die!"

Martini Glasses

I am in love with martini glasses and I'm not ashamed to admit it. If they weren't so small, I would drink every liquid I consume out of one. I could use a bigger one, but the small martini glasses are the ones that I admire. Visually, they are nearly perfect. They are elegant to hold, easy to sip from, and make me feel like I am misbehaving. That's always a great feeling, right? Trust me when I say it is especially potent after one has reached a certain age. 

Actually, I like all bar glasses and tools. I once owned a vintage glass shaker that one of my sisters bought for me at an antique store. It was the embodiment of 1950's cool. The glass shaker had measurements marked off in red and black. It was topped by a battered metal top and required a separate strainer to pour the cocktail through into the glass. Of course, I broke it. Now I use a stainless steel shaker that I also love.  I won't break this one. 

Yeah, I drink pink, girly drinks.  So what?