Being Home

We have been living in this house for a little over two years, and in Central Florida for 2 1/2. I love being close enough to my daughter and her family to babysit and go to school functions for the grandchildren. I like living someplace where it never snows and palm trees grow. I am also fascinated by alligators. My life is full to bursting and I am happy with this big change. 

However, I won't lie. In the past 3 years I retired, gave up my work persona, moved from the liberal north to the conservative south, and left our old home with acreage, dark forests, and beloved perennial gardens. In Florida we became strangers in a strange land. We adjusted to a different climate, learned about different flora and fauna, and started living in a freakin' neighborhood in a subdivision, dontcha know! 

Happy or not, I had a hard time adjusting to all these changes. Change can be traumatic. T and I had too many big life changes in a relatively short amount of time. He can roll with the punches, but it takes me a while to recover AND I want to hit back. It was probably not the best way to manage the first months of retirement. Still, it has been worth the struggle.

I expected it to be hard. I have been through big changes before. The knowledge of what to expect helped me prepare for and cope with this move. From experience I knew the unfamiliar would eventually become familiar if I just waited long enough. I did. It has. 

Like almost everyone else in the U.S.A., I descend from pioneers and immigrants. I recently read that trauma has a generational impact on families. The desire to move far away and start over is probably encoded in my DNA. I crave change even as I fear it. I have moved (or changed jobs) many times, always excited and happy to be starting over. This, in spite of the fact that I always know it won't be easy and will probably push me over the edge.

I grew up in Northern Indiana. My family moved to the Pacific Northwest when I was in middle school, and then we moved back to Northern Indiana three years later. I took off for San Francisco at 18, when that was the thing to do. With a few notable stops and starts in between, T and I, with toddler M in tow, eventually ended up in The Finger Lakes Region of New York State. We settled in, building an adult life and raising our daughter. I am not sure how well we managed the adult thing, but we did manage to raise our daughter. Then we retired and like all good New Yorkers we moved to Florida. I am not convinced this is our last move together.

I just tried to count up all the homes I have lived in during my life. I am only referring to the places I actually moved all my belongings into. I came up with 26. I might try writing about some of these homes. It would be fun, with plenty of social and cultural history.

This is a big country, and the last thing you would call it is homogeneous. It is a country of diverse regionalism. I find regionalism interesting, even though it is complex, often unwelcoming, and sometimes dangerous. I like to imagine having had the experience of living from sea to shining sea gives me an edge of sorts. I want to explore that edge without falling off the end of the world.

Maiden, Mother, and Crone

I recently read a review for The Lightning Tree, a book by Emily Woof. The last sentence of the review said "...she succeeds in conveying the 'infinity of moments' that make up a lifetime."

Well, THAT scared the ever lovin' crap outta of me! I know it was meant to do otherwise. I realize the reviewer was reaching towards his/her best truth. In fact, it was a good sentence. However, I wonder if the concept of "a lifetime" is flexible, depending on your age?

I am going to tell you my theory on all this and (be forewarned) I will generalize like crazy. None of it will be new or insightful. Like on Battlestar Galactica, this has all happened before and it will happen again. Here goes.

When you are young a lifetime seems mostly ahead of you. The idea of building a life is formidable, but also exciting. I like to think time is meant to be filled with joy and wonder. The young still seem to know that. Youth is about hope, anticipation, and energy. You learn about yourself and so much more. If the young tend to romanticize the future, it is their right. Youth is a dangerous, wonderful, adventurous stage.

Middle age is when you might consider your accomplishments and bask in your strength, or vice versa. You've probably had your ass kicked a time or two. In middle age people are a bit more savvy. A lifetime is no longer an idea, it has become a concrete reality. Middle age is when you finally figure out the mechanics, the process of living a life. At this point a person is usually sustained by responsibilities, duties, and love. Middle aged people are busy, busy, busy. It can be a stable, fulfilling time in a life. 

Older people know they are living on borrowed time. They realize there is an end to all this. If you are lucky enough to retire you eventually find yourself freed from routine distractions. Old age can be messy, fraught with physical limitations, health issues, money worries, and unresolved fears. Oh yeah, and sometimes you leak. However, your time is your own.

I am not really "old" yet, but I am no longer middle aged by any stretch of the imagination. As I age, I begin to think old age has more in common with youth than with middle age because time has that lovely transcendent quality I was too busy to notice in middle age. Now I have time, once again, to experience the moment with eyes wide open. Old age is a glorious and terrifying time of life. It depends on the person to balance that conflict. It is a struggle, I'll tell you that.

So when I read a sentence like "...she succeeds in conveying 'the infinity of moments' that make up a lifetime" I am not thinking, "Oh isn't that a beautiful thought?" Nor am I thinking "Hmmm, I'll have to remember that one when I have a few moments to reflect."  I am thinking "Holy Shit! A lifetime has a lot of moments to live through, but they are definitely not infinite."  

Yep, winter is coming.

Like a Hurricane

I slept through Hurricane Hermine last night. I guess it has been downgraded to a tropical storm now, but it is still a monster storm front on the move. Orange County was never in danger of a direct hit, like up in the Panhandle. I keep checking the blogs of some folks who live up there to see what they have to say, but no updates yet. I imagine they lost power. I sure hope power outages are the least they have to deal with this morning.

Although it was listed as one of the 51 counties on emergency alert, we were at the extreme lower edge of Hermine's path. The worst we had to fear were tag along tornadoes, high winds, and rain.  Growing up in Indiana, I am used to tornado warnings; however, I knew what to do up North. I am not sure what one can do to protect themselves down here where people do not have basements. Any helpful comments would be appreciated for future reference. 

We did get 4 1/4 inches of rain in our pool over night. The pool water is now a sickly green and Cuban tree frogs are croaking outside the screened in area, determined to find a way in so they can inhabit this new, pond-like pool. There is still more rain to come throughout the day. T will wait until it is all over before shocking the pool back into submission.

Speaking of Cuban tree frogs, they are the absolute worst. One made its way into the attic last night. As we were going to bed it fell from the ceiling vent at T's feet. They are so creepy. T went to get something to deal with it, but when he got back he couldn't find it anywhere. It is still in this house somewhere. We have covered the drains, etc. You REALLY do not want those suckers (literally and figuratively) to get into your plumbing. They can do real damage. 

Ick. I HATE knowing that it is inside my house right now. 

A Cuban Tree Frog
Don't let the surreal cuteness fool you, these are vile creatures,
an invasive species that will damage your plumbing AND they
are killing off all the nice, polite native frogs. 

Counting Calories: 7 weeks

I have been counting calories for 7 weeks and I have lost 10 pounds.  As I heard once in a Weight Watchers meeting, if you hold up two 5 pound bags of potatoes you get an idea of how much 10 pounds weigh. If only the weight I lost equaled the mass of those bags of potatoes. Then I could be done with this counting calories thing. 

10 down and only 35 more to go...  Aaack.  Considering how averse I am to actually dieting and how much I LOVE food (and, okay, wine), I figure it might take me a whole year to lose 20 more pounds. That means it may take me up to two years to reach my final goal weight. I am actually good with that scenario. Slow and steady wins the race, right? Of course, the longer I do this the better chance I have of making healthier eating habits become permanent. 

Don't worry! I am not trying to be thin. I never have been thin, and at 65 thinness is not something I aspire to. That ship has sailed! I am 5'2" and if I reach my goal weight I will be at the absolute tippy top of the healthy BMI for my height. Tippy top is good enough for me. I want to be strong, healthy, and energetic so I can keep up with my grandchildren.

I want to be able to jump up and down and act a fool when our granddaughter grows up and wins an academy award. That's a long term goal.

The little guy, N, expects grandma and grandpa to play tag with him for crying out loud. And he runs like the wind. My immediate goal is to be able to catch that little stinker. I want to win the game.

Still, if losing weight starts to make my neck look any worse then all bets are off.

See what I mean?  Like the wind

Schmaltz

My last post (The Time) may have been the stupidest thing I ever wrote.  I actually woke up in the middle of the night filled with anxiety about it. I had to get up and add an addendum, hoping against hope that I hadn't already insulted or offended all my readers with my inane ramblings. 

There are days when a woman takes herself a little too seriously. And when I say "a woman" I am using the term in the Game of Thrones drop-dead-gorgeous-assassin sense to mean me, me, and only me.

I usually write a post and then I let it simmer for at least 24 hours. The hope is that I will eventually get it right BEFORE pushing that unforgiving "publish" button. The other day I was just so full of myself that I thought it was good on the first go-around and let 'er fly. Note to self, do not assume you know what you are talking about until you have struggled with the notion for way longer than you want.  

A couple of months ago I shared a rather sentimental music video on Facebook. A dear friend from my wicked youth wrote a comment teasing me about sharing it. She accused me of being schmaltzy. Ha! I had to laugh because she totally nailed me. If I turn my back or relax for one minute the schmaltz enters my body and takes over my mind. It is a constant struggle for control.

From my online dictionary:

schmaltz |SHmälts, SHmôlts| (also schmalz)
noun informal
excessive sentimentality, esp. in music or movies.
ORIGIN 1930s: from Yiddish shmaltz, from German Schmalz ‘drippings, lard.’ (melted chicken fat).

It is such a great word, schmaltz. Perhaps next time we can discuss the word schmutz.  

Jaqen H'ghar - not the least bit schmaltzy

The Time

Oh gee, where DOES the time go? And where does it come FROM, for that matter? These are the thoughts I have in retirement.

It is a helluva thing, Time. Closing in on 65, I figure I've had a lot of it. I hope to have more, of course. However, if something happened to end my time I would go out knowing that I have had a long and eventful life. I would have very few regrets.

But would I change anything? Would I go back, knowing what I know now and do things differently to avoid pain or hardship? Sure.

Then I wonder if I would have had as many adventures, victories, or just plain "Yes!" moments to remember. Who would I be if I had been able to avoid pain or struggle? Just how does this work, living a life?  

Afterthought/added after original post:  
And what of disease, trauma, and violence? These do no one any good.  I would change those things if I could.  

My footprint in the sand at St. Augustine Beach, August 2016.

Keeping House

I am not the best housekeeper in the world. I got the slob gene from my mother, although I am not really in the same league as her. She was an heroically bad housekeeper, especially as she got older. Sagas were sung! My siblings and I (and older nieces and nephews) tell stories about her house and we all laugh with great fondness and then shake our heads sadly. She just didn't care.

I was a little embarrassed by the clutter in her house, but I also got a kick out of her. She never took on that 1950's wifey clean-demon persona.  She was a complicated woman. Geez, I miss her!

Still, I keep a cleaner, neater house than she did.  She was a bit of a pack rat. The clutter in her house was over the top. I don't want my grandchildren telling stories about how messy my house was in 40 years. So I make the effort, the great sacrifice of time; however, I don't enjoy it and I don't go the extra mile. So there! I am a "perfunctory" house cleaner. I do a good enough, basic job. I like to imagine we pass as normal most days. I hope I'm not kidding myself.

You would think in retirement, one could at least keep up with these things. I try, but I have so little interest. I envy people who read Martha Stewart magazine and try to make everything beautiful. I admire those who have a day of the week for specific household tasks, who are organized and "keep up." I get it.  I appreciate it.  I just don't have it in me. Oh well.

A corner of my quilt/computer room right this very minute! Aaaack! I need to file.

A Case of You

My husband, T, and I have a lot in common. We are from similar working class socioeconomic backgrounds. We grew up in the same hometown in Northern Indiana and had many of the same friends as teenagers. We are both 3rd children. We share the same politics and have similar senses of humor. Neither of us are particularly romantic. 

Beyond that, there are differences. He was raised a casual Protestant, I was raised a devout Catholic. He likes mustard and I like ketchup. He likes IPA beer. If I must drink beer, I prefer German Hefeweizen, but I have a wheat allergy of sorts and if I eat or drink too many things made with wheat I will break out with eczema on my fingers and around my eyes. If I then stop eating wheat for a while the rash goes away. Very strange. I love wheat (think bagels) and so I periodically play with fire by eating it. I can't help myself. If T had a wheat allergy I am pretty darn sure he would never eat it again.

One of the biggest differences is the way we view the world.  He makes assumptions. I don't trust the world enough to assume anything. In our day-to-day life he rolls with the punches, I am consumed by blocking every move. He trusts everything will be okay. I anticipate every potential problem and try to find ways to avoid trouble before it starts. He is laid back. I am a nervous *&^%! wreck. He thinks I worry needlessly and I think he doesn't worry enough. 

And so it goes, and so it has gone for a long, long time. This year we are celebrating 45 years together. We were both wild and crazy kids when we married at 19. Nobody thought it would last. 

Relationships are difficult. It is hard to reconcile the fundamental differences between two cohabiting people for an extended length of time.  Obviously it takes compromise and mutual respect. Love is a given. Trust is important. You have to accept your partner for who they are, not for who you want them to be. But I think if there is a secret to a long and happy marriage it is "liking" your partner as much as you love him/her. 

You can love someone and still not like him or her very much. It happens. Love is personal and deep. Human beings are complicated. As the song goes, sometimes "love hurts." "Like" is conditional on compatibility and joy. I love that man like nobody's business, but we are not two hearts that beat as one. We have two separate hearts that beat for each other. And I really like him a lot.




I think she should have stayed with him...

I will have sporadic access to the internet this week, but will respond to comments as soon as I am able.  Cheers.

Nostalgia

I am feeling nostalgic this morning.  A number of the bloggers I read have been writing about the the shared past of our extraordinary generation.  If you participated in the wild times, stood alone and beholden to no parent, trusted wholly in the universe to see you through, then you know what I mean. 

I think we of a certain age are sometimes reluctant to write the truth of our youth. Will we shock our children, our grandchildren? Probably, but I wonder if it is ever wise to hide the truth?  It was an amazing time, seductive and transcendent. 

Staring my self down

I've been counting calories for 24 days. I have been exercising (biking, walking, swimming) and as of a week ago today, I have lost 7 pounds. Of course those were the easy, first 7 pounds. 

I don't know about your body, but once mine realizes the Hunger Games have begun she throws those first 7 pounds off like wool blankets on a summer night. My body gives those pounds up quickly and graciously as if to say, "Here my sweet, you've done enough. Good job. Now give me some food, dammit." When I continue to withhold large quantities of sugar, bread, ICE CREAM and alcohol my body gets mad. She fights back. I withhold food, she withholds weight loss. It becomes a standoff, a game of chicken. Who is going to blink first?

This is a dangerous point in a diet. You really have to want to lose weight more than you want to eat. Just to be clear, I never want to do anything more than I want to eat, so this is a conundrum. I must reframe the dynamic. Let's see, perhaps I want to win more than I want to eat? Yeah, sure. So that's how I try to get through it.

The time period after the initial water weight loss reminds me of the first couple of months with a new baby when you give, give, give and get nothing much in return. Eventually the baby smiles, laughs, and learns to play and all that effort is worthwhile. The baby in this scenario is the scales.

If you can outlast your body during these stubborn plateau periods, she will eventually surrender some more weight. Really, it is simple math when you are counting calories. You just have to think in terms of weeks or months instead of days. Right?  Please tell me I'm right. 

Of course, my body is a stingy, passive aggressive Miss Thing. Sometimes she'll only give up a half a pound. If that. Some weeks I try so hard and she slaps me upside the head with a weight GAIN.  She doesn't play fair. She wants me to give up.  She is a worthy opponent. I'm kinda scared.

S&J's Tree Face looking like I feel right now

Mad as Hell

I hate to admit it. I really do. But maybe a confession is in order. Although I most definitely voted for Barak Obama twice in the past 8 years, I am ashamed to admit the first time I voted for him I did not like him. Why?

I have been a feminist since the late 1960's and I have been waiting patiently for a smart and politically savvy woman to have a clear shot at becoming president. I was pumped up and flying high when Hillary Clinton stepped forward to run. She was my senator when I lived in NY State; in my book she was a fabulous senator. I knew she was the one. "We" finally had a chance. I was angry when this bright young man stepped in. I knew he was smart, I knew he was principled, I knew we were going to be in good hands with him in charge. I was psyched and heartened to know we were finally going to have a president who was also a person of color. I loved the youthful and progressive energy that surrounded his campaign. But I was still seething with anger because MY candidate didn't win. As if it as all about ME. Sheesh, sometimes I just can't stand myself. 

I was so freakin' angry that I actually refused to watch his speeches for YEARS. Yep, I'm a big baby. I couldn't even say his name with out spitting the words out, kind of like Jerry Seinfeld's reaction to Newman. My husband, a stalwart Obama supporter from the get-go, wondered if I had lost my mind. It took me 3 years to warm up to him. Obama, that is. Well, maybe my husband, too. Three wasted years of stubborn anger and miserable bitterness. Three years when Barak Obama had already hit the ground running and was working hard to pull us out of a recession he did not cause.

Now, I see him as a great president. Not only do I like him, I admire him. Okay, I kinda love him. I have to admit that, perhaps... he was the right person at that point in time to become president. In fact, I wish I could vote for him again, because I would.

I am not proud of my emotional reaction to the 2008 presidential race. That is exactly what it was, by the way, an emotional reaction.  I AM proud that I did and still care strongly about feminism as an issue. The thing is, one can't just care about only one or two issues. Then we stagnate, which only diminishes our cause and makes the world smaller and meaner. We have to see the bigger picture. 

I  hope you all watched President Obama speak last night at the DNC. It was one of the most powerful speeches I have ever seen.

The more things change

Politics stink! Each side would have us believe the world will end if their candidate doesn't win. I understand dehumanizing one's opponent is part of the game. And don't misunderstand me, I feel quite strongly about my own preference for the next president. And okay, make me say it: I don't like her opponent. However, I dislike the "fear and loathing" that politics invoke even more. I have had all I can take. From here on in, I refuse to hate. Can you stand it?

I am amazed when people believe the most outrageous lies that each side spreads about the other. So few of us want to listen to the facts. It is wrong, there is no justification for it. It would be a better world if we all made our political decisions based on our heads (intellect) instead of our hearts (belief system). I'm going to start with me.

I think back to the first presidential campaign I can remember. It was when John F. Kennedy was running against Richard Nixon in 1960. I suppose it is imprinted on my mind because JFK was Catholic and I was a Catholic school girl in 1960. We were all so proud that a Catholic was running for president, which was unheard of at the time. It was a different world and there was still deep distrust for Catholics left over from the freakin' Middle Ages! I am NOT kidding. Hate runs long and deep.

I was Roman Catholic because that was how my mother was raised. Her form of Catholicism was very European. Her grandparents immigrated to the U.S.A. from France and Germany between 1850 - 1860. They settled in a large German Catholic community near Chicago.

My father's people were as Protestant as Protestant can be. His ancestors arrived in the Colonies between 1625 and 1714 from England, Germany, Scotland, Wales, Ireland, and France. My paternal grandparents were raised Southern Baptist in Kentucky and Tennessee. When they moved up North in the 1920's, they joined a Pentecostal Protestant church.

FYI, I am proud of both sides of my family and their historically different but equally profound cultural traditions. Each family had an original immigrant to America at some point in time. I try to never forget that. It was interesting growing up in a complex and diverse family.

My paternal grandfather distrusted Catholics. It was hard for him when his son converted to Catholicism to marry my mother in the 1940's. My paternal grandparents were Democrats until JFK got the Democratic nomination for president in 1960.  Then they became conservative Republicans because my grandfather refused to vote for a Catholic. I guess the idea that a Catholic would run for president made them feel like the world was changing too much. They probably felt threatened, left out. They were used to having leaders who were just like them. They thought if a Catholic became president then he would start persecuting Protestants and the Pope would become the de facto president. It sounds so silly and hard to imagine now, but that was what many people actually "believed" back then.

I was 9 years old. I was trying to understand religion, politics, and family dynamics even though my heart was aching. I was confused and a little frightened to see the people I loved at odds with each other. Luckily, both my mother and my paternal grandmother went out of their way to remain friends. They did their best to reassure us children that no matter who became president, or what church we went to, we would still be a family. It was a great example of how to respect someone you don't necessarily agree with. 

My paternal grandmother was a different age, religion, and political persuasion than me. She was also a huge influence on my life. There was not much we agreed on as I grew older and the 1960's Culture Wars ensued. However, I knew she loved me and I knew there was no ideology or barrier to that love. I also knew not to discuss religion or politics with her. 

Grandma goofing around with two of her granddaughters in 1962

Time for Medicare

Holy Shit! Both T and I will turn 65 soon and we must sign up for Medicare.  Are you one of those people who always thought you paid into Medicare with every paycheck so that health care would be free when you got old?  Wrong.

We retired at 62 with The University’s fabulous health insurance plan. We were lucky to have that policy. We paid a reasonable monthly premium and, if we got sick, we could go to the doctor without breaking the bank. In addition to the reasonable premiums, there was a low co-pay and no deductible.

We’ll be kicked off the fabulous plan when we turn 65. The University requires Medicare-eligible retirees to switch to their less desirable 80/20 Insurance for Retirees as a secondary policy to cover what Medicare doesn't.

1.     MEDICARE AS PRIMARY INSURANCE

What is Medicare?

a.     Part A is “free” in that we spent our entire working lives paying into this fund. However, it is pretty much only for hospital bills.

b.     Part B is for routine medical services (e.g., doctor bills). You have to pay for Part B, so it is optional; however, you’d have to be wealthy, foolish, or poor enough to qualify for Medicaid not to buy into this program. After paying out of pocket for the annual deductible ($166), Part B pays 80% of covered costs.

For most oldsters the Part B premium is $104/month. Since we both turn 65 and sign up for Medicare in the fateful year of 2016 (when there was no Social Security increase) we are instead stuck paying $125/month (each). Don’t ask me to explain why. I don’t understand and I don’t really want to think about it overmuch. I have anger management issues. It is better for everyone if I think of it as simple bad luck.

c.      Part C is an optional “Advantage” program you can pay a private insurer for if you choose.  It then replaces Medicare Parts A and B (and sometimes D) and becomes kind of a super HMO, with similar restrictions on doctor choice. We are not HMO fans so we will not be opting for this.

d.     Part D is the government’s prescription drug program. You can choose to pay monthly for this if you want a prescription drug plan, which is not covered in Parts A or B. In addition to monthly payments, there are co-pays. Luckily, we will not need Part D because The University 80/20 Insurance Plan for Retirees has a decent prescription drug coverage. 

2.     SUPPLEMENTAL INSURANCE

Like I said above, our current fabulous University health insurance terminates when we turn 65.  Boo freakin’ hoo!  The University’s “80/20 Insurance for Retirees” will become our secondary health insurance. It requires a slightly lower monthly premium payment than the fabulous policy, but requires a yearly deductible before it will start paying 80% of the 20% Medicare does not pay. Yes, this is confusing, its not just you.

First there is the 80/20 primary Medicare Part B coverage (after their deductible is met), then 80/20 secondary supplemental coverage (after that deductible is met). I don’t know about you, but thinking in terms of repeating percentages  gives me a headache.

Here is the bottom line: When we 1. sign up for Medicare Parts A and B, and 2. switch to The University's 80/20 Insurance for Retirees we will pay $4,044/year more for health care for the two of us than we used to pay for the fabulous plan. And this does not include co-pays.  Ouch!

I wake up in the middle of the night trying to wrap my mind around this. However, I know it could be worse - we could be a struggling young family with obscenely high monthly health insurance premiums! I feel for them.

We are some of the lucky ones.  We knew this was coming and we will figure it out. We roll with the punches pretty well. We will just have to spend less on other things...

I understand why medical insurance becomes more expensive as one gets older, but I am not sure why it becomes more complicated. I had more brain cells to figure these things out when I was younger.

A brain cell image from the internet! Isn't she gorgeous?
medicalpicturesinfo.com430 × 323

Counting Calories, again

In October 2014, I wrote a post called Counting Calories. If you click on the link and read this older post you will get a pretty good idea how brilliantly effective counting calories is for weight loss, healthy eating, and promoting exercise.

Unfortunately, I am a bit obsessive when I go on a diet. I am a competitive soul, and even when I am only competing against my chubby little (5' 2") self, I fight to win. Everyday I was out on that bike trail burning up calories one by one. If T didn't want to go for a ride, I went by myself.

I was losing weight like gangbusters for awhile until I hurt my foot. How did I hurt my foot? One day it rained and rained and rained. It became apparent that I was not going to be able to go for a bike ride. I was horrified, because if you read my older post you will understand that exercise buys you more calories each day. The more you exercise the more you can EAT, and by all that is holy I wanted to eat. So, instead of riding my bike that day, I cranked up the CD player and danced like a fool for at least 20 minutes.

I forgot I am aging and I forgot I was dancing on a tile floor. My dance frenzy resulted in a small foot injury.  Actually, let's not talk about that foot injury any more. Suffice it to say that I stopped exercising for a couple of months while my foot healed. And in my despair I also stopped counting calories. Of course, over time I gained all the weight back. 

Earlier this week, like Jennifer Anniston, I became fed up with everyone thinking I was pregnant.  Naw, just kidding - nobody thinks I'm pregnant...

Now I am on day 4 of a regimen of calorie counting. The difference is that I have not been exercising. I will start exercising, maybe next week. I cannot handle getting serious about exercising right now. My counting calorie self is still too delicate, too unstable. One thing at a time, please. For now, I am just trying to acclimate to a world where I live within my caloric means and pay attention to what I put in my body for fuel.

I am trying very hard to think about freestone peaches instead of salted caramel gelato.

Back on that righteous path

Summer in the City

It is really hot outside. 

The Lovin' Spoonful, Summer in the City, 1966

Photos from Orlando, 4 July 2016

I went with my daughter to Orlando the other day. We saw the makeshift mementos left after a memorial honoring the people who died in the Pulse Nightclub shooting.   

I was deeply moved by the love and the loss. I was painfully aware of the mementos left behind. They were especially meaningful because many were left by the grieving families and friends of the fallen.

I was struck by all the American flags and patriotic messages at the memorial site. I have not seen that many flags in one place since I was a kid watching a 4th of July parade in the 1950's. I'm not gonna lie, all those flags surprised me.

Most Pulse victims were either immigrants or the children/grandchildren of immigrants. Like most of our ancestors they came here because they wanted to be "free;" they actively chose to become Americans. And apparently, even after great tragedy, the families would still rather be in this large, violent, imperfect country than in their heritage countries.

The pride in Orlando is for being LGBT, Hispanic, a person of color. But it is also about remaining strong in the face of adversity, about refusing to be diminished or dehumanized by hatred, about being free to live one's life without fear or shame. It is still and always about freedom, isn't it? It is still a worthy cause to want freedom to be who you are as long as you don't hurt anyone else.

I understand how political disappointments can sour one's patriotism. Hey, I'm still mad Eugene McCarthy didn't get the Democratic nomination in 1968, and George McGovern in 1972. I can't understand why the NRA fights the ridiculously minimal form of gun control Obama is pushing. I wonder at the support Trump gets whenever he says something that lowers our moral standards. These are just some of the things that have driven me to despair about being an American. But you know, despair is a loser's game. 

Because there is also still, and always, the "Good Fight" we hear so much about. It has everything to do with  "freedom and justice for all." I have been cynical. I took my eyes off the prize.