Waiting

We're waiting. It's that time between John deciding to get his hip replaced and the operation. He's scheduled for Valentine's Day and none too soon. After a week in the office in Memphis, he arrived home Friday night barely able to move. He had to walk everyday from his car to the hotel and from the parking lot to his office. The most difficult walks were in the airports. He has to stop every 50 feet or so to brace himself against the pain. It's bone against bone.

We drove out to the boat today. The sky was clear blue and the air almost warm. We wanted to check on Forte Vento to reassure ourselves that the lines are holding well and that the bubbler is ready for preventing water icing up around her hull. John had to wait, sitting in a chair overlooking the harbour while I walked out to slip. He's side lined.

We wanted to go see an exhibit at the Corcoran, but he can't walk the museum's corridors. He can't stand to view the pictures. He tried to grocery shop with me on Saturday. He had to offset the weight on his hip by leaning heavily on the cart as we strolled through the store to pick up a few things. He pretty much stood while I gathered what we needed.

It's frightful for us. We're learning just how fragile our health can be. It's out of our control. It's not like he did some stupid thing that hurt his body. His hip just broke down. It's genetic. We worry together. But, to worry does as much harm as the fragile health itself. I am optimistic that the surgery will be a success and that my sweet man will recover. We'll be urban hikers once again by mid-April when we are off to London to see our friend Martyn. We will. We will.

Reconnecting

Reconnecting with a childhood friend made my whole body smile today. Rich Clymer, who I've know since second grade, looked me up while visiting his brother here in DC this weekend. In just a few hours, we shared years of memories and laughed at what the 47 years since we graduated from high school has done to our bodies as well as our minds. With a facebook screen in front of us, we went down a long list of classmates -- What happened to her, do you know? What about this guy, is he still alive? What is so and so doing? We filled each other in as best we knew. In the end, our alives have played out differently, but we are both pleased at our choices and looking forward to what the next stage of our lives brings. Thanks Rich. It was a great day!

Understanding where our lives are going

Donald Hall, past Poet Laureate of the United States, wrote in the New Yorker this month (January 23, 2012) about where is life has taken him now that he is 83. Like his grandmother and mother before him, now sits at his window watching his narrowed world of barns, birds and weather and laments his invisibility on becoming of "the old people -- of another world".

I read this article at 2:30 AM last night. It helped me put my work worries into perspective. No matter what I do, in the end, it just won't make much difference in the greater scheme of things -- I, like everyone else who will survive a rapid death, will end up in front of a window waiting for the last of life to past. In the smaller scheme, I do need to do the best I can -- to do no harm -- to be kind -- to keep my friends close while I have them -- and to live each day fully. That way sitting in front the window will make me smile.

The Silly Season

Following the Republican primaries these past months been heartstopping at times. To have so many men in suits (or kakais and one woman) pandering to crowds with language can only drive us farther apart. Any time anyone said anything sensible "the base" rejected the candidate. For example, when Rick Perry said he'd rather make education funding available for illegal immigrant children and children of illegal immigrants rather than create a larger underclass made real sense. It was one position I agreed with "W" on - he understood the need for a sane immigration policy.

Now that Gingrich has won South Carolina, his ability to make his weakenesses into strengths made me sit up and stop laughing when he spouts some new grand idea. I recommend the New Yorker, January 23 article on his wife, "The Good Wife" to understand more about why he his behavior is so off the wall uncampaign-like. I do think Romney, the Republicans Mr. Stiffneck, will eventually be the nominee. Why? Gingrich will eventually say something so out-of-the-box that Mr. Stiffneck will look reasonable to Republicans who have a bit of sanity left in them...so much for being a pundit. But, I am addicted to the following events blow-by-blow. You couldn't write fiction this good.

Back to work

The three day weekend is spent. Tried to use it wisely -- two movies -- Tinker, Tailor, Solider Spy and The Iron Lady; a bit of shopping -- a small red cabinet for the front entrance now sits where the seven year old beat up bargain from Pier I used to reside; a bit of home repair -- wood puttied the door hinge gaps in the archway between the living/dining room and the sitting room; a bit of home cooked dinner -- John roasted lamb and root vegetables; and some exercise -- I dragged myself off to the gym at 8AM for an hour of heart stopping treadmill.

I look forward to the rythum of the office tomorrow -- a selection memo to write; a senior staff meeting to attend; projects to watch over; and strategy sessions to schedule. If the weekend was all that there was, I could not sit about and read all the books I promised myself to read. I would go to work the Arlington Food Center. I must have purpose and that would give me purpose -- until sailing time again and then I don't need purpose. I have the water, the sun and the wind.

What keeps me up at night

It's 3:56 AM and I've been tossing for the past hour. I pulled myself out of bed and came to the living room. First, I did a cross word puzzle; then I logged onto "Words with Friends" and tried to place clever words on the scrabble boards of two games. Still my eyes poke open, refusing to shutter.

Silly stuff seeps out of my mind. It refuses to go into the rinse cycle. It washes ideas out into the air from the knooks and crannies of my brain. Maybe if I write them down, it will calm and let me sleep. Let's see -- should I go to Home Depot tomorrow to return the backsplash samples we have decided not to use? Where would we put our kitchen art that's strung around the space over the counter tops, John asked this evening? He's right. Not the right project for us now. Can we fit all the odds and ends from the old office set up into the new drawers? Maybe we can stow the wire mesh storage drawers into the closet and fill it with tools instead of having them strewn about odd bags and tool boxes. Can we find a small table to place the printer on then so the room can come to gether? Should I have a pot luck dinner next month for some senior staff women from work? Should I cook the main course? Should we start at 6PM or 7? Should I nominate one of my managers for a small reward? How might the staff perceive it? Should I try to exercise more? Can I have the discipline after working more ten hour days? Is it time to see an opthamologist to check my eyes? Might he find the beginnings of cataracts? I can't seem to read for a long time -- my esight get fuzzy, especially when I read from paper and not a screen.

Ok. One more crossword puzzle then it's back to bed. I'll turn on the radio and listen to the BBC. That should put me to sleep.

Winter Weekend

The holiday decorations are put away. The thrill of the new year has settled into "here we go again." It's cold and sunny, but there is no snow on the ground. We sit in front of the fire, watching Sunday Morning, reading the papers. John has his New York Times and I read my favorite pundits in the Washington Post. John is planning a lamb roast with root vegetables. The plants are watered and trimmed, the shelves in John's office are organized, the laundry is done and the bills are paid. Sounds ideal? It should be, but I'm at loose ends. I sit just waiting...waiting for the the weather to warm, so we can return to weekends on the water. I know it's silly. There are museums to tour, art to appreciate, restaurants to linger at, live theatre to see, and shopping to enjoy...and we do, but it's not the same as waking to the sun pushing through the companion way as water birds call across the water. It's not the same as coaxing the sails to catch a light breeze as we head home after a night or two on the hook across the Bay.

Christimas Holiday December 2011



Washington Square

We transversed NYC this year in taxis during our annual Christmas visit. John's hip has done in his ability to walk long city blocks without pain, despite the physical therapy, exercises and numerous joint remedies over the past six months. He's ready to get a replacement and will meet with the doc on January 4th. That said, despite his hip, we had a delightful NYC holiday, complete with mild weather, dinner on 98th Street on the west side with friends, visits with families, visit to the 9/11 memorial, several afternoon movies, two museums visits, several fabulous restaurant meals and a meditative mid-night mass at St. Francis of Assisi on 31st street.  All is well with both families.

Happy Holidays everyone!

That 65th birthday

On November 19 my genetic clock rang out. I received tons of cheerful Facebook messages, but, really, how can anyone be so cheery about becoming an official medicare card carrying old person, complete with chin wrinkles. It's just me and Joanie right now, but on December 4, Holly joins us....then the rest of our class of '65 falls in line.

I know I should welcome this next stage of my life, but that warm and fuzzy mantle of grandma just doesn't bring contentment. From what I've witnessed, this next stage of life -- the golden years -- doesn't live up to those sweet annuity advertisements. I want to eat like I want, but can't without adding inches to my waist. I want to run three miles without getting winded and I don't want my shoulders to feel like they are being pulled out of their sockets every time I pull a pillow around my head. But, most of all, I want elders to look up to, but my elders are dead and people without wrinkles ask me for advice. Who are we kidding here?

But hope is not lost. I got an orgasmic thrill when we bought a new vacuum cleaner last Sunday. It's self-propelled.

Season's end

The first two hours were easy. As light dawned, it was clear that there would be no sailing as we planned. We had to stow ourselves inside for the day. The rain beat on the deck and whipped around around the rigging. The heating kept us from freezing. I woke in the predawn light, threw on all the salon lights, brewed up some tea and read the last of the New Yorker and Sail magazines that had been laying about the boat since the beginning of the season.

By 8:00 I was restless. Ate come cereal then turned to do a bit of internet surfing, write a blog, do some email or read my pick up my Kindle to continue reading my book. But alas, I hadn't brought the laptop or the IPAD or the Kindle. The SIRUS radio brought filled the salon with smooth jazz. I was bored, but not crazy yet.

9:40. I dug out some old cross word puzzles and finished them off by the time John rose and tramped to the head with his cell phone in hand. I couldn't read the paper pages anymore. My sight became fuzzy as I stared at the pages. Am I getting cataracts? I put the day old New York Times down and fell into a mid-morning nap right where I sat.

11:40. Woke to 20 knots gusts knocking the boat around the slip. No harm. Our lines held well. I paced. "I can't stand listening to NPR anymore. I can't do our financial planning, pay bills, shop, write a blog or read my book. I'm going up to West Marine for some bilge cleaner." Bundled in winter foul weather gear, I left the warmth of Forte Vento.

1:00. We clean the bilge. Laying face down on the salon floor, I push rags into the bilge to soak up dirty water and oily residue. John shakes his head, but assists.

2:00. We play 500 rummy. John wins twice. The wild mushroom soup I cooked up from dried mushrooms, but my seasoning was off. It was too, too peppery. However, I rescued the mushrooms, sauteed them in butter and made a toasted cheese and mushroom sandwich with a week old bun. All I had to do was pick off the mold.

4:00. John wanted soup. He was not feeling well. Braving the elements, tromped down the dock again to gather some chicken broth just as the snow started. Errie. It clings to the dock. I almost slip off dock as I made my way back to the boat. Birds flocked all over the marina, perching on rigging. It could have been a scene right out Hitchcock's "The Birds".

9:00. We played more cards -- I won this time. It's all boring so we pulled out the Chapman's and the boat specs to review our winterization work for Sunday.

Sunday am. Sun is bright. Sky blue. Saturday never happened. It must have been a bad dream.

My Crew

With our second sailing season coming to a close, I have to admit that I've got one wonderful crew.  He works the lines, checks the engine, and pumps out the holding tank, and maintains his role as chief chef in the galley. What else could a captain ask for. 

Once a timid sailor, he now sits on the low side of the boat during a close reach in a stiff wind and smiles as if he is enjoying it all.  He's almost convinced, that the boat will not tip over in the wind.  Actually, it won't. If I let go of the wheel Forte Vento will round up and come to a dead stop in the wind, noisily letting the wind bat the sails.  It takes a much stronger wind than we would ever have on the Bay to push her mast into the water.  Even if that did happen, she'd pop right up again, albeit a bit drenched and perhaps with a torn sail.

Last Sunday we had a perfect sail -- 10-15 knots  -- with the wind at our backs headed north toward Thomas Point we had Forte Vento wing on wing -- one sail out to the starboard and one to the port.  A difficult point of sail to maintain so I was proud and my crew was amazed. After a couple of hours we turned into the wind to beat home.  A series of tacks (almost too much exercise for my crew) brought us back into Herrington Harbour -- wind burned, sun burned and tired. 

It was a perfect sailing day -- the day before, on Saturday, the wind was too blustery to even get out of the dock.  So we sat in the sunshine and wind to wax the deck to prepare against the ravages of winter hoping Sunday would bring reasonable breezes and it did.  Autumn sailing is the best!

Using the IPAD with a keyboard

I've been issued this great little keyboard that is also a holder for the IPAD when you put it away. It's thrilling. I'm back to touch typing and all the speed it gives me. Instead of a mouse, I touch the screen to put my curser where I need it. It works well. Now, I just have to figure out how to save my list of passwords (an excel spreadsheet) that sits nicely in the file structure on my windows laptop. IPAD has no file system. I'm sure my favorite engineer will have a solution.

Autumn Pesto Making

The basil plant begins to sag a bit and the bottom leaves fade to yellow.  Autumn is here and there is no time to loose in making the last batch of pesto before the previously vibrant plant dies.  There is probably a different pesto recipe for every family in Italy.  No two are exactly alike and it takes some time to find one that suites your tastes buds.  John and I found ours -- it calls for a two to one ratio of basil and parsley, a goodly portion of roasted pine nuts and the garlic cloves of a whole head heated in a cup of olive oil, finished off with a combination of Parmesan and Romano cheeses.  Our 15 year old Cuisinart mixes up a nice consistency, but not quite paste, in the end. 

Sunday was the day -- I made two batches.  Neatly stored each batch in three freezer containers.  We'll never eat it all.  They make tasty gifts for friends and colleagues.

Neither batch was the best I've done.  They were good, but not marvelous. I think it was the olive oil.  It was a bit too light in flavor.  However, as pestos go, I'd give it a B+.  The flavor certainly didn't stop us from slathering it on a piece of crusty white bread for a taste test.  Somebody has to do it, right?

Finishing Sailing the Chesapeake in September

Wednesday:
The weather did not get better this morning. As we left the slip and motored over to the gas dock and pump out station, the rain drissled down on us and clouds hung on the water. Pump out issues ensued. Their pump was most tempermental. It was only through the banking, clanking and nudging of an ol dude that had a beard and belly reminensent of Hemmingway, did we finally clear our holding tank.

An hour's motor up the Patuxent River and into St. Leonard's Creek brought us to an enchanting anchorage. The rain stopped, the clouds parted and we enjoyed a bit of sun as we lounged on deck, ate lunch and watched the wild life on shore.

Thrusday:
Our original plan was to motor back down the Patuxent on Thursday morning to another enticing anchorage at Cukhold Creek half way back to the 140' bridge over the river at Solomon's Island. However, the weather report guaranteed rain all day on Friday and into the weekend. Our eyes met, not in a romantic gaze, but in the frustrated realization that our plans to head north to the Little Choptank River at Fishing Creek for one last overnight stay and then on Saturday back to the dock at Herrington Harbour North had to be abondoned. Before 9AM we took off for home. We were going to get back to the dock today -- Thursday -- no matter how long it might take.

No wind, misting clouds, glassy gray water and out of focus land surrounded us for the first three hours. Only the burnt sienna sandstone sediment of the Calvert Cliffs broke through the grayness. About 12:30 while standing watch, letting the auto pilot control the boats movements, I noticed the wind at our backs was picking up a bit. With a bit of urging, John put up the sails and we were able to spend the rest of the day sailing home on a smooth broad reach and reach requiring only one jibe. No sunshine, but we were sailing!

Friday:
As we slept in dock that night, the rain began to fall and continued into Friday. We packed up and left for home by noon.

Was it a good vacation? Yes, we both let go of our stress over work and enjoyed cooking, doing a bit of sailing and just being together. Was it a good sailing week? Hardly, but there three days of sailing is better than non sailing and the weather did not get cold enough to require the weather proof foul weather gear. We declared the venture a success.

Sailing the Chesapeake in September

Sunday morning:
It was a grey and gloomy ordeal crossing the Bay from Herrington Harbour in Tracy's Landing (20 miles south of Annapolis) to the Little Choptank River.  We went where the wind would let us sail.   And sail we did with 10-15 knots with a few gusts to 20.  It was a single reach and the wind was kind enough to let us sail  round the serious series of green marks that led the way to Fishing Creek. We swore we would not motor on our first day out and we did not. 

We thanked the sea gods that it didn't rain.  It didn't rain because we bought $420 worth of waterproof foul weather gear, complete with bib overalls.  Turned out to be just the insurance we needed.  If the sun had been out, it would have been a grand and glorious sail. 

Monday morning: 

The sun shown through the hatches.  We rose, stretched and I cooked us a farmer's breakfast.  We had decided to take advantage of the bright day and light wind to cross the bay going south to Solomon's Island at the mouth of the Patuxent River. Before we could leave we had to retrieve, so John, in proper crew glory, stepped on the windlass up button.  Nada, nothing.  Just a burping noise of gears rolling but not engaging.  He huffed, puffed and finally pulled the anchor up hand over hand.  Not too bad if the anchor isn't buried too deep or you don't have 15 feet of chain just before the anchor   (all of which is good protection when being at anchor).  He had both.  John thought he was going to have a heart attack when it was all over.  Getting old is a bitch.

Sail was excellent until the wind died half way down the Bay, so I fired up the iron Jenny (aka engine) and motored to Solomon's Island.  We took two nights at dock at a local marina, walked to what there is of a down town, and ate rock fish tacos. 

Tuesday morning:
John found that the windlass motor had disengaged from the gears and had fallen onto the interior panel in the V berth (aka pointy end).  The panel screws were stripped.  After several pictures and discussions with our boat engineer back in Harve d' Grace, we decided it required repair way beyond our skill sets so John will have to haul the anchor by hand for the rest of the trip.  He's resigned to the task.

Today we took advantage of the access to land to visit the Calvert Marine Museum. If you like boats, boat building, crabbing and oystering, and fossil hunting, this is the museum for you.  Full of volunteers always willing to chat about their various projects, we wandered and listened to histories and tales.  We climbed the Drum Point light.  Put John's hip on resuscitator status, but he thought it was well worth it.  He was so excited that he came back to the boat, took two Ibuprofen and a long nap.  Oh, what a life in the slow lane.

IPad Testing Continues - Day 2

This morning was the test for VMware to access my agency protected network.  The sign-in went fine once I typed the password correctly, but when I brought up my email, the font was so small it was difficult to get my fat fingers to touch the screen to place the cursor. (I'd forgotten how to change the font size).  Undaunted, I pulled out my IPhone stylus.  It worked better than my finger so I was able to open and delete messages and edit text. 

Typing was less painful today as I went directly to the two finger method and watched the keys carefully.  This of course was after I remembered how to bring up the keypad in VMware.  I shouted at the screen "Where's the keypad" until my little gray cells told my finger to tap the little black box at the top of the middle of the screen. 

VMware for the IPad is only partially for the IPad.  The ability to scroll by swishing a finger doesn't work.  I had to touch the scroll bar -- which does not touch and pull easily. I turned to stylus again, but still it was a frustrating effort.  Looks like a basic lesson is scroll bars is needed and some practice on my part. 

Quite frankly, I'd rather be sailing!

IPad Testing - Day 1

First, let me warn you.  I am not writing this post using my IPad.  That should give you some idea how my testing is proceeding.  Don't get me wrong.  The IPad is fantastic for reading and entering data into simple forms.  I was able to download the NY Times, Washington Post and Solitaire apps. We can read the latestnews and play games on a sharp and easy to read screen. That is a great feature...but not exactly what you might want to use the IPad for in a work setting.

However, to actually write something is another story.

It all began last night when I decided to write this first report using the IPad.  I was able to log onto the blog, bring up the digital keypad and start the entry.  Then reality hit me.  This keypad is not my mother's typewriter.  I was formally trained eons ago in the touch typing method of the old mechanical typewriter (yes, they did once exist).  To keep your fingers placed on the QWERTY keypad-- a fundamental--causes the IPad to erupt in spurts of characters.  To effectively type, I had to hold my fingers off  the pad.  I couldn't "feel" my keys so I had to look at the keypad when I typed--a sin in the old school where your fingers learned their positions and you looked at your paper, not the typewriter keys. this gave me speed and accuracy over years of practice.  The digital keypad was designed for the the two fingers typing wizards.  I need retraining.

Realizing my limitations, I proceeded with the two (maybe three or four) finger method.  It made me type more slowly -- that turned out to be a good thing as I more carefully measured my words that poured from my head to my fingers and onto the screen.  I was error prone (fat finger prone) and had to edit without the benefit of my loyal and accurate point and click mouse.  First, I had to enlarge the screen.  To move the cursor requires that you touch the screen (duh, it is a touch screen) with just one finger to place the cursor. Not difficult and I succeeded in correcting, adding and deleting single words.

The IPad wants to help you.  That means it is always asking you "Select or Select All".  Select works fine.  The word you are working with is highlighted.  However, to "Select All" is very dangerous.  Once you figure out what and how to Select All, "Cut Copy" buttons display.  I picked "Copy", but it was "Cut" so my finished entry turned into a blank screen and I couldn't find a "Paste" command.  I had to start all over again.  You may ask, "Why didn't you just save the entry along the way?"  I tried that, but it seems that the IPad touch screen and Blogspot are not happy with each other.  It took three tries of pressing and holding the "Save" button.  By that time, I had mistakenly deleted the second article leaving another  empty screen.  "What happened to paste?"  I just don't know.

After two hours, I poured a whiskey, climbed out of the boat and walked the dock regain my sanity.   The IPad requires a few basic lessons for us ol' school folks.

Yes Virginia...there are nice people...just like Santa



Saturday night I opened my Gmail to find an unsolicited message telling me that until a few years ago, Gavin had worked at the U.S. Army's National Training Center and was an avid collector of field artillery memorabilia. He had acquired a yearbook from the U.S. Army's 172d Field Artillery Brigade, from 1941.  The original owner of the book was a Corporal Colin J. Andrews. 

He bought the book and prised it. In recent years, however, he began to feel that the book needed to be returned to the family of Corporal Andrews.  He found me through Face book.  "If  you are not the Corporal's daughter," he wrote, "Please let me know, and I will not contact you again."  If I was, he would send it to me.  He didn't want money .He wanted it to be with the family.   "I noticed on your blog that you have grandchildren," he explained. "They should see that their great-grandfather was a hero."

Refusing to believe this was a ruse, I emailed him and called the number he had given in the email. No one answered, so I left a message saying, "Yes. I would like the yearbook."  Two days ago, Gavin called.  After telling him a bit about Dad and sharing parallel experiences of  our fathers not wanting to talk about the war,  I asked how he found the yearbook.

 "EBay," he said. "Just EBay.  I've been looking for your family for almost 10 years."  I smiled into the phone and thanked him for the effort, saying that I was looking forward to receiving the book.   I will place the yearbook with the handmade french cuff and collar lace and silk handkerchief that the returning Major Colin J. Andrews gave his wife upon his return from Europe in 1946.  Sometimes people come into your life who are just plain nice. Thank you, Gavin.

Life without Television

Humidity was rising.  The temperature was exceeding 95. Storms threatened. Instead of having our 60 foot mast rising above the bay water to capture lightening as it etched the sky, we decided to stay home for the weekend. After a thundering burst of energy to clean the condo, we viewed Chris Martin's "Big Painting" at the Corcoran, then drove to DuPont Circle to a favorite Bistro Du Coin for a late afternoon lunch.

"What if we didn't watch TV for a week or so?" I asked, slipping a perfectly delectable pomme frite into my mouth after dabbing it in a bit mayonnaise.

"Why, I  don't know." John replied, looking at me, knowing I had a new project in mind.  He sighed but continued to smile at me, knowing that resistance was futile.

"I'm thinking that we've lost touch with just plain living," I replied, dipping a piece of crusty french bread into the shallot, garlic and white wine broth of the mussels pot. " I don't seem to find time to write the blog at home any more; the newspapers are left unread, and our weekly New Yorker magazines are piling up without us even browsing through them backwards to read the cartoons."

John sipped the rest of his wine. He said no more. I said no more.  We finished our mussels  and prepared ourselves to leave for the movie--the conclusion to the Harry Potter saga.  It still hadn't rained as promised. 

After the movie, at home, we played cards while we mellowed out to Rod Stewart singing classic standards -- a wise gift from my daughter several years ago. We happily listened to the rain pounding the streets and our balcony.  One thing led to another and by the next morning we realized we hadn't turned on the TV.  Was this a start?

On Sunday morning I exhausted myself aerobically at the gym. At home in the afternoon, we chopped an armful of freash basil from our pot garden and made two huge batches of fresh pesto.  We then splurged on cavatelli smothered in the fresh pesto for dinner.  Again, no TV.  Could it be that it would soon become just tv?

It's Monday night now.  I read the paper while John prepared a light salad with roasted pine nuts and sun drenched fragrant tomatoes from a colleague's garden.  The heat has subsided so we sit on the balcony. A halo moon hangs above us and a plane swoons around the building, making its way to National Airport.  I write. John snoozes. Music plays in the living room, drowned by the traffic still snaking its way up rout 50 headed west to the suburbs. Children play seven floors below us. Their voices echo between the buildings. I think I'll do a crossword puzzle, then head to bed -- or head to bed and do a crossword puzzle. Another night without tv.  Pleasant; but like all change, a bit unsettling.

The test is tomorrow when our favorite programs air -- NCIS and White Collar. We can record them, but can or will we watch them and when?

Birthday Surprise!

I'm notorious for forgetting birthdays of friends and remembering family only after the date arrives.  Don't know what it is about my brain, but those dates slip through my little gray cells as the detective Perot calls them.  I've tried writing the dates on calendars, but I lose the calendars.  I've tried electronic card services, but I end up dropping the service and lose the carefully entered reminders.  I think you get the idea.  I'm a space cadet at times.

Luckily, my daughter's birthday and my husband's are only days apart (July 31 and July 29), so I have a better chance of remembering their celebrations.  It took me several years to remember John's as it was only slightly different from an ex-husband's -- very embarrassing.  After 18 years though, someone should shoot me if I can't remember these dates!  This year I was determined not only to remember but to get perfect presents delivered on time.  After I sent Kathryn's present, I shopped, wrapped and hid John's in the guest bathroom a whole week before the day.  Surely, he had no reason to go in there when he returned from New York after being with his first grandchild.

It was with great joy I woke my guy up at 6:00 AM on July 29th with an off key, but hearty rendition of "Happy Birthday" as he snoozed on the couch (he'd fallen asleep there after an 11PM set of physical therapy exercises to strengthen the muscles around his arthritic left hip). He can't swagger anymore.  His gait is more of a hop, skip and drag on bad days.

"Thanks honey," he smiling weakly while he stretched and rubbed his eyes.
"Do you want to open your birthday present?  I got you something very special"  I chirped.
A smart man, he answered, "Sure.  Just let me get up."  He rose, pulled his hair back into its perpetual ponytail, snapped on the hair band and stood up.
"You'll have to help me carry them in," I declared as he followed me into the bathroom.
"Did you know I hid them here?"
"Yes, honey.  I thought you had gotten me over sized fire extinguishers or boat fenders."
"Well, that's not the case at all."  I sighed, beginning to feel a bit worried about my choice of present.

We took the two boxes wrapped in multi-colored birthday paper and big bows into the living and plopped them on the couch.  One weighed about 4 pounds and the other about eight or nine.  He opened the the smaller one.  The way he tore the paper back and yanked the ribbons indicated some enthusiasm.  The smile returned to my face.

"I never would have guessed," he laughed as he unrolled a thick gel mat, plopped it on the kitchen floor in front of the stove and stood on it.  He became pensive for a moment. Again,  I thought he was disappointed. I remembered the time, years ago when I was a kid, that Dad bought Mom a new set of tires for her birthday.

"Are you disappointed?" I whimpered, ready for the worst.
"No, this is great'" he bellowed. "It feels great on my hip.  I can cook forever with these mats."  He unwrapped the six foot long second mat and placed it in front of the sink and work counter.  He walked back and forth over the mats.  He smiled.  He was pleased, gave me a big hug and poured the coffee.

Lesson learned: You know you're getting old when your husband actually appreciates a practical gift like gel mats.  I'm looking forward to my tires.