No Spontaneity Here

A few years ago the grocery store near our house in Houston closed for a couple of days; and when they re-opened the milk was where the magazines used to be, and the salt was where the packaged cookies once were. In short, nothing was where it had been before. 

The twenty-minute raid I usually perpetrated became a lengthy scavenger hunt. My fellow customers wandered around, dazed and dumbfounded, as befuddled as I was about where to find their usual products. 

The store even hired new staff whose single purpose was to stand around and answer questions about where to find batteries and toilet paper. It seemed that they’d made major changes for absolutely no reason other than to confound the customers.  

And the really crazy thing was that the cashiers and department managers seemed to think all this change was a cause for celebration. The women wore flowers in their hair and inquired more enthusiastically (perhaps sardonically?) than they had before whether I’d found everything I needed. The sackers smiled more brightly and moved with more energy. Even the piped-in music was perkier. 

And all I wanted to know was why? Why? Why? 

 I’m not one to turn on a dime. I confess, my daily existence is based on habit. 

When I tell someone that I get up and write at five every morning, most often the response is an admiring comment on how disciplined I am—but I’m not. I’m just someone who gets up early and needs something to kill the time until other people wake up. It’s my routine, not an impressive indication of self-control; though I do enjoy that period before the day starts, when all is dark and still. 

I’ve always been an early riser. When I was thirteenish there was a craze involving “come as you are” parties, where a mom would drive her daughter from house to house in the morning and the girl would surprise her friends by pulling them out of their beds and taking them back to her house for breakfast in their pajamas. 

The first time someone called my mother to warn her that they’d be by to grab me out of bed at seven-thirty, she felt compelled to tell me to stay in bed because the girls would be disappointed if I was already out of bed and dressed. 

“What? No,” I objected, imagining the tedious hour of waiting in bed so I could act like I was asleep simply to avoid disappointing someone. How annoying. 

“You chose to be friends with these girls,” she told me in a reasonable tone. “Friends are often inconvenient.” 

So, forewarned, I kicked the covers back at my regular time, washed my face, brushed my teeth, changed into fresh pajamas, and watched for their arrival. When the car pulled up out front, I rushed back to bed and pretended to be asleep. 

A few minutes later several girls came into my room and jumped on my bed, giggling and shouting my name. When I opened my faking eyes I was surrounded by musky girls wearing embarrassing jammies, with curlers in their hair and pimple goop on their chins and cheeks. 

There’s a moral in here somewhere, something about early birds and worms; or maybe it’s early to bed, early to rise. Anyway, I sure looked better than everybody else. 

Aside: Come as you are parties—do they still do that? 

You’re wondering how girl parties and the grocery store switcharoo pertain to one another. 

They pertain because the calendar’s fixing to hand me another birthday, which is an indication that introspection is called for. I have a reputation for being irritable, especially when something unexpected happens or my schedule is disturbed. There’s a theory positing that as a person gets older his or her strongest negative traits become even more dominating—an aroma becomes a stink, so to speak. So it’s understandable that I’m wondering if this irascibility has worsened or if I’ve always been this gripey. 

And by comparing the two incidents which are separated by fifty years on my life’s timeline, I’ve concluded that I’ve always been cantankerous. As a kid I was every bit as irritated when something or someone messed with my plans as I am now.

Being able to adjust quickly to change is an admirable quality that I simply don’t possess—and I’m okay with that. 

So, happy birthday, me. 

Here’s a change I don’t like. They seem to be taking all the Almay products off the shelf, and I love their mascara. And again, why? Why? Why?

And here’s a change I do like. This little guy boosts our house internet so I get better television in the back part of the house. Yay!

Here’s David, who wants me to tell everybody that he didn’t drink all the vodka!

Domestic Surroundings and Low on Vodka

As I’ve previously related, I alternate drinking months and non-drinking months; but on my non-drinking month, I allow one happy hour a week, which I understandably look forward to. Last week before my libatious evening I bought a bottle of vodka, which is my current drink of choice. This week I relax in the knowledge that last week’s supply will last for a while, but when I go to pour, there’s barely enough for a single weak vodka tonic. 

“You drank my vodka?” I ask David, rightfully incensed.

“It didn’t have your name on it,” is his annoyingly immature response.  

Wanting your vodka and not getting it isn’t a thing a person gets over easily. But I gain control by reminding myself that at least I’m not dead; and there’ll be other evenings and other drinks. 

So today one of our errands is to go to the liquor store and buy enough vodka that on my next week’s drinking evening I won’t be disappointed. Maybe I’ll buy a case of the damned stuff. On the way to Spec’s, David and I stop by our friend’s home renovation to see how things are going. You know the house—the lilac one with the colorful cow beneath the trellis at the intersection of F and Sixth. The redo’s been going on for eight months. 

And oh my, you would not believe the things she’s done with that hundred-and-thirty-year-old home. So faithful to the era has she been in the construction of the addition that it’s impossible to tell where the new sections begin. The kitchen, which was the size of a closet, is now massive and high-ceilinged. Throughout the house the doorjambs, window frames, and cabinetry are handmade, with carvings, curves, and curlicues. She speaks reverently of her carpenter, who’s evidently a true guru of wood. 

Every room is a different color, not beige and not pastel, but bold shades of green, turquoise, and purple. When I cross from one room to another, one color to another, it’s like entering a fresh mood or receiving an intriguing message. 

She is ebullient in her room-by-room tour. She enthuses tirelessly about the house and her plans and I’m thrilled for her that she’s going to be surrounded by the appliances, floors, light fixtures, and colors that she has chosen. 

In the guest room she’s perpetrated a sunup to sundown theme. The alcove nearest the window is pale blue accented with fluffy clouds; and from this side of the room to the other the blue gradually deepens until it’s a dense indigo; and high on the darker wall is a fluorescent full moon that will glow at night. It will be a sight to see when driving by—an indoor moon!

In the adjoining bathroom she motions toward a modest expanse of drywall behind which she has arranged a grinning skeleton sitting in a chair, surrounded by editorials, political cartoons, toilet paper, and masks. She’s taken all the painful detritus of 2020 and hidden it away, her unique personal shrine to the turmoil and angst of our year—a healthy way for an artistic soul to handle pain.

“I’ll be happy to think of you in this house,” I tell her. 

It makes her smile 

I’ve done the same thing with houses—not the house we’re in now. The walls of this house are so neutral that I’d be pressed to name the shade. But in the past I’ve had sunny yellow living rooms and periwinkle kitchens and mottled tree-top bedrooms. I’ve had checkerboard floors and flowered stair frontages. And with every attempt to personalize and bring color to my world, there was a nay-sayer hovering in the background telling me that I was making a major decorating mistake. 

“You’ll have to completely redo it before it’ll sell,” from one.

“You’re inflicting your taste on everyone who enters your home,” from another.

These days I’ve calmed down a bit. I love this house and the color, or lack thereof, suits it. Also, I promised David that I wouldn’t go crazy painting the walls this time, though they’re dated with that textured look that was a big thing a while back. I figure if I wait long enough it’ll come back around. 

There’s one touch in our home, though, that I don’t think I’ll be able to tolerate much longer—and seeing our friend’s lovely house with her gorgeous and unexpectedly thematic chandeliers has served to enhance my disdain. The atrocity I’m talking about is the ornate fixture that’s suspended by a heavy chain and looms over our dining room table like a spiky wrecking ball. And here I must be tactful because someone I know may have the exact same chandelier hanging in their dining room. It’s a common design. And I don’t want to insult taste or hurt feelings simply because I prefer delicate fixtures and I don’t care for the fake candle look—inevitably one or two of the holders goes wonky. 

So after we hit the Specs we stop by a local light fixture store. But it’s not open, which is the way of things these days. Nevertheless, this crusade has just begun, and I will persist in my search for the perfect chandelier. I’ll check out a few recommended websites and get by one of the showrooms in Austin. Meanwhile, I’ll simply continue doing what I’ve been doing for the last five years, which is to avoid looking at the thing and concentrate on the artistic pieces and paintings and fixtures that I do like. 

Overwhelming. I’ve been complacent long enough!

Taken a couple of months ago. The skirt is now covered with handmade shingles which will be painted to match the house. The red touches are unexpected.

Whoa! Some artistic designer’s pride. Too busy for me.

I have no idea what I’m looking for, but this isn’t it.

A grouping of three of my favor artsy possessions. The oil, by Vietnamese artist, Lam Manh. The African busts, purchased in Kenya over thirty-five years ago. The antique bowl, from Singapore. I look at these things when the clunky chandelier gets me down.

It Sneaks In

A woman in my Mahjong group tested positive for covid. She sends out an email. I sigh. This was bound to happen. It’s not like we haven’t paid attention to the virus in this retiree-dominated part of Texas. We’ve donned masks and washed our hands; but the bottom line is that none of us has a say over how many people someone else comes in contact with, or how often they socialize, or whether they wear masks or choose not to. Collectively, all our grown children who live elsewhere lecture us about being careful. We assure them that we’re being extremely cautious, when all the while we’re out dining and partying—all the way until nine o’clock at night sometimes! We’re busy here. David and I went day-drinking at a vineyard with friends last weekend. And David meets weekly with the guys at a local brewery. Truthfully, the only way our lifestyles have changed is that when we gather socially covid’s joined our other topics of conversation.

The likelihood of me catching covid from my Mahjong friend is practically zero. She was playing at another table, at least ten feet away from me. And I was sitting right in front of an open door.

However, she did stop by the table to talk for a few seconds. And someone who was at her table later joined us. Does this constitute exposure? The common view seems to be that if you’ve been exposed you should quarantine until you can get tested. I mention the situation to David, who isn’t happy. His social life is much busier than mine and he takes all his commitments seriously. 

“Go get tested,” he responds. 

“What a hassle,” I say. 

He looks up the local testing places and tells me that a clinic on the highway takes walk-ins. 

So I go on over there, but there’s a sign out front that says if you’re there for covid testing, you should stay outside and call the posted number—which I do. And over the phone I’m told that they don’t have an opening until early next week, which is the opposite of what walk-in means. Disgusted, I blow it off and come home. 

But the next morning my nose is stopped up and my throat is itchy. This doesn’t necessarily mean I’m sick, because I have allergies and it’s that time of year. 

Furthermore, I tend to vicariously experience characteristics and symptoms. If I hear someone has an ulcer, I get stomach pains. I once caught a brow tic from someone who had a twitching eyebrow. I have a friend who walks flat-footed with her toes pointed outward and I’ve been told that when I walk alongside her I, too, walk like a duck. 

Is this trait indicative of hypochondria or self-absorption? Is it because I over-empathize or because I have an overly active imagination? Or is it that my mind has no control over my body; or that my mind has too much control over my body? 

I don’t want to take a stopped-up nose seriously—until I realize that I have to because it would be unbearable if my carelessness caused someone to become sick. But to be honest, if they said on the news that the primary symptom of covid was an itchy armpit, then my armpit would be itching. I go to find David. 

“It’s probably nothing,” I tell him. “But we’re going to have to quarantine.”

He starts making calls to cancel his obligations. 

My appointment for rapid testing is on Tuesday morning, so I should be free after that. Meanwhile, we’re stuck at home; and sadly this is my month off from drinking. Also, while we have groceries enough to last us until I’m cleared, David has no ice cream, which makes him cranky. 

Since we can’t go out anyway, we decide to refinish the deck. Power washing and wire brushing in the morning. In the afternoon I scoot along on my butt, painting the edges. Next, David will go after the middle section and stairs with the roller. 

Having finished my part of the project, I realize that I still have hours of the day to kill. I don’t like the book I’m reading—Florence Adler Swims Forever. Because it’s a light-hearted title I assumed it would be a lighthearted book. It’s not. Spoiler—Florence dies in the first chapter. This author need to consider that a somber subject can be written in a way that doesn’t make the reader want to pull her hair out. Reluctant to return to unrelenting Jewish mourning, it occurs to me to write a blog; and though I don’t have anything to say, it’s my gift that I can write eight hundred and seventy words about absolutely nothing any day of the week, even on a Sunday dominated by covid. 

Just to let you know, I checked on my Mahjong buddy and she’s doing fine, minimal symptoms. Her husband’s diagnosis was accompanied by pneumonia, so that’s more serious, but she says he’s feeling better. I understand this is an up-and-down disease, so I will keep them in my prayers.  

Also, FYI: against the norm, I’ve decided that “covid” doesn’t deserve to be capitalized any more than “flu” or “measles.” Writer’s prerogative. 

David takes painting seriously. The weather’s beautiful this time of year.

The finished deck. Much better.

The Call of Colorado

There are two reasons why Texans run up to Colorado now and then. One is the surroundings. Though at times our part of Texas is lovely, the Rockies are majestic and stunning all the time. A different landscape can be uplifting when your own backyard is flat and brown, and the air is so hot and heavy and full of allergens that breathing isn’t pleasant. During a Colorado summer the mountains rise dramatically and are covered with green; and the air is crisp and cold and clean.  

The second attraction is something we don’t discuss with our neighbors or even our friends because sometimes it’s prudent to be blind to what others are getting up to. Yet, considering that eighty percent of the people I know from this area have run up to Colorado this summer, well, the conclusion is undeniable. And if you don’t know what I’m talking about, ask a Texan.

We stay in Avon, a square half-mile composed of a few streets broken by three traffic circles. Condominiums border every street and round-about. Each traffic circle looks the same. Each condo complex looks the same. At one point we travel from circle to circle, driving around and around for what seems like hours, confused about which exit off of which circle will lead us to the grocery store. We were given instructions and it should be simple. It’s preposterous that we’re lost in this tiny town and I find it so funny that I laugh until tears flow. 

The resort we stay in is quite posh, with a floral aroma wafting through that is, upon entry, so inviting that it makes me long to bathe in their signature scent. Our place has two bedrooms, both with king-sized beds, a huge kitchen, and two living areas. Seriously, though, who decorates these things? The pictures on the walls are so deliberately inoffensive that I’m offended. And a misguided designer has deduced that the place will feel more like home if impractical items are placed about. A three-foot tall tree sculpted from dry reeds stands beside a fireplace. Two shiny vases with womanly shapes tower from one of the mantles. There’s so much fake greenery in straw baskets that it makes me think someone bought out a Tuesday Morning. The first thing I do upon entering is gather the tchotchkes and tuck them in the back of a closet. 

What effect has Covid had on our getaway? Well, the first noticeable difference is that our comfort is no longer paramount. For instance, maid service is no longer provided. This means that people who used to be cleaners now no longer have jobs—and I can’t see how having a masked and gloved maid come in to change the sheets, resupply towels, and clean counters puts them or us in any danger. The onsite restaurant is closed, as are the spa, pool, lounge areas, and rec rooms. Also, if you want to use the workout facility you must make an appointment. 

While we’re told by the front counter, and then at the concierge’s desk, that the changes are about safety, it’s mostly about dollars. Because people haven’t been traveling, the industry has taken a hit. I understand that; but I resent being told that the cutbacks are about one thing when they’re really about something else. Also, my life experience has taught me that once an amenity is removed it most often isn’t restored.

Another absurd Covid consequence is the elevator rule. No sharing. Only a single person or family is allowed in the elevator at the same time. This makes for some awkward encounters. We’re on the top floor, so when we take the elevator down anybody below us who wants to get to the garage or lobby steps forward expectantly when the doors open; but, seeing that it’s occupied, they reverse rapidly, as though the elevator’s flooded with Covid; then, squinting over their masks and with forced good cheer, they say they’ll grab the next one—which may not happen for a while, depending on how many folks from the top are descending. 

I have a hard time not taking these refusals to enter my space personally. I give people reasons not to like me all the time and I’m okay with that, but I don’t like it when strangers reject me for no reason. In fact, this makes me reject the people who reject me; and I find myself feeling hostile toward every one of those people who shrink from the elevator because I’m on it. And by the way, this elevator rule is a dictum that I’ve not seen written or heard spoken. Someone at some point made it up and it became a thing people did—a baseless, self-perpetuating, and inexplicable reaction to inaudible whispers. 

When I get back to Marble Falls, I go to a building—masks required—where I must take an elevator. After I step in, two other people enter behind me. They’re not concerned that they’re joining someone else. Why, they don’t seem to be afraid of me at all. No one’s cowering. No one’s eyes are accusing me of carrying and passing a disease. And then, on the way down, another couple of people come in after me—and then a man holds the doors for a fourth person to enter. 

Bizarrely, incongruently, this takes place in a hospital—a hospital, where you should be able to trust their safety protocols. And this makes me think—and I must be a genius because it’s obvious no one’s thought of this before—that there should be a sensible standard for what’s safe and what’s not, and that it would be helpful for places like a resort to receive accurate information about what’s appropriate to our current situation and what’s unnecessary and, frankly, just plain stupid. 

Always lovely.

Why? It’s ugly. And I don't even know what to call it.

Evening dresses on invisible bodies.

Independence Pass. David has his hat string in his mouth because the icy wind’s blowing hard and he doesn’t want to lose his adventure hat. Our ten minutes there gave me enough winter to last the rest of my life.