A Patient, His Plea, and That Presumptous and Ever-Hasty Auto-Fill

imageWhen anyone says “Look at the bright side!”, I cringe, albeit internally. The comment is simply dismissive of that pesky dark side.

Such a suggestion may probably prematurely bring any conversation to a halt. On both the other hand and the friendly walking shoes, the conversation eventually opens that Election ’16’ door, as we spend the afternoon counting the steps on the rickety stairs ahead.

I fell Monday afternoon. I fell again two minutes later. I just missed the curb outside my Physical Therapy gym. My clothes were covered in musty moist mulch. Anger and Fear stepped forward into the dangerous land of metaphors,. Those often wayward phrases should be substantially isolated and restricted to Section E of the newspaper.

Do I tell my cardiologist and embrace the risk of her insistence that I be hospitalized immediately? Do I tell Jon who’ll likely call my cardiologist out of worry and what not? Do I remain mum and deny those moments?

There is no bright side to becoming more symptomatic of physical deterioration and the abrasive weather of time.

I just turned 59 and I became lightheaded and rather “vacant”. I tumbled face forward into a cement sidewalk. As I was righting myself, I did it all over a lousy second time.

At that point, Jon drive up and, yes, I told him everything. I shared my frustration. And I begged him not to tell Dr R-J. I want to stay at home a little longer.

I still need to download some books, teach Henry to skype, and actually shave. There are many things I want to do and remember before I am admitted to UNC memorial Hospital to begin my yet undetermined wait for a heart to become available.

That is, a living, pumping heart. Please put a hold tag on it, one with my name on it. At that time I promise to hasten anon. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda.

And once again, my friends, I took another tumble, this time down the stairs. I was carrying a few plates, a cup of coffee, with my iPad under my left arm.

Coffee splattered in each direction although mainly on me. The dishes fell to the bottom step. But I clutched that precious personal operating device. You know the one.

Yes, I Refer to the skinny one with the annoying voice that says most often: “I don’t understand the question.” Or “there is a state trooper 500 yards ahead.” Don’t get me started on the curse of Auto-Fill and Siri’s poor handling of grammar or treatment of proper names.

You know what I mean. It’s one more voice singing that “three part” and terrifying harmony.

Please allow me to wait … at home … with my beloved. Thank you for your time and consideration, Gertrude.

Deconstruct the Dogma, Lillian, But Never Trade an Icon

I was looking at 1st Dibbs as I often do when I’m blue and a little blasphemous. Most of the pricing is on the absurd side, and they assume it’s their serve. Today, I turned to items that left me with neither words or mere utterances.

Icons from both the Roman Catholic and the Greek Orthodox Churches can now be found on e-Bay, Craig’s List and, of course, 1st Dibbs. Starting at or near $25,000, they will surely soon be listed on Close-Out, Sidewalk, Promotional, Annual and most final Sales. A Founders Day Sale is a given.

eBay and Amazon probably offer free shipping to further entice less parochial consumers with the intent to snare a QVC devotée or more-or-less the epitome of a all-around shopping addict.

Methinks a lot of Sales Managers will soon carry Rosary beads. Hell, they’ll probably even recite Hail Marys while they unpack shipment of men’s thongs or “Adult” merchandise. Or while carefully packing one of said icons to return to some little old lady, or as Henry and I say: “woman of a certain dotage”.

Meanwhile, I’m thoroughly fascinated with these Icons. Some are just beautiful, if not “D-I-V-I-N-E”