Friday, November 1, 2013
It finally rained, a good hard pour but it didn't last nearly long enough. It's still drizzling a little or maybe it's just dripping off the leaves.
My palm trees look so scraggly and they are. In twenty years time they may be stately but I doubt I'll be here to see them. I hope that whoever is here appreciates them. Our friend Tom has given me at least a half a dozen palms and I have planted them all, stuck them in here and there but those two are the biggest. They block the walkway to the front porch but I keep insisting that they will grow and their stems will be thin and the fronds will be high and they will no longer block anything.
It's a theory.
I have so many theories.
It's been a strange day. I have not been exactly lonely but have not been in the most exuberant of moods, either. I mopped the kitchen and the bathroom which lies off of it and I made a completely ridiculous chicken pot-pie casserole, spending almost an hour caramelizing the onions as Madame Rebecca does, although I am sure I did not do as good a job as she does. The other ingredients are chicken, of course, and potatoes, carrots, celery, peas, and a sort of biscuit crust. This was all in lieu, of course, of driving to town and buying a Swanson's chicken pot pie and this one will be better for me as theirs probably has forty-eight thousand grams of fat calories in it rather than only forty-thousand grams of fat calories.
I girded my loins and called the pharmacy today which makes up my hormone troches (definition: a small tablet or lozenge, usually a circular one, made of medicinal substance worked into a paste with sugar and mucilage or the like,and dried)
and almost passed out when I noticed that the date for renewal had expired. This is how bad my medical neurosis is. I am taking such a small amount that what should last me for a month or two lasts for almost six months- thus the time problem. They promised they would call my nurse practitioner and get it renewed and I was so grateful but of course I'm worried to death that her office will call me and demand that I come in for bloodwork at the very least. I was supposed to go back a year ago for an exam and bloodwork and I'm so overdue for a pap and pelvic, for mammograms and colonoscopies, for all of those completely scary things.
I hate getting older. I hate it. I just want not to pee in my pants every time I pick up my grandson, to be able to sleep through the night waking only two or three or four times with hot flashes, and this tiny amount of hormones, taken before bedtime, seems to help with all of that.
Anyway, I fucking called. I did that.
I just talked to Owen on the phone. For some reason, he announced that he was putting me on "loud speaker" and then he proceeded to shout into the phone (is he drunk AGAIN?) that he had gotten two Almond Joy bars in his Halloween Haul and that we could share them. I haven't seen him or his brother for a little over twenty-four hours and I'm already sort of panting with withdrawal. I have been thinking a lot lately about how I've never really lived alone for more than a few months, how I've now been a participant, at the very least, in the raising of four sets of children, and how, although I've never really worked as a nurse even though I spent four goddam years in college training for that profession and still, to this day, have a current license, I am and always have been, a caretaker.
You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need.
The rain is falling again. Softly, gently. My chicken pot pie is done and is sitting in the oven, keeping warm. I think there's another damn rat or a mouse, at least, in my bedroom, which does not help me sleep peacefully. I know the fucking critter is not going to jump up on my bed and look- in the last hour I killed two roaches- one big one by stomping on it and one small brown one by smashing it with the flat of my fist and oh god, yes, I have become one of those women, but still, there is something so disconcerting about waking up at three a.m. and hearing another living being in your bedroom.
Yeah, well. Life in Lloyd. Too much nature. Blah, blah, blah. There's a tiny frog clinging to a bowl in the dish drainer in the kitchen and no Mr. Moon here to call to come and deal with it.
Well, still, there are few places I'd rather be and the drum from the church next door is throbbing and the singer is whaling.
I am alone but am not lonely.
How could I be with so much life going on all around me?
I'm doing the best I can. As are we all.