A succession of banana spiders has spun webs on one corner of Doright Manor for the past few months. We’ve watched as the web grew and evolved as each patient female passed on her creation to the next in line.
I believe we were on the fourth in the lineage, and the once meager web now stretched from one side of the driveway to the other. Truly, it was a work of art. Until it wasn’t. Until I somehow forgot about the freaking web and walked right through it this morning.
Imagine me, engrossed in reading a bit of mail I’d retrieved from the mailbox, blithely strolling from the porch to the garage when the unmistakable sticky filaments plastered against my face, my hair, my glasses, my arms. I screamed and launched into the Oh Hell No dance hoping to shake loose the mama arachnid who might be about to deliver her painful bite at any moment. I think I was successful, but two hours post-encounter I still imagine she’s lurking nearby.
Not one of ours, but this is what a banana spider looks like. Beautiful, but their bites are extremely painful.
Worst of all I feel horrible about destroying her web. Hoping she won’t seek revenge.
For my 65th birthday my wonderful son gave me a year-long MasterClass subscription. Now I feel like a kid in a humongous candy store. So many choices! Where to begin? Who do I watch first?
Steve Martin? Margaret Atwood? David Sedaris? Neil Gaiman? Who haven’t I thought of?
I saw this question on Twitter and a song instantly came to mind. I won’t influence your thoughts with my answer, but if you tell me yours I’ll eventually tell you mine.
Wherever you are. Whatever activity you’re engaged it at this moment, stop and sing happy birthday to me (Leslie). Offer good only through midnight on October 5, 2021.
Just sing quietly to yourself if you’re in a meeting. Or in church. Or hiding from a burglar. Or if your mouth is full, because that’s just bad manners.
Studly Doright and I are watching Blacklist. We’re midway through season six, and frankly I’m a little weary of Raymond Reddington and Agent Keene’s soap opera-ish entanglements. If it weren’t for Agent Arim Mojtabai, played by Amir Arison, I’d probably bail on the series.
Amir Arison provides welcome comic relief.
Don’t tell Studly, but I’ve been cheating on Blacklist with the Netflix series Midnight Mass. I’m only on episode two, but the moodiness and the sense of impending doom is captivating. I am already hooked.
Where is the old Monsignor? Is the new guy even a real priest? What happened to the cats? Is Riley going to make it and why does he look so familiar? Who else is watching this and what are your thoughts?
I recently read an article, okay, I read a headline, that said something to the effect of Why the Rest of the World Believes Americans are Obsessed with Autumn.
“Huh,” I thought. I like Autumn, but I don’t like like it. I mean, I could live without it, totally, if I had to. I might get the shakes for a couple of months, but surely by Christmas I’d be fine.
What would be obsessive is someone like me who lives in Florida, where autumn temps barely drop into the 60’s, lowering her thermostat so she can wear sweaters around the house while sipping hot chocolate with a cozy blanket wrapped around her feet. That would be obsessive.
Here, hold my hot chocolate while I decide if I want to wear the orange sweater or the brown one.
On my way into the mall where my favorite coffee shop is located I paused to hold open the door for an older gentleman. It was one of those awkward situations—he was just outside of the distance that demanded the courtesy, but of an age that I worried about his stamina. I erred on the side of being an overly concerned citizen.
He thanked me with a smile. “This old man appreciates your help.”
“Old? Hardly. Besides, I see by your t-shirt that you’re one of the folks who’s part of the boxing class that works out here. I doubt you need any help at all.”
I’d noticed the Rock Steady t-shirts before on elderly boxers at the small fitness center in the mall. The boxers always looked serious in a fun way. Like, “I could probably kick your ass, but I won’t ’cause I’m a nice guy.”
The man laughed. “Well, the class is only for folks with Parkinson’s, so depending on the day, I just might need your help.”
“I had no idea. Does the boxing help?”
He stopped at the entrance to the gym. “Absolutely. Best thing I’ve ever done for myself. Helps me forget what this disease has taken from me. Makes me feel young again.”
“Maybe I should take up boxing,” I said.
He smiled. “I highly recommend it. Thanks again young lady.”
I resisted the urge to hug him for the young lady remark, and hurried on in hopes of securing my favorite table at the coffee shop—the one in the corner that allows me to people watch as I work on editing my current work in progress. After ordering my usual chai latte I set up my laptop in the highly coveted location and scanned through yesterday’s pages. Outside the window I caught a flash of red. Boxing gloves. The Parkinson’s pugilists were throwing punches at unseen opponents. It was a beautiful sight.
Peace, people!
Here’s a link to the Tallahassee gym that offers the Rock Steady boxing program for those diagnosed with Parkinson’s. https://sweattherapyfitness.com
Rock Steady has its own website to provide further information and to direct folks to facilities near them that offer the fitness program. If you’d like to donate you can do so there, as well. https://www.rocksteadyboxing.org/
In less than one week I will celebrate my most significant birthday since I turned 21. But with a lot less fanfare, fewer drinks, and no hangover. Yes, I am approaching 65, the golden age of social security and Medicare in the United States.
I’d prefer to have ignored how old I’m about to be, but around six months ago I began receiving at least one piece of mail a day from a Medicare supplement provider. If I’d kept them all I could have wallpapered our guest bathroom with the literature detailing the fine points of each plan. Maybe I should have as a public service—most of my friends are nearing 65, as well.
A couple of weeks ago I opened a letter to find my official Medicare card inside. My biggest hope is that I don’t have to use it for at least ten years, but it’s tucked into my wallet just in case someone needs to card me at a bar or something.
Yesterday I received a phone book-sized handbook. Not a big-city sized phone book, and not a recent one, more like an old one from my youth back when we still received new phone books once a year. Nowadays we only receive the Yellow Pages, but I digress. I digress because that’s what old people do, and even though I’m not yet 65 I need the practice. “Get off my lawn you young whippersnapper!”
I can picture the dude in the upper right hand corner saying “Whippersnapper.”
Don’t you just love how healthy and happy all the old folks look? Maybe I’ll look the same once I’m 65. Fingers crossed.
It’s thick! Like me!
I know age is more than just a number. It’s how one feels and acts, right? At the moment I feel annoyed about all the Medicare literature I keep getting. I’ll bet some young whippersnapper is having a good old time sending this stuff out.
Praying for Eyebrowz 