Let go, let Bertha

I'm happy that my oldest friend is finally back in therapy. She telehealthes with Bertha weekly. Bertha is a license clinical social worker, and that makes me even happier because it means she doesn't have a prescription pad. My friend believes, I feel, too strongly in living better through chemistry.

At first I saw real progress in her attitude and approach to the challenges in her life. She actually admitted that when she left Chicagoland, it was really not because (as she repeatedly complained) it snows and it's flat and it gets dark too early. No, it was because she was disappointed in love (again) and depressed and, instead of looking within, she ran away. Way to go, Bertha! Now if only she could apply that sound logic to her repeated desire to move back here. The problem is not her location, obviously, it's the way she approaches her life.

Saturday night we (my friend and I, not Bertha and I) talked for a couple hours. I was less positive than I'd been. My friend isn't feeling well and she still hasn't ironed out her healthcare because it's too hard to deal with the bureaucracy. Since she can't afford insulin she's taking someone else's and guessing at the dosage. She started to talk about her on-again-off-again relationship with her landlord, but stopped herself, saying, "You'll just yell at me again." I asked her if she was still consulting Bertha regularly and she gave me an enthusiastic yes.

I was relieved. Bertha is licensed. She has 20 years experience. Therapy is a process, not an event, and both my friend and Bertha understand this.

I've known my friend since Kindergarten. Her life began to go off the rails 15 years old and I'm tired. Exhausted with trying to keep up with the mood swings and the self-destruction. But I don't have to anymore.

We have Bertha, and I'm so very grateful.

Photo by Zulfugar Karimov on Unsplash

Sunday Stealing

DIY Meme

1. Would you rather have every traffic light turn green or always get the best parking spot? (Kwizgiver) I don't drive so I don't care about parking spaces. But I'm usually late, whether in a rideshare or on a bus or on foot, so I'm a fan of green lights.

2. What's the most difficult thing you have ever done? (Gold in the Clouds) Said goodbye to my two of my closest friends within months back in 2024. Death is a bitch. It's not negotiable. I have found going on after losing John and Henry is the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm not sure I'm through it yet.

3. What information do you know that you are proud of/happy about, but others say, "Who cares?" (Roger) I once won a trivia contest – completely without cell phone or Google – for knowing Elizabeth Taylor's full name was Elizabeth Rosamond Taylor Hilton Wilding Todd Fisher Burton Warner Fortensky.* It was at a rib joint, so my friend John and I got a break on our bill because of this incredibly trivial trivia.

4. What mystery do you wish you knew the answer to? (Myra/Mevely) Why do bad things have to happen? Fortunately I'm a Christian and I know that when I get to Heaven I will get the answer.

5. What small, ordinary thing brings you disproportionate joy? (Country Dew) My morning shower. Washing my hair and scrubbing my face while listening to my shower radio gets my day off to a great start.

6. What time do you go to sleep/wake up?  (Annie) Whenever. I'm no longer a desk jockey who is a slave to a train schedule.

7. What is your favorite sleeping position? (Lisa) On my left side.

8. Describe your personal Utopia. (Pandora) Listening to the Beatles while eating cheesecake with strawberries and drinking icy cold Coke. 

9. Imagine that you have a machine that can create any new invention for you based on your description. What you ask the machine to create, and why? (Plastic Mancunian) I'm on the top floor. The laundry room is in the basement. The elevator is not convenient and it's incredibly dispiriting to haul my clothes and detergent and fabric softener down there only to find no washers or dryers open. If there was a way I could know that the machines are available for use, I would be eternally grateful.

*I actually said "Burton" twice since they married and divorced twice, but the judge said it wasn't necessary. 

Gratitude Challenge – Day 8

I first took this challenge in November 2014 and I think now is a good time to revisit it. Click here for a list of the Gratitude Challenge prompts.

Day 8: Family/Friends I am grateful that I can be as social as I want to be. Or even more social. I've discussed this with my shrink. I can be entirely too comfortable just staying to myself, only talking to the cats and the pizza restaurant when I place my order. I can even attend church via Zoom. Solitude may be easy for me, but that doesn't mean it's good for me. So I've made a commitment to see friends regularly.

This is where I'm lucky. I've got my movie group every Monday and yoga on Tuesday. In addition to those standing get togethers there are lunch dates. This week it's Elaine. Next week it's a lovely local couple I met at the TCM Film Festival.* The following week is my old friend Mindy. Gregory and Joanna have also made noises about wanting to meet up. I owe Nancy an email. 

I know that loneliness among seniors is a big deal. And yes, without my dear friends Henry and John I am lonely. Those two men are irreplaceable. But while I am at times I am lonely, I can choose not to be isolated. I am grateful for the people and opportunities in my life that make that possible.

*Yes, we are neighbors here but first spoke on Hollywood Blvd. Go figure. 

I take this entirely too personally

Our minister resigned. He got an offer to be an interim minister for a congregation near his hometown in Michigan. When that assignment is done – likely by year-end –he's going to hang up his robe and retire. He and his wife are very happy that this new opportunity has come their way. He will stay with us until August. By that time, he will have been with us for three years.

I'm pissed.

He must have been looking for a new role, or at least been receptive to one. When he first joined us in 2023, he said this would be "his last stop." I remember this distinctly because I had been unsettled by the tumult when our minister was let go. So now I feel betrayed and abandoned.

Which is silly. Or at least certainly an overreaction. 

Three years is not an insignificant amount of time. He walked into a fractious situation – many in the congregation didn't think our previous minister had been treated fairly, others heartily disliked our interim minister. All of us seemed to feel battered and he calmed us. He's also guided us through the ICE invasion. It felt like a gut punch the first time I saw that sign on the door, demanding agents present warrants before invading our house of worship. But he has helped us see that we are not helpless, and that we can act in faith and solidarity and make a difference.

I should be grateful. In time, I'm sure I will be. But right now, it feels like he's leaving me. 

 

Magical thinking

I've been back from vacation for a week and have yet to post about it! I'm beginning at the end. I don't fly well. In fact, I'm fucking petrified the whole time. I will not get on a plane without knowing there's Xanax in my purse. I want to be able to knock myself out if the terror becomes too great. When I asked a shrink what we should do about my fear, she said that everyone had irrational fears and instead of berating myself for being afraid, I should be proud of myself that I still fly. It would only be a problem, she reasoned, if it had an impact on my lifestyle. I'm proud to say I didn't take my Xanax once through the tale you're about to read. 

I did fall victim to magical thinking, though. I have a rule for myself when I fly – I never change my originally assigned flight. Let American Airlines offer me money or miles to take a later flight. I won't do it. I truly believe that if I do, I am opening myself up to bad luck. No, it makes no logical sense. Just as it never made any logical sense that if I was watching or listening to a baseball game and Anthony Rizzo came up to bat, I had to stop what I was doing and concentrate on helping him. Superstition, magical thinking, wackiness ... call it what you will. 

This time I was right. I broke my own rule and very bad things happened.

I got to LAX at 8:30 AM for my 10:30 flight home to O'Hare. As I checked in at the kiosk, I got the news: there was no crew and my flight was delayed six and one half hours. Not only would I have to hang around in the airport for hours, I wouldn't get home until after midnight, CST. That was unacceptable. My girlcat had been ill* and I wanted to get home.

American Airlines recommended a flight taking off in little over an hour to Tuscon, where I'd change planes for O'Hare. I was reassured that, since I'd be landing at the gate right next to my flight home, it would be smooth.

Well, they didn't lie about that. The flight to Tuscon was short and uneventful, and yes, the gate was right there. I had time to snarf a breakfast sandwich and bottled water before boarding for my flight home ... and entering hell.

•  First, I was in a middle seat. Between a couple. Who kept talking to each other and passing things over me as though I wasn't there. I asked them if they wouldn't prefer sitting together. No, she's window and he's aisle ... and they're both dreadful. Because we were three fat people in a row, it was hard to move. I had a difficult time getting to my Xanax but I thought, "oh, well, you got this far and you're almost home. It'll be fine."

• As we flew east I monitored the Cubs game on my phone and saw it was delayed. Storms in Chicago.  But the game was not cancelled, so I knew the rain was expected to stop soon. I didn't think it was as big a deal as Mr. and Mrs. passing their reading glasses back and forth over me. "These are yours." "No, these are yours." "Wait a minute, you were right!" "Where's the case for the glasses?" etc.

• The pilot came on and acknowledged the storms, saying we were going to circle high above them for a while until they passed. Because we were, as Dorothy said in The Wizard of Oz, "beyond the rain," what I could see out our window was sunny and fine. I don't know how much time had elapsed before he came back on and scared the living shit out of me. "We're running low on fuel so we're going to touch down in St. Louis." Oh, great! I could fall out of the sky!

• When we got to Lambert, we there wasn't a gate for us. That many flights to O'Hare had been rerouted. So we had to sit, and sit, and sit. I had downloaded The Very Best of Linda Ronstadt for the flight. I shall never listen to it again, for fear of PTSD. Finally we started moving. We were not taking off, however, there was no available runway for us. It's just there's a law about how long we're allowed to sit on an unmoving plane, so we had to get off. We were warned not to wander far, though. We'd be taking off within the hour. 

• Well, they didn't lie about that. Just after midnight, we were corralled back onto our flight and we all took our original seats. (Me in the middle.) It occurred to me that this would be the time I would have gotten home if I'd followed my rule and just hung out LAX all day.

• We took off and then – you can't make this shit up – within minutes the pilot came on and told us we were going back to St. Louis. There was smoke in galley. I sniffed the air and yes, it did smell like something was burning. My new husband said, "Gee, I hope they'll make us use the chute."  I hated him.

 

No, I didn't.

Actually, I was more frightened when I heard we were out of fuel. Though it's not a feel good to pass firefighters in the aisle as you disembark.

 

•  By now it was 1:20 AM on Tuesday. At the gate we were told to line up for hotel and meal vouchers and that we would be rebooked for a 9:30 AM flight to Chicago. OK, this is simply not acceptable. I worked in Chicago for more than 40 years. I know how busy the Lambert-O'Hare corridor is, especially on a weekday morning. People arrive at O'Hare and are in offices for their meetings every day before 9:30 AM. So I told them I wanted to be booked onto the first flight of the day to ORD.

 

•  That was 5:50 AM, boarding at 5:15. Not enough time to deal with a hotel. In a perfect full-circle moment, I was looking at killing hour after hour in an airport again. So be it. I want to go home. It really wasn't that bad. It took some time to find the baggage office – at this hour all the carousels were down – and explain my situation to the nice, lonely lady who worked there overnight. She explained to me that I would have recheck my bag and go through security again but I'd likely be first in line. Then she emphasized this – DO NOT USE THE KIOSK. CHECK IN THROUGH AN AGENT. She explained that according to the app, I was somehow still on the original flight from LAX to ORD and the kiosk won't "know" me.

 

•  I read. I wandered. I drank a lot of water. As soon as the agents began their day at 4:30, I was there. I thought it would be easy. HA! These four women – who had no one else to wait on, just me and one confused looking couple who just arrived – treated me as an adversary. They wouldn't let me finish a sentence! I tried "Yes, but I was told ..." but they insisted I had to try the kiosk before they would even speak to me. No "I'm sorry." Not even a "Good morning." Just "you have to use the kiosk first."Oh, and the kiosks weren't up yet. 

 

•  So when the kiosks finally came on, I gave one a shot. It insisted on charging me $45 to check my bag to O'Hare. NO FUCKING WAY.  I had been a good, uncomplaining sport until this moment. "I am not paying this!" I announced. Loudly. Your voice can really carry through an otherwise empty airport. Finally someone looked at my printed boarding pass. "The Tuscon flight," she said to herself as she read her monitor. Apparently our ill-fated flight was famous. She checked me through. No apology though. When I complained to American Airlines, this is the only thing I mentioned. My treatment here was the only thing I couldn't justify, the one thing they absolutely could have prevented.

 

• I got through TSA very easily and was home by 8:30 AM. 24 hours after I checked out of my hotel in Los Angeles. I now know why the Pope kisses the ground when he lands. 

 

I am proud of myself that my Xanax remained untouched. I did all this without it. I feel empowered. Angry, exhausted, and traumatized. But empowered, too. 

 

  

*She's so healthy now, I needn't have worried. 

 Photo by Briana Tozour on Unsplash

 

I prefer my drama on the screen

 

The TCM Classic Film Festival is almost upon us! My flights are booked. My hotel reservation is confirmed. Three of my four airport limo rides are lined up.* My girl cat, Connie, is healthy so I will miss – but not be worried about – her when I'm gone.

Thursday will begin with breakfast at Mel's with fellow festival goers. I'm seeing a former coworker for lunch at The Grove. Then Thursday evening the movies start. Four glorious days of old movies on the big screen!

It's Wednesday that's the problem. I had been looking forward to dinner with my oldest friend's adult daughter the night I arrive. She is in her late twenties now and has really gotten her life together. She's working on her relationship with her boyfriend, she has a good job as an optometrist assistant, is consulting a nutritionist to get to the bottom of her long-standing gastrointestinal issues. I held her as a baby and want to hear more about the positive direction her life is taking.

Of course, my oldest friend (her mother) is fucking everything up. As is her wont. 

After a period of being incommunicado, last week she resumed emailing and texting me. She can't stand her living arrangement. She wants to sell everything† and move back here. She has major health issues but can't get it together to submit her application for Medi-Cal. She says she really needs to know that I care about her.

Oh, for fuck's sake! I keep thinking about all the times I've reached out to show support but my efforts have gone unacknowledged. (I don't know why, exactly, but this one remains a bur under my saddle.) 

I responded as I always do. "Get yourself healthy. If you need help paying for therapy, let me know. Don't even think about coming back here because you'll still hate the weather and miss your cousin. Instead of searching for a new boyfriend, try to make friends."

Her response was a slap in the face. She doesn't want "a boyfriend," she wants someone to care about. She then attached a self-serving list of all the people she has "taken care of" during her adult life. They were all either her family or the family of men she's been involved with (I'd call them "fucks" and "fuck adjacent.") None were friends. Yet here I am, a mere friend, and she expects me to prove that I "care?"

Also, that list of people she's taken care was quite a re-write of history. More than one person she named extended themselves mightily for her, not the other way around, and at least two provided her with a roof over her head. When the person you're talking to doesn't share your reality, it's hard to find common ground.

My oldest friend lives in Hesperia, 90 minutes away from LA. I didn't invite her Wednesday night's dinner with me and her daughter because the logistics are beyond me. I only have about three hours to spend that evening – after all, my festival festivities begin Thursday morning – and I don't drive. 

Her daughter said she would get her mother there. But now I don't want to see her mother at all. I'm too angry.

Here's the push-pull of it all. I have known my oldest friend since Kindergarten. More than 60 years. I have loved her and have so many dear memories. So much laughter. So many treasured moments.

But for the last 15 years, this relationship has been hideously unbalanced. I feel an obligation to her and the times we shared, so I do what I can. 

But dammit! I'm sick of her drama! I've waited all year for this film festival – and with the Paramount deal, it may be the last one – and I resent her for throwing shade over it. I know she's bipolar, I know she's unhealthy. I'm sorry all of this is happening to her.

Still, there's a limit to how much I can give when I get so precious little in return.

 

*Gotta take care of #4 today. 

†This is stupid. She was evicted from her last apartment over unpaid rent and her car was repossessed.  

When who you have isn't who you want

I have been completely freaked out over my cat Connie. See post below for an episodic recitation of our travails.

I love her very much. I have had to make expensive and consequential decisions about her care. Now that she's home, I have had to administer meds – something I am clumsy at. I have handled it all as best I can and I believe I've done a good job. I have reason to believe that within two weeks, she'll be fine and this will be nothing but a bad memory.

Which is not to say I couldn't have used some support. I wish this was 20 years ago. In 2006, my mom was still alive. She's the one from whom I inherited the pet gene. She would have listened to me work through my worry. She's dead now though.

In 2006, I still had Henry. He, too, was a huge pet lover, so he would have understood my panic. But here's the thing about Henry: he loved me unconditionally and would tell me I'm doing fine. Because of course I am. I miss having someone in the world who only saw the best in me. He's dead now, too.

In 2006, I still had my oldest friend. She's a crazy cat lady, like I am. Plus she could always make me laugh (don't underestimate that). But since about 2010, her life has been off the rails. She's got so much of her own stuff going on that she can't be of any real comfort to me, beyond sending me AI slop and memes. Who she is now makes me miss who she was so much. 

So I turned to my friend Elaine. She has two cats she dotes on. We just saw one another for her birthday last week on Wednesday and had a nice day. When I called, she picked up immediately and we talked for about an hour. But it's not what I wanted. Elaine can be humorless. And when I explained to her that I was overwhelmed to learn that Connie needed surgery, especially when I thought my cat had turned a corner and was doing better, she said, "You've just go to get over that." I was annoyed. I understand the wisdom in what she was saying. She's right in that Connie can pick up on my tension and fear. But as I said to her, "How do I do that, exactly?" Does she think I want to feel overwhelmed and outmatched by life at this moment?

I realize I'm not being fair to Elaine. I'm just mad at her because she'd not my mom, or Henry, or my oldest friend.

 

Boomerang emotions

Happy. Sad. That's been me this past week. 

First the happy. I spent a lovely afternoon with Elaine. We celebrated her birthday by exploring the Art Institute of Chicago – she keeps trying to civilize me – and then having a fancy lunch at Remington's, a new-to-her restaurant.

I had a good shift at the card shop. Emily, my new boss, wore a Cubs hoodie to the store in celebration of Opening Day. Obviously a bond was forged.

Then I got a pair of invitations. Laura, a Los Angeleno movie lover I met at last year's TCM Film Festival, wants to know when I'm arriving in town for this year's festival. She's having a breakfast that first day and hopes I can join her husband and their friends. The second is from Bob. He and Patty are locals who also attend the TCM Film Festival. He's retiring on April 3 and this weekend his wife is hosting an Open House in his honor. 

I miss my late friends Henry and John so very much. Every day. New people can't replace them, of course, but it makes me happy to know that there are opportunities out there for camaraderie. 

Now for the sad. My girlcat, Connie, is sick. As recently as Tuesday night, she was fine. I distinctly recall her racing around, leaping and playing, after her dinner and, frankly, her evening shit. Wednesday she was quiet, eating but not at all social. Thursday I had to convince her to eat. Today I can't get her to take food or water. She doesn't want to cuddle puddle with Roy Hobbs or get a tummy scratch from me. I suspect she's constipated. I'm worried that she could become dehydrated. So tomorrow morning we have the first appointment (8 AM) at the vet. Tonight is going to be a tough night. I am so worried about my little girl. She has never been healthy. When I first adopted her, she was recovering from malnutrition. She has a heart murmur. Now she's a senior citizen – 14 years old, the equivalent of 72 in human years – and things could go south quickly.

It's such a tight rope I walk with her. Connie is so shy with strangers, so frightened of leaving the house. Taking her to the vet causes her terror so I don't want to do it unless absolutely necessary. So I waited until I knew this wasn't some passing blip. I just hope I didn't wait too long.

I love my girlcat very much. 

Photo by Mirela Vasile on Unsplash 
 

 

Not unhappy

These have not been the best of days. Our President has plunged us into a war of choice with Iran, so people will die to keep us from mentioning The Epstein Files and that word he maintains was just made up: "affordability." No matter that between cuts by DOGE and cuts by the FBI we have lost a shit ton of the institutional bureaucratic infrastructure that keeps us safe from foreign terrorism. The important thing is that the electorate is distracted, just the way Dear Leader likes it. We must never forget that it's all about Donald Trump.

Photo by Sasun Bughdaryan on Unsplash  

And my back is killing me. It started out as a nagging pain in my heel that made walking difficult. Now it's a radiating pain across the small of my back. If I am still, I am fine. But moving is hard. I've seen the chiropractor twice and have another appointment scheduled. I am hoping to feel real improvement soon.

So it would be understandable, I suppose, if my mood were dark. But really, it's not.  

Things are better at the card shop, and I predict they will get better still.  Emily is our temp – and rumor has it, soon to be permanent – store manager, replacing Helena. Emily is, as Belle Watling said of Melanie Hamilton, "a human being." She has commonsense, compassion and leadership qualities. She is in charge of hiring Caroline's replacement, and I trust her judgement.

Also, Emily is a Hispanic lesbian of about 35 who is helping to raise her niece. Kamiliah, the shift manager I've been working with most lately, is a thirtysomething black woman with whom I have bonded over our love of our cats. One of Kamiliah's felines is diabetic and has food allergies. Early in our working relationship I could tell she was embarrassed to be taking phone calls from the vet during her shift. I told her there was no need, that I admire her for making her cat a priority. We've been comfortable and rather fond ever since. There's Mayuko, the lovely sales associate who is working to pay for her IVF treatments and has shared her journey with me. Most of all there's Zoey. A journalism major at Columbia (and a massive Beatle fan), she loves bouncing ideas off me and I enjoy encouraging her as she heads toward a writing career.

Their demographics are important to me. One of the things I missed most about my life in advertising was the diversity. Knowing people with different life experiences, of different faiths, races and ages and different sexual orientations than mine, enriches me and lifts my spirit.

 

 

Where's my person?

Think back to 2005. There was a moment on the show Grey's Anatomy where Christina refers to Meredith Grey as "her person" and adds, "If I murdered someone, she is the one I'd call to help drag the corpse across the living room floor." 

They were besties.

Back in 2005, I was swimming in besties. I had my best friend, who was my work husband, with whom I never ran out of things to discuss. I had my oldest friend, my Kindergarten classmate, who shared so much of my history and could always, always make me laugh. There was John, my opposite number in so many ways, who broadened my horizons and made every Friday night an adventure. There was Henry, who only saw the good in me and loved me so.

My best friend moved. My oldest friend is battling emotional/physical issues that make her unavailable. John and Henry both died in 2024. Each of these losses has left a hole in my heart.

I have gone from lots of besties to no besties.

I am lucky in that I am only alone when I want to be. I just got a text from Nancy saying she and her husband miss me and they want to meet for lunch. Joanna sent me a chatty email because at movie group we didn't have enough one-on-one time together to share everything she had to say to me. Elaine saw that Norman Rockwell's Chicago Cubs in the Dugout is now here at The Art Institute and wants to see it with me. Mindy invited me along to see Bruce Springsteen at the United Center in April.*

But none of them are my besties. I can't imagine calling any of them to help me drag that pesky corpse across the living room floor.

So in 2026 my life is not the life I had in 2005. It's not the life I want and miss. But it's the life I have. I have people who care about me, I'm reasonably healthy, financially comfortable, and my adorable cats are right here looking for cuddles. I have to stop feeling sorry for myself, find joy where I can and face forward. 

 

*Can't go because of the TCM Film Festival. Yes, my life is pretty neat. I know that.

 

 

A plot twist I didn't see coming

Helena was the store manager at the card shop during Caroline's brief but painful reign of terror. While Helena herself was almost always a pleasure to work with – my shifts went fast when she and I were alone in the store with customers – she also hired Caroline around Labor Day and began dismissing complaints by other employees back in October. Caroline was her favorite shift manager, the one she trusted most, and Helena refused to acknowledge any problems. Four of the girls I work with – and they are girls, all on the green side of 30 – filed a formal complaint with corporate on Tuesday, December 16. After a review which took about two weeks (Christmas fell during this period), Caroline was let go on December 31.

The karma train also flattened Helena. Thursday, January 8, was Helena's last day. She sent me a text telling me of her resignation, and I believe she resigned. But the timing tells me she resigned during corporate's investigation of Caroline. If she wasn't officially placed on probation during that period, it must have been crystal clear that corporate had no faith in her.

Yesterday, January 9, was the first time I worked in three weeks. The first day without either Helena or Caroline. It was weird. It all looks completely different – Christmas has been completely packed away and Valentine's Day is spreading across the store – and someone I'd never seen before was acting as store manager. Corporate has called upon a pair of managers from nearby shops to pinch hit until they can hire a replacement.   

My self-esteem has taken a mighty hit. I needed help at the register when a customer wanted to exchange a product, which is more complicated than a return, and I forgot how to do it. Logically, sanely, I realize that it's been months since I was called upon to do this and so it's understandable that I needed an assist. But now I'm wondering: does the new, temp manager think I'm an old, incompetent woman, as Caroline referred to me?

And while I appreciate that Helena completely mishandled the Caroline situation, I also feel bad for her. She began working at the shop years ago, as a college student, and accepted the promotion to store manager last fall because she had just turned 26 and needed to get her own health insurance. I know her heart is in teaching dance to children – which pays little but brings her joy – and I hope she can find a way to support herself doing that.

It's been hard for me to watch Helena and Caroline learn that actions have consequences, even as I understand that what has happened to them is just and fair.

And I'm tired of how much emotional space this $16/hour job is taking. I may still quit soon. At this stage in my life, I want to do something that makes me happy.

 

Photo by ダモ リ on Unsplash

Saturday 9

Saturday 9: Volare (1960)

 

Unfamiliar with this week's tune? Hear it here.

1) The word "volare" is Italian for "to fly." Say something else in Italian. "Cantare" means "sing." It's in the next line of the song. Duh. (Since I'm the one who does the questions, I can make a smartass response with complete impunity.)

2) This week, Bobby Rydell invites us to take off with him up in the clouds and promises we'll find a rainbow. Countless lyricists have included rainbows in their songs. Can you name another song that mentions rainbows? I have loved this song since I first saw Ski Party on the after school movie when I was a little girl. I have spent much of my adult life on public transportation. I can attest that the movie misled me and this never, ever happens on buses in real life.

 

 

 

3) His happy heart is singing. What is making you happy this morning? I just learned that my beloved Joe Maddon is returning to Chicago for next weekend's Cubs Convention. He was manager of the magic 2016 World Series team but has not appeared at anything Cubs related since management fired his ass declined to renew his contract. I get such a kick out of old Joe and am looking forward to seeing him as part of the convention. (Rizzo will be there, too! My heart is not only singing. It's spinning around like Julie Andrews on a mountaintop.)

 

4) Bobby Rydell, like Frankie Avalon and Fabian, was a 1950s teen idol who hailed from Philadelphia. Home to the Liberty Bell and Independence Hall, Philly is Pennsylvania's most populous city. Have you ever been there? Many times. I was once in a long-distance relationship and came dangerously close to moving to Bala Cynwyd, a suburb less than half an hour outside Philly.

 

5) Bobby was such a perfect example of a clean-cut American boy that when Jim Jacobs and Warren Casey sat down to write the play Grease, they named their fictional high school Rydell High after him. Do you have a favorite song from Grease? Wella wella wella uh! Summer Lovin'.

 

6) In addition to singing, Bobby also acted. His most famous film role was opposite Ann-Margret in Bye, Bye, Birdie (1963). Have you seen it? Yes, but I don't think of it a an Ann-Margret/Bobby Rydell movie. I remember it for this Dick Van Dyke musical number. (We sang it for our fathers at the annual Girl Scout Daddy/Daughter Dinner.)

 

 

 

7) In 1960, when this record was popular, so were hand-loomed, 100% virgin wool sweaters from Italy. You could order one from the Sears catalog for $12.60 (approx. $135 in today's dollars). That sweater was labeled "dry clean only." Do you have any garments waiting to be picked up from the cleaners? Nope. Since I retired from advertising, I seldom wear those grown up/suitable for big presentations/dry clean only jackets. I really should donate them to Goodwill before they go too far out of style.

 
8) Also in 1960, Princess Margaret married photographer Antony Armstrong-Jones. They met when he was commissioned to take her official portrait. Who took the most recent photo of you? My niece took a freaking adorable photo of me with her baby on Christmas morning. I told her that from now on, she does all my portraits.

 

9) Random question: Is your oldest friend also your best friend? Not anymore. This makes me sad because we met in kindergarten and, for more than 40 years, we were best friends. But she has changed and while my heart goes out to her and I work to understand the financial, physical and emotional challenges she has faced since moving to Los Angeles in 2011, I can't honestly even refer to us as friends anymore. That implies an equal partnership she is simply incapable of. I legitimately cannot recall the last time we talked about anything but her: her anxieties, her money troubles, her (completely one-sided) "love affair" with her landlord ... It's depressing and exhausting. Every time she reaches out, I respond because I love her and honor our history. But I'd by lying if I didn't admit I emit a heavy sigh and wonder, "Now, what?" when I see a message from her.

 

 

Oh, I don't know what I want!

I stopped by the card shop today. I'm not working, but I wanted to pick up next year's Christmas cards on sale and before they are packed away. I checked the New Year's Day schedule to make absolutely sure Caroline wasn't there. I didn't want to start 2026 with a dose of drama.

Well, I got some anyway. 

Kamilah and Zoey were working. Kamilah rang me up and was charming. Then I went into the back to see Zoey, who was taking her lunch. She was very happy to see me and did the sweetest thing ...

She got the other girls to join her in saving sale receipts for me. Our neighborhood business district has a holiday promotion every year: Collect $500 in receipts from participating stores and get a $50 coupon book. I am passionate about this program. Obsessed, if you will. There's a limit of three books/household and I wanted Christmas 2025 to be the first year when I earned all three. Zoey found my enthusiasm endearing and promised that, if a customer refused a receipt after it printed,* she would save it for me. She then went on to enlist two other salesclerks to join her and right before Christmas, she texted me a photo of her perfectly manicured fingers holding a thick stack of receipts. She was so proud, and I was touched. So when I saw her yesterday, I thanked her – for both the receipts and for her avid support of me during the mess with Caroline. When I got home, I discovered there were $306.71 in receipts! (She tallied them for me.)  There was also a handwritten note in which Zoey told me I am "one of the sweetest souls" she's ever met and she hopes she will be like me "when she grows up." How dear!

But then there was this: Zoey told me Caroline is no longer working at the store. Nothing has been formally announced, but our manager Helena has revised the published schedule through January 17 and Caroline's name no longer appears. Instead there are holes, shifts that have no supervisor on duty. I checked the scheduled and damn if Zoey isn't right. Next time I work – Friday, January 9 – I am no longer working with Caroline as had been originally scheduled.

I am conflicted about this. Zoey told me how awkward the last few weeks have been. Every sales associate was contacted by HR like I was on the 18th, and some of them were on the sales floor when their calls came. Helena was often there and aware when they had to go back to the office for privacy as they answered questions about how she's been running the store during Caroline's reign of terror. Gulp!

I didn't make any of this happen. I didn't even sign the 5-page complaint that HR was responding to. Also, only two bullets of the document pertained to me. But I am still sorry that any of it happened. 

I was going to quit at the end of this month. But now I don't know that I will. Maybe with Caroline gone, the vibe at the store will be restored and I'll enjoy the job again. For reasons too complex to go into here, I suspect the store will be closed by Corporate this summer anyway. I make an average of $375/month. It's an attractive notion to stick it out until after Memorial Day and earn more than $1,000. 

No matter what happens, I'll have that note from Zoey and her assurances that, when she told the other girls to save receipts for me, they said they'd do anything for The Gal.

I just wish there wasn't so much drama! 

 PS I didn't need the extra receipts to reach the $500 threshold. But I loved the gesture so much.

 

*This happens a lot. I don't know why a consumer would trust us with their sales receipt for a charge purchase. Even if I didn't want it, I'd take it home and shred it. 

Photo by Siora on Unsplash 

Too much!

I was given a 5-page document as an FYI. It was written by four of my coworkers at the card shop and submitted to corporate HR. These young women wanted to go on the record about how unpleasant the work environment has become because of the alliance between our store manager (Helena) and a new shift manager (Caroline). 

The girls showed me the doc because they wanted me to know they were submitting it and because they were showing their support for me. I appreciate that but ...

The first two bullets were devoted to me. How Caroline repeatedly commented that my age makes me "incompetent" and how critical she has been of my "personal taste." According to the document's authors, Caroline's "discriminatory and inappropriate remarks contribute to discomfort and a hostile workplace." 

Now to put this in perspective, the content regarding me only accounts for a portion of one page of a 5-page submission. But seeing it there embarrassed me. I choose to concentrate on the support the four authors have shown me. Still, it hurt to read. 

There is much in the document that was new to me. For example, Caroline is derisive about the panhandlers on the street outside and refers to them by their race. At a time when ICE is terrorizing Chicagoland, this kind of talk is especially insensitive. On two separate occasions, Caroline scolded an employee in front of customers so loudly and harshly that customers commented on it. She complains that specific employees leave early, even though their timecards don't reflect this.  

I could go on, but it's depressing. 

HR called me at home on Wednesday. The rep asked me open-ended questions about the "workplace environment" at our little store. Oh, for fuck's sake! This is not what I wanted to do on my day off, away from the place.

I pretended that I thought this was spurred by the conversation I had with Helena about Caroline. (After all, I didn't sign the document so I have plausible deniability there.) I emphasized that I did not want to see anyone get in trouble (not true), and I never wanted to talk to HR (true). I mentioned positive things about both Caroline and Helena, saying that I thought they were simply unprepared for their management roles. (I did this to sound balanced.) I also said I worried about retaliation – like being assigned fewer hours and worse shifts. (OK, that was just manipulative. I know how HR's ears perk up when they hear the word "retaliation." I truly don't much care if I never get another shift, since working there reminds me of Lord of the Flies. I just couldn't resist pressing the HR rep's buttons.)

This drama is taking up too much of my time and concentration. If I wasn't on my time off and a week away from Christmas, I'd just quit. It's too bad because, not that long ago, I was quite happy at the card shop. 

 

 

  

Photo by Siora on Unsplash 

 

What a difference a day makes!

"I love your earrings." That's one of the first things Caroline said to me at work yesterday. I admit it frightened me. After all, as recently as Saturday Caroline was loud and proud in her contempt for me. I remembered the famous warning about killer dobermans: They always lick before they bite. 

However, she seemed so desperately sincere – and since her skin was marked by angry red zits that weren't there Friday – I tried to tamp down my skepticism. We were alone together for about an hour, with only a few customers straggling in, and she was chatty. Perhaps even manically. Clearly our store manager, Helena, had spoken to her seriously about how to treat people. (And explained that my possible HR complaint would not look good for the store ... or Caroline personally.)

Helena herself came in early – I think in part of check on us. When she was in her office, I stuck my head in and mouthed, "thank you." Helena told me that Caroline "really wants to be nice." I guess my face betrayed my doubt, because she quickly added, "I believe her." I said – truthfully – that I was relieved to see the change and that while I had dreaded working the shift, the time was zipping by. 

I found out that Caroline is a bit of a daddy's girl and that while her family is not religious, they celebrate both Christmas and Hanukkah (for her mother's family). She showed me pictures of the Christmas decorations she made for her this, her first, apartment because she admits she's broke. 

I also learned that she's from Barrington, one of Chicago's wealthiest suburbs. That tidbit softened my heart more than the rest. I wondered, but obviously didn't ask, how her parents feel about their college-educated daughter making retail her career. Here's a truism about Chicagoland – tell me your neighborhood and I can shorthand your life.* People from Barrington live in McMansions, buy new cars every other year, and would prefer their kids go Ivy League but would settle for Purdue or Northwestern. If you're not white or perhaps Asian in Barrington, you're likely working in one of those big new houses, not living in it. So a daughter who splits her 40-hour workweek between a cosmetic store and a card shop was likely not on their bingo card. Maybe that's part of the reason for her hard-charging bravado.

When I ended my shift, Caroline actually thanked me and said she looked forward to working with me next week. Huh? What? Do I believe that Helena managed to change Caroline's heart? Not really. But if she's not constantly criticizing and judging me, complaining about me behind my back and sowing seeds of dissent among my coworkers, I'll take it. 

I'm reminded something a minister told us years ago – "Don't waste your dread." I was so worried about yesterday's shift that I literally wasted hours of my life being anxious and unhappy. After all, nothing bad happened yesterday. Not a thing! I know my wariness comes in handy sometimes, but in this case I depressed myself with my distrust of my fellow (wo)man. 

Will I learn from this? We'll see.

 

 

 *In the interest of fairness ... people in Barrington would dismiss my community as woke, sanctimonious, over-taxed and over-regulated. We cry the liberal tears that MAGA loves to drink. And you know what? I'm good with that.

 

Photo by Siora on Unsplash 

She Hates Me

Not so sweet Caroline. She's been at the card shop for four months now. Every time I see that I'm scheduled to work with her, I feel a knot in my stomach. Because she hates me. Because I'm old.  

She reminds me that I'm old frequently. No, let me rephrase: from the moment that we met, she has highlighted to me that she is young. Her regular refrain is, "The reason Helena (our store manager) and I work together so well is that we're exactly the same age." OR "Helena knows I get this issue because we are exactly the same age." First of all, it's not quite true. Helena is 26 and Caroline is 23. Secondly, it's an HR violation. It would be the same as telling a black employee: "The reason Helena and I work so well is that we're both white."

Whenever we work together – she's the shift manager – Caroline makes it plain that I am inadequate for one reason or another. I don't work with her often, perhaps once every two weeks, so I have kept it to myself. I don't expect to like everyone I work with. I don't expect everyone I work with to like me. This job only pays $16/hour, so there's a limit to how much responsibility beyond my job description I'm willing to take.

In October, I heard from coworkers who had issues with Caroline, too. Zoey, a shift manager I work with often, asked me if I found Caroline "abrasive." Fuck, yes! Then I got a text from Rosa, another sales person, who asked me if Caroline was "mean" to me because she was mean to her. Both Rosa and Zoey spoke to Helena, so I could see no reason to pile on. Besides, I only work one or two days a week, and not always with Caroline. Rosa and Zoey feel her impact far more than I do.

Then Saturday happened. We had a major snowstorm here, so the store didn't get the foot traffic that was expected. Zoey, Helena and Caroline were alone in the store. Just the three of them, no customers. 

How Caroline sees me

Caroline began complaining about me. She said that because of my age I'm "barely competent." Zoey leapt to my defense, but Helena was "weirdly silent." I found out about all this in a series of texts, received when I was in the stylist chair getting my hair cut, from an infuriated Zoey. 

Zoey even sent me a photo of the card that's tucked in the drawer under the register. Titled, "We Listen," it has instructions for reporting HR violations. 

I texted back to Zoey that she should calm down, I would take it from here. I told her there was no reason for her to be involved with this.

That was Saturday. From Saturday to Monday, I had been upset. I resent this. I was upset about Caroline while writing out my holiday cards, and I usually love writing out my holiday cards! I can't let problems at this little job take my joy.

Monday I had an hour-long chat with Helena. I may be an old fart, but I can read an HR manual. I emphasized to her that, while I was not willing to go to corporate, Helena should know that Caroline is putting the store and indeed the corporation at risk.* I mentioned that it's not only spelled out in the printed guide we received, age discrimination and the definition of "a hostile workplace" are demonstrated in the videos we all had to watch. She thanked me for "the grace" with which I have handled this. We'll see if anything comes of our conversation. 

I only work with Caroline two more times between now and year-end. Unfortunately, the next time is tomorrow. Sigh. I am not looking forward to this. I wonder if, right now, Caroline is plotting where to hide my body.

I admit I'm suffering PTSD here. I have dealt with difficult bosses and fractious coworkers countless times since I entered the workplace as a secretary 50 years ago. When I was a creative director, there was a lot more at stake than there is at this card shop. This really isn't that big a deal.

Except that I thought this was all behind me. For the most part, I enjoy this little job. Most of the girls I work with – and they are girls, only one is over 30 – are welcoming and charming. My customers are great fun. I don't feel like dealing with workplace politics again. I resent it.

I hated writing this post. But I wanted to get it all down. I find that I sleep better and breathe better if I get it all down.

 

*Our little store is owned by a publicly held company worth $200 million. 

Photo by Valentin Balan on Unsplash 

All is not lost

It's so easy to get depressed about the way things are going in this country. I can't believe that a full 42% of Americans have a "favorable" view of Donald Trump. It makes me sad, as much as it made me sad to hear my countrymen dismissively say things like, "If Trump thought he was a king there wouldn't be any No Kings protests." Don't these people ever stop to reflect on tea in the Boston harbor and why we don't speak with a British accent?

Well, I do.  I believe in Madisonian democracy. I follow elections. I work campaigns.

It took me three months, but I wrote 225 GOTV postcards for the Pennsylvania judicial race. Judges at the state level are important. Because these races are often off year and/or down ballot, they don't get much attention or voter participation. That makes it easy for big money and corporate interests to insinuate themselves. That's where I come in. I'm unpaid labor! I can't sing or dance, but my one talent is my penmanship. It's attractive and legible and I'm ready to use it for campaigns that that don't have money to spend.

On Tuesday November 4, my efforts were rewarded. The judges I supported were retained by the good people of Pennsylvania. It was very satisfying. 

I want to give a shout out to Postcards to Swing States and Postcards to Voters.  They have given me a way to serve and make myself heard. All it takes is time, stamps, and the willingness to contribute.

This matters. Not only to my country but to my peace of mind. 

 

My wildest dreams

 My sleep has been disturbed by vivid dreams for weeks now. I think I know why ...

I haven't been blogging daily for more than a month. I've been feeling a little too overwhelmed. Operation Midway Blitz continues to weigh heavily on my community. DHS Secretary Kristi Noem likes to say they are focused on deporting "the worst of the worst," but it's not true. The people ensnared by DHS are our neighbors. ICE has staked out the parking lot of the children's museum and detained parents at the elementary school. Landscapers have been pulled off ladders and collected from front lawns, so local teens have volunteered to rake leaves and cut grass for free – that way we can cancel scheduled yard services but still pay the bill. (After all, these workers are not only scared, they're cash strapped.) Restaurants are struggling because back-of-the-house employees are afraid to go to work and service suffers. The card shop where I work has a protocol to follow if I feel "threatened" by federal officers, who are not allowed to enter the store but can stand directly in front of the front or back doors. 

The above is just off the top of my head. I could write about pepper spray and zip ties. I could notate how detainees are denied due process. I could talk about how we're encouraged to keep our whistles and phones with us at all times, so we can first alert our neighbors to ICE and then document their excesses. 

Between undocumented workers and unpaid federal employees, the demand at the food pantry has grown to nearly unmanageable. 

This is no way to live. It's oppressive and it's with us all the time. 

Yes, I know illegal immigration has grown to unacceptable proportions. But this response is illegal, excessive and cruel, just as it's intended to be.

Donald Trump has coarsened us. He's cost us our compassion, civility and dignity – the destruction of the East Wing is an apt metaphor.

Now he's costing me my sleep, too. 

I used to think that posting about these things could become tiresome. I once worried that I was releasing malaise into the blogosphere.

But at 4:30 AM I realized that this is where I work things through. This brings me a certain level of relief during a stressful time. So I'm returning to blogging. Not only about politics and current affairs but my life.

After I post this, I'm rolling over and hopefully going back to sleep.

 

 

Photo by S L on Unsplash

Pinched nerve and brain fart

I woke up Tuesday morning unable to move my left arm without great difficulty. This happened once before, at the end of 2024, so while I hurt I wasn't frightened. I knew it was a pinched nerve in my neck. Painful but not dangerous. As luck would have it, I already had an chiropractor appointment scheduled for today – Friday, three days later. Since this wasn't an emergency, I could see no reason to move the appointment up. 

I am an idiot. 

For three days I was uncomfortable. If I was still, my arm was fine. But I couldn't raise it without pain. Everything – showering, grocery shopping, feeding the cats, laundry – was arduous. I had a hard time finding a position to sleep comfortably. The nerve was not responding to OTC pain killers. So I was sleep deprived and hurt.

And from Monday morning to Tuesday afternoon we were without hot water, so there's that. 

To say I was not at my best would be an understatement. 

Chronic pain and lack of sleep made me stupid. Yesterday, instead of taking money out of my high-yield savings account and depositing it into my checking account, I did it the other way around. I was not paying attention as I clicked. I fucked up.

This morning I got an alert from bank that my checking account was overdrawn. I was terrified, afraid I'd been hacked. No, I just made a stupid, stupid mistake. (AGAIN!) After spending time on the phone with both banks, I finally got it ironed out and hopefully, by end of business Monday, all my funds will be where I want them.

I realize that working decades for big companies, I've been infantilized. Funds just appeared in my checking account twice/month. Left to my own devices, I mess up.

Just as I thought my self loathing had reached a fever pitch, I dialed it up to 11. I went to my chiropractor and she felt where my neck meets my shoulder. 

"Of course you hurt!" she said. I got on the table and she twisted, pressed and popped and I was fine. No pain, full range of motion restored.

"You should have called me," she said. Duh, Gal. I went through 3 days of pain for no good reason. Really, she remedied the problem in minutes! 

I'm such an ass.

Here's to an uneventful, enjoyable weekend. I need it!

 

Photo by Klara Kulikova on Unsplash