Nice post from a new blogger. My “black shoes” was a vinyl lunch box that mom made me carry to junior high every day, even though it was totally out of fashion. Most kids bought their lunch at the cafeteria (something we were too poor to do) or at least carried a sack lunch – but no *cringe* vinyl lunch box!
I never considered myself a popular kid in school. I blame this on the black shoes. They were boys shoes, clunky and black. I was diagnosed with flat feet. In the 50’s that would keep you out of the military as a man and as a woman, it would make it hard on me to carry all the weight of pregnancy. It was considered a pretty serious problem. My mother hauled me off to the podiatrist, who recommended exercises and orthotics. I faithfully did my exercises everyday – 20 toe raises and 20 foot curls. Looking down afterwards I would notice that they were still flat. My mother wanted me to have sturdy shoes. I played hard and she wanted these shoes to last. I wanted the black & white oxfords. She headed for the boys shoes. “These,” she said, and pointed at the black boys shoes. No matter…
… two years ago and I just discovered him two nights ago.
I’m a junkie, no denying it. I will eat every M&M in the bowl, every ice cream bar in the fridge, and every peach on the tree, if left to my own will. I’ve recently discovered I can binge on TV, as well.
Here I am, with all the ugly parts and all the funny parts combined. I’ve managed to (sloppily) merge all three of my blogs and realize they should all have been one to begin with. My health, the move to Italy, and the silliness are all parts of me, so why shouldn’t they all be in one blog?
That said, I’ll be bleeding about diabetes, depression, my A1C, and my efforts to get it all under control so I can leave for Italy taking no meds, or at least many fewer. I hesitated to discuss my depression on this blog, because I thought everyone expected me to just be funny. And, I am. Just not all the time.
I’m clinically depressed and struggle with it every day. Now it’s here and out in the open and will likely rear its ugly head again on these pages. I’m also going to be bleeding about my efforts to get in better shape…I think I hear the gym calling me.
The move to Italy is exciting, scary and will cause me to bang my head against the wall. The paperwork involved in getting my citizenship is a nightmare. I’m also busy disposing of everything we own so we can move with just two suitcases and passports in hand.
All this by July to October of 2015. I’m a planner by nature and (formerly) by profession, but this has me completely freaked out!
I’ve been trying to figure out how to merge my three blogs into one because it’s too much to keep up with trying to handle all three. I’m old. I can barely count to three! Alas, I’m not having much success, so I’ve decided to try some old fashioned cut and paste. Much easier, if a little awkward.
So, here’s the paste from a blog I started some time ago to track getting back into shape. Kind of a long “post,” but since I’m the only one likely to care that it’s here, I’ll leave it just as is.
Next, to incorporate my newest blog, which never really got off the ground – all about my impending move to Italy.
We’ve been taking Italian lessons over the past couple of years, with the intent to throw some of it against the wall when we arrive in Italy and hope that it sticks. As part of that fantasy, I receive a daily “Italian flashcard” via email, which kindly gives me a useful Italian sentence, its pronunciation and meaning. I don’t always find time to learn a new sentence each day, but I keep them all knowing that someday my free time will catch up to me and I can study them all. Continue reading “La sua testa era completamente calva.*”→
Let me disclose this first thing: I don’t like cucumbers; they don’t like me.
Two nights ago my doorbell rang – at a reasonable hour, but we hardly ever have anyone ring our doorbell or even come onto our porch. The doorbell rang a second time and after exchanging surprised looks with my husband, I answered it. I expected door-to-door Bible thumpers who wanted to convert me, or at least a couple of guys farmed out by their company (always a cable/internet provider) to drum up business on the block. These are the only people who come to our door. But, people like this ring the doorbell and stay politely behind the closed screen door.
Imagine my shock when I opened the door and a very nice woman, holding the screen door open, shoved a huge cucumber in my face and asked, “Do you want a cucumber?” I hesitated only slightly, said “sure” and took the cucumber. She smiled and quickly left the porch.I closed the door and held the cucumber up for my husband to see. “You don’t even like cucumbers,” was all he said before returning to his book, leaving the cuke and me alone. I held the big ugly thing for several minutes, wondering what had just happened. I tend to be the kind of person who questions most everything, and so it was that I found myself staring at it, trying to wrap my head around this mystery gift.
I’ve spent odd moments since wondering if there was a message for me in that cucumber (which, by the way, left the house the next morning for a new home on the “take it” table in my husband’s office kitchen). Was it telling me I should be more accepting of gifts from others? Or, that cucumbers can be gifts, too? That the cucumber-bearer just had the wrong house? Or, maybe, never to answer my doorbell? To lighten up a bit and stop looking for ulterior motives and meaning in everything, especially cucumbers? Or, was it a sign that aliens now lurk outside my windows, under the Buddleia and lilac?
And, after all this stewing, here I sit. I still don’t know. Maybe it was just a sign that I should let my husband answer the door from now on.