Retail Therapy

Before I get going here, I just want to say that Mr. is doing fine. He's working on his left-legged knee-bends and is his usual charming/ornery self. I say this for the benefit of those of you who've been following his progress and don't want to wade through my ramblings about my day out. You're welcome.

because you didn't want to see me shopping: attribution below

Yesterday, I went shopping in a Target store.

As I wrote that, I imagined what my reaction would have been in the great beforetimes: Big Deal.

But yesterday it was a treat, because I've only set foot in an actual Target bricks and mortar about half a dozen times since that awful day. Most of my various and sundries have arrived on my porch via Amazon, a service that I once shunned but now rely on. So many of the things I need can't be found at a local store. The delivery is wonky, of course. Despite my best efforts, things often arrive willy-nilly, not together, probably because they're coming from different warehouses or vendor locations.

But I digress.

I wanted to go to Target for two reasons. 

First, because I had a $100 gift card burning a hole in my pocket. It was a reward for answering survey questions for a service I've belonged to for who-knows-how-many years. 

Second, because I needed shoes, and I wanted to try them on. Ordering clothing and shoes over the internet is a crapshoot because the sizing is funky. It's disappointing if a shirt doesn't look the way you'd imagined; it's another thing if your kicks are pinching your toes or sliding off your hooves.

Sketchers seemed the way to go. I've had a couple of slip-on pairs that I wore to pieces. And Mr. Ginley got 2 pairs, courtesy of my sister, Denise (and nieces who work at DSW), and they have been a godsend. They slip right on Mr.'s feet. (He can do the right foot, I still need to assist with the left.) He loves the way they fit, and I love not having to tie or velcro them on. 

So, there I was in the Target ladies' shoe department, trying on what I thought was my size. Turns out, my feet have grown or flattened out or whatever. I found a pair that felt like I was walking on clouds, and will hopefully remain as comfy throughout their lifetime.

The most difficult part of the shoe-buying process was removing the stiff cardboard inserts. Once I'd gotten past that, I had to deal with the elastic string holding the two shoes together. The past year has taught me that, if nothing else, I'm adaptive, so I baby-stepped my way down the aisle to ensure both shoes fit comfortably. Mission accomplished.

On to ladies' lingerie. Or, as my Mom used to call them, "unmentionables."

There I found what I needed, although I must say, it took me a stupid amount of time to locate everyday briefs in my size. No thank you to wedgie-cut panties. Why would you want to wear something that see-saws its way up your posterior all day long?

I heard your "ew" from here. Sorry, moving along...

At this point, I was about two-thirds of the way through the gift card and casting about for ways to spend the remainder. Razors for Mr. Ginley did the trick, although, Target being Target, I managed to find several other items I "needed," such as the "family-sized" bag of M-n-Ms (don't judge, Mr. and I are a family), some festive Halloween-decorated cookies, and a supply of the Bodyarmor sports drink I've become addicted to.

Thus pushing my total, including tax, beyond the gift card amount, tagging on another $50 dollars or so.

To further reward myself, I stopped at the in-store "Starbuckets" (as Joe once called it) and nabbed a tall mocha on the way out.

Judge if you will, I care not. It was so refreshingly normal.

Sometimes, retail therapy does work. And it's ever so much more fun than stewing about the crappy hand we've been dealt. 

Photo attribution: Public Domain, Wikimedia Commons: Yingling's Boot and Shoe Store trade card, 1879, printed in Allentown, PA; created by Mary S. Yingling (1816-1900). I'm thinking the boot on the left had a reinforced toe and the one on the right did not. 

Thursday, Bloody Thursday

Now that we'd determined Mr. could be loaded into the Ginleymobile, we figured it was time for an in-person visit to the clinic for his bloodwork.

I had taken the day off for my annual physical, and I also needed to have bloodwork done. 

While we'd had sufficient practice getting Mr. in and out of the car, I hadn't had practice getting the wheelchair out of the trunk and getting him situated in a busy parking lot.

Fortunately, I'd practiced the in-and-out-of-the-trunk routine with Mark, so I had the technique down. And the lot had ample spots, so I was able to park the car next to an empty spot. 

It went very well, especially once we found AJ was there to take his blood. Mr. has teeny-tiny veins, and things get ugly when an inexperienced phlebotomist is on duty. (I did stack the deck by contacting his GP ahead of time. She made sure AJ was going to be there.)

Once we'd been bled dry, we bundled Mr. back into the car and headed to Nate's Deli and Becker's Donuts for lunch and dessert. (I told him he deserved a treat for being so stoic on his maiden voyage.) 

We've been getting the blood test results back, and so far, so good. Fingers crossed.

During my physical, I got a flu shot. I could really feel it at bedtime and all the next day. I was achy and exhausted. Luckily, I had taken off Friday, too, so I didn't have to work through the fog. 

Otherwise, it's been a relatively quiet week. 

Can we please keep it that way for awhile? Pretty please?

Ephemera

Every Friday, our new boss at work puts out a question for us to answer in our group chat. Yesterday's question was, "What is your favorite word?"

Hey, Dom, you want this back?

I came up with a couple, including "serendipity" and "obfuscate (oh-so-appropriate in this political climate), but I didn't realize until this morning that I'd missed an obvious favorite: "ephemera."

And yet, here it is, all around me. Is it a polite word for "stuff"? Perhaps. All the same, Mr. Ginley has been enjoying himself as he pours through 33 years of "ephemera" that have accumulated in this house. That's just his stuff, mine will be sorted out later.

Otherwise, things have been blessedly quiet here. Mr.'s knee has been coming to the party as of late, so he's getting better at standing, which is totally clutch. His shoulder seems to be more responsive, too. Fingers crossed. But alas, nothing new with his vision, although he's taken up his crossword puzzles again, which keeps his brain going.

He's also finding work-arounds. I set up his phone so he can do voice-activated Google searches. He loves it. I love it because it means I don't have to be the one to get answers for him. 

Also in the "love" column is the new remote for the lamp by his bed. Now, I don't have to turn off his light during my 2 a.m. romp to the W.C. 

Today is spa day, so we'd best get started. Later, we'll venture out to get food and take a drive through the park. Trying to air out Mr. before the cold weather sets in and we have to hunker down.

Which will be all too soon, I fear. 

A Letter to Harry

Dear Harry,

Happy Heavenly Birthday! Mr. Ginley is out taking a spin with with his brother, Michael, so I thought I'd take a moment to check in with you.

First and foremost, I want to say how happy I am that you and Ilene came together. In the beforetimes, I could never have imagined what a lifesaver she would become for me in these dark days. Naturally, you know how amazing she is, but I've been fortunate to experience it for myself. 

As for you, Mr. Shapiro, I know you're around. I feel it when I'm working on Wordle in the morning and suddenly the answer to the puzzle pops into my head. 

Your voice comes through loud and clear when I try to use a clever pun at work. I will ponder for about 30 seconds whether to leave it, sense your disapproval, and change it. I know you appreciated my cleverness, but not always in the line of duty. 

The other day, I told Ilene that I just knew you were rolling your eyes when I used the word "nomenclature" in a client meeting. You weren't big on 25-cent words. However, you did teach this pischer a bit of Yiddish now and again. In your honor, I'm including a pic of my coffee cup (below). 

I miss our group brainstorming sessions. I'm pretty sure you would not have been thrilled with the way AI has changed the creative landscape. Hopefully, the pendulum will swing back the other way. There's already a lot of talk of putting the human in AI. I think we should be putting the human back in human.

But I digress.

I hope you're doing well on the other side. Keep sharpening your word skills. Are there things in heaven that need named? (See what I did there?)

Someday, hopefully, we'll be able to brainstorm once more. 

Flower. Rain. Again.

Love,

Babs

Déjà Vu

I had a feeling in the pit of my stomach when his office told us we had to see the doctor in person to get the results of the most recent round of testing.

"We need to get you out of the house."

So, I had to hire the transport service, and off we went to the urologist's office in Fairview Hospital.

Despite the fact that it's located inside the hospital, and you'd think with all the high-tech whatnots modern hospitals brag about, his office would be ADA compliant. Nope. It's always a struggle wedging Mr. and his wheelchair into the small exam rooms. The only good thing was he didn't have to get up on the table this time. (Our last visit was not fun.)

The upshot is, the tube coming out from his right kidney (where the uber large stone was) is looking a little wonky, and the doctor isn't sure the fluid is draining properly. So Mr. has to go for a test where he's shot up with dye-colored fluid and they take pictures to see how the plumbing is (or isn't) working.

Based on the result of that test, he may need more surgery to clean out the pipe and get things moving again.

Needless to say, we were both pretty low when we came out of the doctor's office. 

I had taken the day off, so I took advantage of the opportunity to drop off more books at Lakewood Library. Then I headed to Heinen's, where I picked up a bag of Ruffles and a slab of tiramisu (aka "dinner.")

Yes, that's how we cope here at the Casa de Ginley, we eat our troubles away.

Otherwise, it was a pretty quiet week. More books have been boxed. We took another trip out last Sunday, and that went well, except for the gully-washer that hit right at the spot we stopped for lunch. We're hoping to venture out again today, weather permitting (or not). 

Thinking about y'all and imagining you living your best lives out there.

Don't let me down!

Boomer Angst

I've never liked it when people start labeling each other. On the other hand, I'm pretty proud of being a Boomer. 

With big sister, Denise, and unidentified nose picker.

My life began in analog and has become largely digital. From blurry baby pictures and television in black and white to crisp uber-pixelled photos and high-def TVs and computers. 

Ironically, my generation is saddled with the same stereotypes as we saddled our parents with. Although we took the internet from its infancy to adulthood, we are still depicted as bumbling idiots who can't use a cell phone or stream a video. 

Honestly, I think a lot of us just don't want to be bothered. After a lifetime of grinding for "the man," we just want to kick back and let our kids manage whatever new gewgaw tech BS comes down the pike. 

Meanwhile, youngsters look at our wrinkled faces dismissively, call us ma'am or sir, and pat us on the head.

I was in the park a few weeks ago, and a couple of 20-somethings were pushing ultra-caffeinated "energy drinks." They worked the picnic table next to mine, which was populated with 30-somethings who were clearly in their demographic. After pitching to them, the pair moved on with barely a sidelong glance in my direction.

Obviously, I was not the droid they were looking for. Perhaps if they'd been pitching Geritol...

But I digress.

I'm not sure where I'm headed with all of this. Maybe it's because as my life edges closer to the end and the beginning has become a distant memory, I'm seeing things a little differently. 

Inside, I feel like I'm 35. The mirror (and my achy-breaky body) disabuse me of this notion. I'm tired. I can't watch the news without a lump in my throat. Caring for Mr. Ginley post-stroke hurts my heart, not because he's a burden (as he says) but because I miss the beforetimes when he could read an entire book in a couple of days or stroll the park with me hand-in-hand. 

My pace has slowed to a crawl. I'm happy to watch other runners pass me by. Perhaps I'll just sit here on the bench and rest awhile.

And sip my Geritol.

Driving Mr. Ginley

Last weekend, Diane and John drove up, and with their help, we were able to maneuver Mr. Ginley into the car. After which, the pair of us took a drive through the Valley, then to McDonald's where we picked up lunch.

It was quite the adventure. Mr. made several calls from the car.

"Guess where I am?" he asked. He was giddy and excited to be out on the road.

"And you know what the best part is for you?" he inquired. "I can't see well enough to criticize your driving!"

Ah, there it is, the silver lining.

Getting out of the car proved easier than getting in. All in all, the experience was a success. Today, we'll see if the two of us can replicate the process. Mr. is lobbying to go to Culver's for cheeseburgers. Then maybe we can go sit in the park somewhere and partake.

A little taste of the beforetimes?

Otherwise, it's been a pretty quiet week. 

Mr. has been sorting through LOTS of books, and now there are about a dozen boxes sitting in our living room that need to be schlepped out.

Good thing it's a three day weekend!

P.S. Mr. wanted me to mention that today is our 14,000th day of marriage. What is the appropriate gift for such a milestone? Cheeseburgers for lunch, you say?