Bibulous

     Pretty much anything reported on CNN these days would drive a person to drink, so the advice from experts about

powering off the daily media diet is something we already know how to do. And yet, not easy to do when you make a point

of staying digitally hooked up into what’s going on in the world. Perhaps over a beer?

     Making mask-wearing the new normal/adapted lifestyle would’ve been unheard of last Halloween. I’m wondering if

kids take a little of that fun spirit with them each day during this ‘universal precautions’ level of self-care.  And, I’m sure

the rug-rat squad shocked themselves in realizing how much they actually miss school. We’ve heard parents are getting

more grumblings from their offspring about having to be home-schooled, in lieu of feigned illness so that they wouldn’t

have to, ya know, actually go to school. 

     (The easy, smirky thing my folks would’ve said here? “Where was a pandemic when my kids were that age??”)

    And, yes, alcohol sales had rocketed 55% by March 2020, which was right around the time I had my first absinthe

experience. (Also 55% ABV. And no, it’s not banned) I have yet to imbibe to the point of seeing the Green Fairy; I’m not a

wuss, I just know my limitations, and I’d prefer to like absinthe, rather than dread its choke-worthy intensity. (Rum &

Coke have nothing on Absinthe-n-A&W)

   Anyway, in the last several months, we’ve suddenly been given the gift of more time for self-reflection, experimentation,

imagination, and indulgence. (And, in my case, writing)   

   But like the multitudes, I dreaded that my employment would be deemed ‘non-essential’; manufacturing can be feast or

famine, and I grew a keen sense of fear of screwing up—I ended up micromanaging myself. (I absolutely would’ve hidden

the unwrapped chocolates just to stay employed) 

     Banking each hour and each day that went by—leading me to back off my Amazon neediness—I didn’t dare flaunt my

‘essentialness’, staying true to the ‘Corona-sans-lime’ regimen of hand-washing, Lysol-wipes-cleaning, and social

distancing practices my employer expected of me.

     And, I don’t need a closed, then open, then closed again bar or pub for a drink, or a crowd. I’m not a big drinker

anyway, no matter how much CNN/Huffpost/NPR says the sky is falling. And a socially distanced, mask-wearing crowd

can be found in lots of places. (I won’t be getting on a plane in the long foreseen future, but a movie theatre would be nice)

     In the meantime, I’ll embrace all my blessings, rather than count them; I don’t wanna be the whiny kid making a hoax

claim stink that their opponent cheated in the electoral college ‘popularity’ vote. (Cue eye-roll)

Éclat

Geminis (or, at least this one) don’t care if someone critiques them as a social butterfly. As if that distinction is a bad thing. And when we’re in a good mood, we (I) like a visually brilliant display. (Starry Night, anyone?)
            Conspicuous success? I have yet to know what that feels like. I wouldn’t mind a taste of it. I’d even smile, or smirk, at the expected trolling that comes with it. (And there’re always trolls that want to spoil the enjoyment—what can you expect from someone mentally living under a bridge?)
            Having thought about it, I do have several definitions of my own ‘plumage’. A former employer was influenced to color-code my unit’s section with laminated I.D. cards of hot-pink. It’s my primary clothing color, my conspicuous display that has yet to be copied.
            And, for those that go the clichéd route of gifting an adolescent with a drum set, hastening the irritation of the parent? Please. This spoiling auntie can achieve minimum exasperation from my siblings with a set of birthday’d bongos, instead. No assembly required, easily portable, and certainly uncommon.
            I’ve never understood why an artist’s collection grows valuable (or, more valuable) after death, other than the eye-rolling obviousness of never being able to produce more work. "That’s it! That’s all there will ever be!" anyone would tell you. Does that mean an infinite collection is less rare? Does an assembly line of painted canvases mean lesser value?
           Meanwhile, living, breathing artists manifest the ‘coolly eccentric’ character that others who attend the opening of an envelope would love to boast about 'being at their table'. (Braggadocios have always made me cringe)

           Still, occasional exhibitionism can be all in fun. I just wouldn’t want it very often. I know few Geminis that would. Being a spectacle all the time would be exhausting. Not to mention we also bore easily.
           To quote a scene from Aaron Sorkin’s writing in ‘The West Wing’:
"I could've countered that, but I had already moved on to other things in my head."

The Wheelchair Diet

     Roll…roll…roll…sweat, heat, drip, breathe. Push, whoosh…push, whoosh. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Strong. Breathe. Lick the sweat from my upper lip. Taste its saltiness. Oval arm motions. Pull back, and throw them forward. Back, and throw’em forward. It’s an oval shape. Walkers wouldn’t know that. But it’s true. 

     Don’t want to stop to rest. That’ll just make me stop completely. Then I’ll cool down. Don’t want the cool down yet. Keep the momentum. Always momentum.

    Legs—knees-to-heels of my Nikes, really—work the best they can. Left, right, left, right. They do the sit-walking to keep moving when I change out my MP3 music for a few seconds. I can only listen to NPR for so long before they repeat their news broadcast. 

  Headphone distraction. Listening. Music or radio, great for distraction. I’d hate my workout, otherwise; wanting to stop, rather than push for five more minutes. O’dark-early workout sets the disciplinary tone for the next twelve hours. 

    Mall workouts really are a thing. It’s the perfect combination of level surface foundation, dimmer-switch lighting, room-temp environment, flatfooted security, and coffee-stop. Sorry. No ellipticals or weightlifting machines available. But it is free.

   
    However, ‘Mall-crawls-are-my-cardio’ is a bullshit expression. Dawdling from Jamba Juice to Aeropostale, from Hot Topic to Panera Bread, from J. Crew to Sephora hardly burns calories when you’re simultaneously replacing them, via that iconic green straw with whipped cream clinging to its shaft.

    I inhale deeply each time I pass the oblong Starbucks kiosk. Walk-up. Whatev. “Good morning,” to the baristas. They smile. “Hey.” Then turn back to finish stocking readily-grabbed-and-purchased inventory. The island’s aroma is better than tropical flowers.

 
   The regulars (actual mall exercisers) wave ‘good morning’. I wave back and offer a wearied smile. We’re all here for the same thing, in our sneakers and yoga pants. Don’t need to repeat my greetings when I pass them again, minutes or moments later. Salutations have already been established.

   
     Keep pushing my transport. 

    The goal is to lose it. It helps, and it hinders. Everyone sees the transport before they see me. When they’ve passed me, and know I don’t see them, they’ll glance back at me. That’s one reason I painted the seatback; it feeds my creativity through cynicism.      

     Fifty-five minutes a day is enough for me. I’m wiped by then, anywoo. My arms don’t kill like they used to years ago. But my wheels feel more sluggish. I’m not as fresh as I was an hour before. Others think wheeling around would be easy. Try being the one wheeling it. Workouts are workouts. Whether you’re a size 20, 10, or 2. You’ll feel wiped when you’re done, no matter how short it was. 

     Yah, you have that adrenaline-aggression for a while after; I use that to fold up and lift my wheels into the car trunk, then zoom over to McD’s for that well-earned Diet Coke. My third a.m. caffeine infusion.

     What? Oh, I can walk? Duh! The DMV recognizes arthritis as a disability. Hence, the government-issued parking placard. Try functioning in a body wracked with pain, every minute of every day, while standing at the Starbucks kiosk for a couple of minutes. (I get a lightning bolt of muscular agony from a sneeze)

     It starts in the lower back, and soon my knees feel my weight. (No matter how much of it I’ve lost) The adrenaline’s coming to its end, and the cool-down follows. The knees wanna lock for support, but I can’t do that to my left knee; displaced meniscus. Which translates into bone-on-bone fun.

      If I stand longer than four minutes, I’ll start sweating the pain to come. If that ass-hat ahead of me fucks up his verbal coffee-order, it takes longer for the cashier to key it in to the barista. And there’s three people behind him—in front of me—waiting, too.

      For all our state-of-the-art tech conveniences, how come ass-hat didn’t use the app on his smartphone to order ahead of time, and have his drink ready-and-paid-for before I got in line?

     Next will come the trembling. If the next three customers ahead of me don’t get their coffees in the next 60 seconds, the trembling can turn into impatient fury. Foul mood, and possibly language, will follow.

        So…no. I think I’ll just stick with my wheels when I’m unmercifully made to wait for others to dilly-dally their time away. But then, I wouldn’t be a Starbucks customer right after a workout. 

     Dude, I just burned 240 calories! (The University of Tennessee, Knoxville, established wheelchair exercise of 30 minutes, at 2 mph, burns 120 calories)

     I love Starbucks, but consuming anything of theirs lays waste to all that recent sweat. And I don’t workout my entire frame, of course. Just arms, and knees-to-Nikes. I took it as a compliment that my former college classmates from several years ago dubbed me ‘Hot Wheels’, due to speed-ability.

      I’ve got the workout down, but caloric intake is the determinate of success. And, surprise. Only one website study admits (barely) that wheelchair-users may need to consume less than the average (physically-abled) person. 2,000-2,500 calories? Nope. That’d be the equivalent of eating cake every day, for me. I.O.W., dietician-recommended numbers are a counterproductive solution to medically-obese society that aren’t able to move their entire body every five minutes.

     Oh, you’re starving yourself, you ask? Not that you’d see. And, by the way, when did you decide that was your business?

    I had two, plastic containers of bakery cookies in a scooter-shopping cart one day at Freddie’s, and a disruptive, invasive shopper—a complete stranger—demanded to know if I was really going to buy them. (Imagine that scenario the next time you’re in the frozen foods aisle, selecting a box of Lean Pockets)

   I was too stunned to acknowledge she was asking me the question, and in a pushy manner. She asked it again. After giving her my automatic Mr. Spock-lifted-eyebrow reaction, I answered.

     Um, yah. Office-parties happen, and store-bought convenience is the usually accepted co-worker expectation. (Please forgive me the multiple compound words this once, grammarians. In this case it’s necessary)

     We really have evolved into a society that believes they have the unassailable right to question another’s personal practices, judge them right or wrong, then execute that judgment.

   This stranger’s hypocrisy also left me dumbfounded; ‘Judgy-Wudgy’ was larger than me. I wouldn’t have been amazed if she pulled out her driver’s license to reveal her name to be ‘Mrs. Dementia Bizarro’.
 
   This is another reason why ‘self-checkout’ has become my favored means of merch-purchase; if boorish strangers presume that I actually eat everything that I buy, what must the cashier be thinking when bagging up my goods.

      This is my world, readers.

     And so, the push-n-whoosh continues. Minus 2,000 goes on. My mall-buddies are the few champions of my efforts that I know.

     Now, it’s time to go make that taco salad. Qué contradicción con la dieta, el cinco de mayo!

Monition

     It doesn’t have to be just a Gemini that waits for the other shoe to drop, when offered a variety of dubious choices. And I always expect for the other shoe to drop, because nothing’s ever THAT good, or that free, or that available, to anyone. We’re advised to turn over every rock, so that we know what’s underneath. To always be guarded, suspicious, questioning motives. If you’re not, you’re fucking over yourself, and no one should be that dumb. That naïve. 

     For half a minute, I once thought Mitt Romney, of my native state, was that dumb. A college-educated guy. Wealthy, powerful, charismatic to some, (not me) and seemingly ready for any attack. So, I’m hoping that he knew exactly what Trump had up his sleeve, when he dangled a plum White House job in front of him, years ago. (“Can you say ‘tactical’, boys and girls?”) 

     Regarding my Gemini reference, and I’ve said this to others, as much as I love my zodiac sign, never in a million years would I want a Gemini, woman or man, running the Oval Office. 

     Everyone’s right; we DO get bored, or impatient, with the same thing. Granted, we’re pragmatic to the simple facts of life, and adhere to them. Go to school. Get a job. Learn how to drive, and safely. Wash your hands. Do housework. Pay your bills. Think of others needs, too. Expect that not everyone’s gonna like you. Assure your boss you’re reliable every day. Read a newspaper. Make a medical check-up appointment. 

     Very, very basic parts of life. 

     Running a country, and working hard to make that country proud of you? Not an easy thing. I get that. But don’t tell the country you’re in charge of that you’re tired of dealing with a pandemic. This is what you signed up for. Sorry, but you don’t get to be bored. That’s the caveat. 

     You want the power to ‘do whatever you want’? You also have to take the responsibility (publicly) of what you do FOR your country. Another caveat. 

     I’ve always liked that word, caveat. I’ve always been the sort to want to know what’s under that ‘rock’. When that shoe’s gonna drop. I’d never be Charlie Brown to Lucy. (Oh hell, no!)

     Another caveat, in writing? Exactly what any intelligent person would advise: ‘Don’t quit your day-job’. Yah, unless I bank a sweet publishing deal, contracts, sizeable check and all, I ain’t walkin’ away from a reliable income. 

     “Danger, Will Robinson! There’s a Gemini in the White House! Danger! Danger!”

Anamnesis

Reminiscence: remembering things past; a collection in literary form of incidents and experiences remembered. 
~ Oxford Dictionary of Current English, Oxford University Press, 1992

     Such an elegant word, drumming up any number of memories; good or bad, traumatic or ecstatic, inspiring one to laugh or mope, sigh or wince, pucker the lips thoughtfully, or roll the eyes.
     I could reminisce over my late grandmother’s 100^th birthday. A couple of months before, when it looked like she ‘just might make it’, the birthday celebration evolved into a family reunion; she sat in a chair on her front lawn like a national monument, while various branched groups of the family posed behind her.
     Also, no one established who’d be responsible for getting Grandma her birthday cake. She wound up with three cakes, and a giant chocolate chip cookie.  We still laugh about it.
     But birthday reminiscing is like the saying: ‘Life’s a funny old dog’. How many people can say their most memorable birthday was spent driving their parent to a chemo appointment? Or, recovering from having a cantaloupe-sized tumor removed.
     Exercising a memory from long past can have a therapeutically cathartic outcome. Experiences that I didn’t understand in my younger days can be wisely appreciated by this Jenn-Xer. (Had to be written.)
     Yah, I still exhibit a mental flinch from nonsensical relationships—memories better left in an active incinerator, rather than the storage unit of my brain. I don’t envy younger generations that’ll have their every random thought or opinion documented for digital infinity. When I imagine if such tech existed in my high school days…? Oy vey! Sigh-filled reminiscence over something that DIDN’T happen! (Whew!)
     And there can be a fine line between reminiscence, and nostalgia, so long as your thoughts remain positive. But, doesn’t a random negative memory typically snap out, tainting the nostalgia with that flinch?
     I can reminisce the day long on my favorite holiday—Mardi Gras—adding mental hiccups of Bourbon Street boozers who never seem capable of holding their Hurricanes. Of hurricanes, strong and brutal, that lashed at my stable, brick home, snuffing out the most enduring light, wrapping my picture window vision in black velvet.
     Reminiscence of my upbringing in a burb of San Francisco was never one of affluence, despite anyone’s argument that being white made things easy for me. Ministers and their families may be the ‘pillars of the community’, but single-income opulence is not a thing if your father’s not on PTL. One would actually have to stick their head in the sand to not notice my dining on the government’s school-lunch program in the cafeteria; 10₵ a day kept me and many of my classmates fed, with the added perk of convincing me that spinach was supposed to look like boiled seaweed.
     I presumed every town and every school resembled the ‘Americana’ that was Vallejo. It took moving to the PNW to grasp that inaccurate distinction. Talk about woke. Appreciation for having attended ‘Melting Pot Jr. High’ was its own form of culture shock after being registered into ‘Wonder Bread High’.
     Cake is another method of musing; forming the tradition of baking one for your parent’s birthday, asking them what flavor they want, is always done with love. And it recently occurred to me that I hadn’t baked one for my mother’s birthday, the last two summers. Why didn’t I? Why did I stop? She loved lemon cake and lemon frosting. And I stopped making them. I still post the Scottish flag outside on her birthday. But there’s no excuse for not continuing to make her birthday cake, despite that she’s not around to eat it.
     Every once in a while, my recollections can inspire dropped jaws in others. My boss has teased me that surely I’ve been at the pot. I chalk it up to having a staid upbringing, with minimally excitable occurrences. But my Gemini status makes adaptability smooth.
    Whodathunk that childhood memories can make for impulsive, name-drop bragging, despite not meaning to? Something as simple as my brothers and their friend from church playing together with their Star Wars X-wing Starfighters and action figures.
     Fast-forward almost 30 years, and the friend has become a film director, screenwriter, and producer, with a résumé that includes the hit show ‘Empire’, and several Oscar nominations.
     ‘Funny old dog’ is right; it invokes retrospection when you least expect it.