Not a good day yesterday. Problems ranged from a malfunction in the garage door to Pat running out of "N" insulin. Luckily, I spoke to darling daughter, Ellen, and she suggested it could be bought over the counter. I didn't think so, but found it can be. Get this: Walgreens's gave me of price of FIFTY-ONE DOLLARS for the tiny vial (holds about a half teaspoon) and I got it at Wal-Mart for twenty three.
Pat was able to tell me what to do about the garage door and the other problems--oh, yes, there were others--more or less resolved themselves. I'm coming up out of my slump now and feeling better.

Got all my gear washed, dried, and put away (I'm compulsive) and pulled together a summer meal after tidying up the house. Betty and Jim arrived shortly before 6:00, when we sat down for dinner.
Hey, it wasn't half bad, if I say it myself. I asked Jim to pick a wine from our diminishing "cellar" (a six-bottle rack in the dining room) and he and I enjoyed a few glasses through the evening. After a pleasant, convivial visit and a stop-over from Susan and Walter, the sibs left and I cleared the kitchen and settled down with my Taylor Country Red.
The phone rang about 8:30 and I heard a voice I haven't heard since I graduated from eighth grade at St. James Grammar School in 1896. It was Elva G., now B., responding to my message of the other day. We talked for 20 minutes or so and discovered we had been living and/or working about 15 miles apart for many years.
I was oddly disappointed in Elva. For almost my entire life, she seemed to me the absolute epitome of beauty, elegance, and grace. She was a pretty blonde, her father was a doctor, and her life seemed charmed to this short, formerly chubby brunette. Yet her voice is somewhat thin and in passing, she made brief reference to the kind of bedrock conservatism I find one of the least attractive human traits.
Elva isn't able to join us on Wednesday, but we'll keep in touch. In the meantime, I'm intrigued with the eventual difficulty of reconciling my picture of a pretty 13-year-old with the mature--hey, we're so damn mature, we'll fall off the vine pretty soon--woman Elva has developed into (uh, into which Elva has developed).
Hmm...is it better to be grammatically incorrect (ending a sentence with a preposition) or stilted (into which...etc.)? Think I'll just leave it here.

I'm back from a wonderful, wonderful respite outing, thanks to darling A. and twin sister, Betty. We saw lots of old friends--Mary, Connie, Muckie, Hazel, Dottie, and George--yes, even those we knew as FIRST GRADERS. Ate plenty of fatty, sugary, bad for you, utterly divine food, went out to breakfast, lunch, and dinner, walked on the boardwalk, sat on the porch, and talked, talked, talked--so good. I drank my share of wine and beer, but with the effect only of enhancing my sense of warm, convivial enjoyment. I got there about 4:30 on Thursday, and returned home today at 10:00. We didn't turn the television or radio on even once, and Betty doesn't have a computer there, so aside from cell phones, we were free of our electronic bondage.
Okay, back to reality, but that's okay. I'm rejuvenated, re-charged, and reinvigorated. Am having for dinner tonight the same sis and my brother, Jim, who will come up from Virginia to stay overnight at Betty's. A.'s friends, who raise chickens (!) gave her a dozen fresh eggs and I have them at the boil; will devil them, then add to the ham, baked beans, salad, and whatever else I have around. I was wondering on the way home what I could whip up for dessert and--lo!--A. had made two blueberry cobblers, leaving one for us!
I must remember: I am so lucky to have been born into a big family in a small town. Life is good.

Didn't do a whole heck of a lot yesterday, aside from the usual. Went to the library and got a new book on Ted Kennedy (why? I dunno.) and impulsively picked up Swimsuit by Thomas Patterson. Aside from official government releases, I seldom read fiction, but I can see why he's so popular. He grabs you immediately with a gory, sexy situation and makes the protagonist a suave, brilliantly intelligent, handsome, master of disguises--you'd practically consider it a privilege to be offed by him. Anyway, it's light summer reading, I guess.
Will leave today for Betty's, so won't be posting for a few days. Must pack, do wash, and prepare for my respite weekend.
Wider: At "Common Dreams," there's an eye-opening piece by Derrick Jensen called "Forget Shorter Showers: Why Personal Change Does Not Equal Political Change." Here's a bit:
"Part of the problem is that we’ve been victims of a campaign of systematic misdirection. Consumer culture and the capitalist mindset have taught us to substitute acts of personal consumption (or enlightenment) for organized political resistance...All of the solutions presented (have) to do with personal consumption—changing light bulbs, inflating tires, driving half as much—and have nothing to do with shifting power away from corporations, or stopping the growth economy that is destroying the planet..."
But read it all, and don't bother walking to work:
http://www.commondreams.org/view/2009/07/08

Buzzed around being busy. Went to The Home Depot and got bug spray (for me, not the house) and the Miracle-Gro you attach to the hose. Dropped some things off at the thrift store. Made a loaf of banana bread. Washed several loads of clothes. Stripped and re-made our bed. Mopped the master bath and washed and replaced the rugs. Vacuumed the living room and our bedroom. Washed Pat's hair and gave him a sponge bath. After dinner, I attached the hose thing and watered my poor little yellow flowers on the side. Of course, all this was aside from my everyday caregiver chores, but it gave me a sense of accomplishment--I ain't just spinning my wheels here, folks.
Talked to Betty to try and arrange a meet-up with old friends from elementary school. Talked to A., who will give me another "respite weekend" shortly.
Wider: My rant for the day: I wouldn't dream of watching the "memorials" to Michael Jackson, but saw on my home page a video of his 11-year-old daughter saying he was "the best father in the world." I'm not suggesting he wasn't a good father--who the hell knows?--but the stomach-turning idea of coaching a child to "pay tribute" for an audience, then break down in tears, can be described as nothing but "unseemly." She was surrounded by her aunts and uncles, all of them decked out in the most somber of black clothes, looking remarkably like African-American Mafia. She was encouraged (oh, of course, she was encouraged) to cry, then turn to Auntie Janet (I guess it was) to be photogenically embraced while the others assumed the doleful, zombie-like expressions the artistic director must have thought appropriate.
Boy, it makes you wonder--yet again--where we're headed and raises lots of questions: Is there no honest emotion left that's experienced behind closed doors and that doesn't rely for its authenticity on hordes of witnesses? Is there such a thing as GOOD TASTE, anymore? Is there any rock-bottom low that television won't explore? How many people actually watched that garbage? How many children took concious or unconcious notes on "how to act when your daddy dies?"
Okay, I'll stop. I'll go out and get the newspaper, which will cover the whole charade at length, I'm sure, and will surely list some of the most prominent celebs at the "memorial." Just one more question:
How much did the ever-so-bereaved family realize from the television rights? A bundle, huh?

Met sister Betty at Santori's and we stocked up on our veggies. We then took a melancholy trip to the cemetery. Other than that, it was a day like any other day--they're beginning to all seem the same. Guess that means I'm in a rut, but how do I get out of it?
Haven't heard yet if I got the part in "Hedda Gabler," but saw on Facebook Andrea was picked for the title role. I thought she, Tara, and Lucille were all good at the reading.
Wider: I was confused for a minute when I read that Michael Jackson's "memorial" will be held at "the Staples Center." Wha? A ceremony at an office supply store? Then it dawned: This, of course, is another in a long list of sell-outs to corporate America. Presumably, Staples paid a coupla mil to L.A. so now sports fans and others have to say their name every time they refer to the stadium. Same as what used to be Veterans' Stadium in Philly, and Shea, and, I guess, practically every other large gathering place in the country. It's not quite as disgusting as pushing fast food in elementary school,* but it's close.
The fact that a man--well, a person--who was almost surely a drug addict and a pedophile will be the object of sloppily expressed adulation is now just routine. Hey, at least, Jackson may not have been quite as revolting as the recently dead McNamara. Good 'ol boy Robert Strange will be praised to the skies by statesmen and dignitaries, all dressed in dark suits so the rivers of blood that flow around them doesn't show.
* Of course, this particular rape of innocence is now routine. If you question it, you're greeted with indignation at worst and puzzled faces at best: "But they gave the school new laptops and a copy machine."
Later: As it turned out, I didn't get the role in "Hedda Gabler." I'm slightly disappointed, but not terribly so. Will try for something else the next time. Am still involved with the murder mystery group.

Lent my car to the K's, who have a houseful of company from Massachusetts; their car broke down on the way and was left at Pep Boys in North Jersey somewhere. Judy and Roman have only one themselves so I offered and was glad to help out. As these things happen, grandson Joel asked if I'd drive him home to get the extra key for his motorcycle. He lost his after a barbecue on the fourth at Redmen's Hall in Tuckerton. Finally, his friend picked him up and brought the other key, but we enjoyed his visit.
Had another visit after dinner from little Brooke and her Mommy. Brooke is so cute--has black, curly hair, big dark eyes, and weighs only seven pounds. Yes, a miniature poodle. I, who fervently believe a good dog is a stuffed dog, have said that if I should ever be so misguided (or drunk, or rendered insane) to get one, I'd want it to be like Brooke.
Had a nice talk and look-see with Ellen and A. called, back from their vacation. Oddly enough, it was a pleasant day.