P.J. Colando's Blog, page 9

Who’s Small?

I’m small. So short I can’t see over the new island installed in the kitchen remodel.

Why it’s called an island, I don’t know. Though I’m only four, I’ve been to Hawaii. I disagree that we have an island in our kitchen, when it should be in the middle of the pool in our backyard. What we have is a block because that’s what it does.

I ran into the island that should be called a block once—only once—as I tore into the kitchen to get my morning milk and muffin. The bump flourished on my forehead for days. I didn’t want a Band Aid to hide my trophy; the bump made me bigger and drew sympathy.

On the inside I’m tall, robust, and brave. A block didn’t defeat me and neither can the rage.

On the outside I sing nursery songs and speak gibberish. I play on my iPad all afternoon, snuck under the table during dinner, and until Dad reads me a bedtime book. I’m tired of Good Night Moon, so it puts me to sleep.

In the morning hours, I’m in preschool with Miss Emmy. Who sees me as tall and listens to every word.

On the outside I am pale and speckled with spots. Like our Dalmation Sal, short for Salvador. Which I can’t say, though I can think it in my head.

Sal doesn’t mind. He licks my cheek because he knows I’m smart and that I’d recognize him in the dark.

As he recognizes me. His tail wags like a metronome, the one on the piano which shudders as my mom bangs out Beethoven tunes.

I hope the metronome doesn’t crash to the floor. It would be my luck that I’d be walking by. When the thing smashed my toe, it’d be my fault for interrupting the flow. There’d be a gash on the zebrawood floor that would cost a lot to fix.

On the outside I skulk in/out of rooms while the adults bicker and call on the phone or across the house.

With gestures as wild and choppy as an axe. Like when they cheer the sports teams or curse with the man in the red hat on the TV screen.

Like when the Johnsons come to dinner and I’m consigned to eat on a high stool at the kitchen island. They may agree or disagree, it doesn’t matter.

What matters is that they are loud. And, no one yells at me for shooting peas at the ice dispenser on the refrigerator’s left door. Sal likes the game because he eats the peas.

At least they don’t shout at me anymore. Move this way, do this, do that, don’t slouch. Did you have to leave a puddle of milk on the floor? Do you want me to break my back?

Don’t bother me. Eat your broccoli because it’s good for you. Eat your peas because they are small. Just your size.

While they roll the veggies around the plate with their fork, fake listening to each other’s tirades.

Instead of dining, they torch, dispirit, and quibble. As if it mattered.

I’m small. I know how to read and look word meanings up on iPad.

I’m smart…as if it mattered.

I feel like a guppy looking into their vast aquarium. That has no water at all. No seductive ferns to flutter and sway. No pretty pebbles. No little castle in which to slither and hide away.

I’m glad to stay in my room, my small fishbowl. Playing on my iPad, winning all the games, learning all the new words.

Being content and happy and safe.

Someday it’ll be my turn and I’ll spout the words, like a great whale in the ocean. The spray will upend them; wash them away with a foul red tide.

A tide that will knock the hat off of that swarthy-mouthed man. That angry, foaming-at-the-mouth lout. The one who has stolen my nice, attentive-to-me parents and replaced them with these angry wooden stumps.

I am hopeful, patient, and brave. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9yu_g5x3ZoQ

The Bee’s Knees, Not Mine

True fact – isn’t it odd, and awful, that one must write redundantly to prove that one’s facts are true? Because of an orange politician who specializes in fake news and false facts.

Babies are born without kneecaps.  They don’t appear until the child reaches 2 to 6 years of age.

This puts in perspective the fact that my knees grumble at their overuse. They’ve been performing repetitive tasks for 70 Years

going back and forth between sit and standbending properly to go up and down stairsKicking a ball or another’s ass, which may be as metaphorical as kicking a canclimbing a ladder or banding to lace a  tennis shoewalking, running, dancing, and jumping, though I seldom do the last one nowMy knees are begging for replacement, the orthopedist says.

I’m putting the procedure off because I’m not a fan of surgery. Instead, I’ve accepted cortisone and PRP (plasma replacement procedure) shots. I have all manner of knee braces and compression bands. Some even have copper in them! I have KT tape and Rock tape and know how to tape my knees like a pro.. I’ve attended hundreds of physical therapy sessions – and follow through with all of the techniques and exercises at home.

I am my longtime PT’s favorite patient – because I comply.

Acupuncture and laser light therapy are a part of my preventative regimen. I have CBD massage oil, Ice and Heat packs, and nightly doses of Advil. I also have longterm relationships with Voltaire, Arnica, and Biofreeze. I have my own TENS unit and apply the electrode just like my PT did.

It ain’t the money, honey, because the total spent on my homeopathic remedies is thousands while the surgical procedure would be free via terrific insurance.

Perhaps, in the end, deferring knee surgery is a denial of my old age. Like all Boomers, I want to be Peter Pan and be light on my feet and fly, a social butterfly forever.

 

Another Pass at the Pool

So, another morning in the gym’s pool, exercising in the water’s buoyancy so there’s less stress on my troubled knees. While it should be a daily endeavor, I’m pleased with once a week.

I’m not a fan of sweating so swimming suits.

So, I’m up to my neck in water, trying not to get my hair wet because I have places to go and things to do after I shower, towel off, and dress in the locker room. In trots a skinny dude of undetermined age. Ignoring the sign to not run, he jumps into the bubbling jacuzzi near my lane. He grins in in reply to my immediate scowl. His type of rule-breaking offends the rule abider inside of me and, as I’m often told, my face holds no secrets.

Suddenly the wiry guy says, “I talk a lot with your husband. He says you’re beautiful.”

“Yes” I reply, “he’s a good husband.”

Because I’m at the end of my lane – and also because I’m nonplussed – I turn and dogpaddle away, yelling over my back. “My husband is the best man alive!”

Without asking permission, as pool rules dictate, the wiry crewcut guy (age indeterminate) jumps into my lane, perhaps to cool his jets after the jacuzzi. Before I could ask his name, to confer with my husband at home, he bounded out of the pool area. His drop-in visit was done and I was left to contemplate…  Wow – he’d turned my dismissive frown into a smile with his compliment. He’d deflected my glower and aligned himself with my beloved husband… I admire his quick thinking and his cute ploy, truth or not.

Perhaps his quirkiness worked.

I haven’t had such an inadvertent compliment in seven years… Here’s my blog of the last episode: https://www.pjcolando.com/poolology-social-permission/

Maybe I should make pool dipping – not skinny because I’m not – a daily thing.

 

I No Longer Career Evangelize

I adored my forty-four-year career as a speech-language pathologist. For thirty of those years, I thrived in my private practice, focused on the communication issues of toddlers. People used to say, “You must be so patient,” to deal with the ‘terrible two’ tantrummers, but the truth was somewhat different.

Working with people who are highly frustrated with their inability to express their wants and needs – at any age – requires rapid, precision problem-solving skills. I needed to be able to break words like “want” and “more” into discreet bits of sound that a kid could imitate and then praise him/her effusively. I needed to entice the kids to take a risk, to not have an extreme fear of failure – which had already set in by age two or three. I got to be wonderful each workday. I ‘gave for a living.’

I used to proselytize speech-language pathology as a career choice. Wouldn’t anyone want to be wonderful every day? My efforts to evangelize about the field intensified when my peers, now ensconced in college programs around the country, reported that fewer freshmen were enrolling to become specialists in communication disorders.

Oh no! People afflicted by an inability to speak need services. To be able to communicate is a core life skill!

I spoke with everyone willing to engage – even a furniture salesman. I convinced one young relative, but another declined. Friends’ teenagers, too, including our pastor’s granddaughter.

I talked, encouraged, and hyped the field constantly. I convinced the young PT assistant (who’d been unable to get into PT school) to give it a go, not knowing that the standard for entering my field had an even higher bar.

The young woman was rejected by each of our several proximate colleges. The recommendation letter that I’d offered to write to support her application was disallowed. She was dejected, cut to the core.

I no longer evangelize.

 

Blog as Virtual Diary

April 3 question – How long have you been blogging? What do you like about it and how has it changed?I began writing a blog in 2012 as a means of personal expression. It was a bold move for me to speak my truth. I’d repressed and trimmed the edges off my whippersnapper self to be well-regarded and accepted in the world. Especially in my nuclear family in which several members could go nuclear within seconds. What made this walk-on-eggs act tough was that their triggers were seldom known in advance.The most mercurial child – the one who sucked most of the family’s oxygen – was the younger sister who read my teenage self’s diary – and tattled to my mom. Now I no longer care and it’s bomb’s away, baby on my blog.

Like an apple/day for health, blogging has been my weekly appointment to write. For mental health.

I am a duty-bound person, raised to commit and excel. It was an ethic of both parents. Each of them gifted me an essential component of my writing style: metaphorical, humor, and satirical finesse.

My blog is an element of my author platform. It’s my weekly engagement with the world though I merely sit in my desk chair and keyboard. No dressing up to step out, no high-priced gas necessary. Did I mention that the internet is free?

My blog is:

confessionalinformationalspritely and, hopefully, never dulltopical, though seldom political100% my opinion, my sentiments, my wordsmy moods and swingsmy hopes and dreamsmy personal stamp on the world

I am a social butterfly, an extrovert, not an introvert. Blogging is interactive and helps keep me sane.

I may have never satisfied the SEO gods to amass the followers commanded as a successful writer platform, but I’ve pleased an audience of one: myself.

 

Sleeping with a Terrorist

I have lived with a terrorist for over three years. It’s not the human variety, so banish your dark thoughts about my husband.  My wonderful man would rescue me by any means he could. He’s a great sidekick. He’s got my back. Further, he’d step in front of me to swashbuckle any demonic force. He feels badly that he can’t help me conquer the terrorist that mars my daily life.

My self-esteem has been undermined by the lack of control I have over my limbs. They shake, rattle, and roll anytime, anywhere. My body has turned its back on me and doesn’t even seem to feel sorry. Other people feel sorry for me, offering prayers and hugs to comfort my soul. But none of these soothing methods solves the problem. In an attempt at jest, I call  myself a “Cool Jerk.”

https://www.google.com/search?client=safari&rls=en&q=Cool%20Jerk%20site%3Ayoutube.com&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8&ved=2ahUKEwjpr43Kvu-EAxXmMUQIHfjrD7UQ2wF6BAgHEAE&ei=B7HwZamQKebjkPIP-Ne_qAs#fpstate=ive&vld=cid:77654805,vid:R73iEOvkr10,st:0

I’m special due to my private earthquakes – though never private summers, aka hot flashes. Yay!

I’ve visited numerous doctors without joy when I leave their offices. No diagnosis, no effective treatment suggestions. I even received an insult from a neurologist when he referred me to a shrink because – his only two potential diagnoses denied by a normal EEG – he assumed that the cause was psychogenic. Because my husband was present I did not wring his neck. I reported him to the hospital’s patient relations.

Should I bad-mouth him on Yelp?

So I’m re-making the rounds, prioritizing doctors who have a reputation for listening and robust problem-solving. I’m hoping all three will empathize with my predicament rather than judge me as a hysterical female. My loyal husband will accompany me: to be a second listener, to verify my reality, and to support me as needed (to the doc who suggested that I needed to stretch, my husband’s defense was quick).

He is a staple of my life as a miracle.

“To have and to hold…”

 

Never Be Bored

As a child, did you mope and badger your mom with these words: “I haven’t got anything to do!”

Early on, as the eldest and self-reliant child, I observed that my siblings, and household chores, encumbered much of my mom’s time. I learned to read early and so that’s what I did. Massively amused by the other worlds that books built. I was quiet and contained, an eager learner of everything.

As long as I had a book or time to free range in our yard, I was absorbed. Except for the summers of tiny-town Indiana, when there wasn’t school to structure and occupy daylight hours. Summer school wasn’t offered by the public school system, but vacation Bible school lasted six weeks and sufficed.

The poem above is the 65th in a collection of newspaper ads written by Harry Gray, then CEO of United Technologies, that appeared in the Wall Street Journal from the late 1970s through the early 1980s. I framed the entire poem, words stacked as a ladder of success.

Because it is.

It’s hung on my husband’s office since we moved into our forever home in the late 80’s We also sent copies to his nephews, dispensing the advice of a favorite uncle. which he was.

He’s also my favorite honey – the best man alive – the love of my life. Ours is oft regarded a union of soulmates, unnerving others and inciting envy…

Because it is.

And we both aim so high, that we are never bored. We are ever-optimistic – as linked to our endeavor, our quest.

“Aim so high you’ll never be bored,” a monster mantra, a guiding light for over-achievers and self-actualizers’ lives.

Mickey Mouse as Anti-Hero

The star character and centerpiece of Walt Disney’s world is Mickey Mouse. He was Walt’s first and, perhaps, his alter ego. He’s forever been perpetually jolly, a welcome antidote to worldwide angst, though his tinny, effeminate voice rankles my ears. Mickey Mouse’s character has been unfailingly kind. An exemplary role model for humans.

Unlike some other Disney characters who’ve stirred controversy, he wears pants.

https://www.cnn.com/mickey-mouse-horror-movies-public-domain/index.html?utm_term=170428240132539a24eb8c34b&utm_source=cnn_Five+Things+for+Wednesday%2C+January+3%2C+2024&utm_medium=email&bt_ee=Y74P%2BwomvuWxIAtOgFD3LTk3jIrVbBrrrv5fA0tUKNwIOngNJDg9tcbY1pt6%2Bwj3&bt_ts=1704282401328

Mickey Mouse as anti-hero! Can you picture it? To me, an avowed Disney enthusiast, it makes the world feel more out-of-whack, despite that fact that he’s make-believe. Mickey Mouse has become synonymous with happiness and not a craven, heinous villain. Will the civilized world tilt on its axis?

Help and holy crap!.

Cognitive dissonance.

Ironically, I posited such a scenario for my master’s thesis ___ years ago. The inherent goodness of Mickey and his cohorts’ characters was a given in that era. I wondered how toddlers would respond if shown a cartoon in which Mickey was an anti-hero. For example, stealing food from Pluto’s plate or pulling Goofy’s seat at the dinner table out from under him. Chucking food like toddlers are prone to do? That process led me to the literature on cognitive dissonance.

When I transitioned from being a speech-language pathologist to a writer, I encountered another massive body of literature as I tried to learn to write right. While it’s understood that the protagonist is the hero of a tale and the Hero’s Journey is a staple, it’s been posited by many that the antagonist is the hero of his version of the tale.

Thus, whether cast as protagonist or antagonist in these upcoming movies and shorts, Mickey Mouse will remain a hero in his mind as written in the scripts. Will you go to see these attractions? Will you consider Mickey a saint or a sinner?

Should we remove his star from the Hollywood Walk of Fame?

Here’s a blast from the past, a slice of life incident ten years ago: https://www.pjcolando.com/lace/

Can White People Dance?

White people can’t dance. White people can’t jump.

Are these bits of cultural wisdom true or false? Saying that white people can’t jump or dance is about culture and race. A comeuppance statement voiced among people of color. Watch this video – whaddaya think? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=129kuDCQtHs

Did you see a white person dance? Did a white chick jump onto the stage?

Language is a dance, don’t you think? Words are its movements, and grammar is its rhythm. Beats and flow work for me – rather than rules and strict adherence to regulations beyond the fact that a sentence = S+V.

Dance is language, too. Dance is the most articulate form of body language. Dance involves the entire body. It’s more than a snap of the fingers or flipping people off with one. It’s enthusiasm personified.

Speaking of personified… Watch this dance, its message and movements https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oA2G-y7ySnI

I like to write as much as I like to dance. Further, I like to sing as much as I like to converse. Solo or duo or in a choir or gang. Freedom of expression is JOY!

I write within a loosely held online writer group, posting once monthly to the Insecure Writers Support Group. Because no one is watching you write, it’s helpful to be among kindred spirits, even if the presence is only virtual.March 6th question: Have you “played” with AI to write those nasty synopses, or do you refuse to go that route? How do you feel about AI’s impact on creative writing?Writer peeps, I gotta admit that I use two AI tools: Grammerly and ProWritingAid. Grammerly gives me high praise for my bodacious vocabulary and creative use of language. ProWritingAid shapes my words, sentences, and paragraphs, smoothing the rough edges so that I more closely follow the rules. (don’t judge me, I’m insecure, too)White people can.

 

 

 

 

Seatbelt Clasp as Piggy Bank

Believe it or not, this happened to me, despite the extraordinary odds that such could occur. There’s a story to tell, so buckle up, read and gasp, and be grateful it didn’t happen to you!

You can bank on the story’s truth.

As best as I can put it together, I bought lunch for my husband and me – on a whim – at El Pollo Loco, an Orange County chain that made extraordinary chicken tostadas. My husband had been working the soil in his garden, which is possible because we live in Southern California and he welcomed this much-loved meal and its break from his outdoor chore. Rain was expected later in the day and he was hurried to complete the task.

Immediately after handing over the meal bag, the window clerk handed me change from my twenty-dollar bill. I corralled the bill and change in my cupped left hand (I’m a righty)… and I mildly recalled an odd clink, then drove home to my hungry husband. I recall nothing about my seatbelt and shoulder harness, but I likely unlatched the apparatus to extend my body to reach the bag and the change

All was well until the next morning…

My driver’s side seatbelt wouldn’t latch!

Ever the problem solver, I just drew my belt and shoulder harness further across my body, clicked the mechanism into the passenger belt slot, and drove to Bible Study. Unlike Chuck Berry in has ancient rockabilly song, I had a particular place to go. Listen to his tune here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xm3jthxADyo

I made an appointment at the Mercedes dealer where I purchased my car, hoping for a warranty extension, but no! I steeled myself for the expensive purchase and installation of a new seatbelt, glad that I hadn’t maxxed the limit of my MasterCard.

Imagine my relief when the mechanic found that a penny had improbably popped into the cavity of the latch!

Sadly, that penny wasn’t going into a piggy bank. It was scratched and misshapen. I didn’t save it, but I savored the serendipity of its ‘I can’t believe it’ story. It cast new meaning on the phrase, “a penny for your thoughts.”

File this tale under the heading: ‘You can’t make this stuff up.’