Old Age & Lesbian Sex

(It Ain’t Pretty)

In my age group, the agility of sex is ever more challenging.  In youth, I never considered senior sex. Now, I’m old, out, loud, and not so proud.  In youth, we didn’t need more than slippery stuff.  Planning for travel required only, “Did you pack the slippery stuff?” Woe to the partner who said, “I thought you were bringing it.”

We had only to be in the mood with a bit of privacy. Parked in a quiet corner in a cemetery? No problem. We were contortionists.  A little repetitive discomfort did not cause serious injury.

Sixty and beyond is a different matter.  We were doing good when an errant elbow to the head caused only, “Ouch!”

“I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay.”  

“Good, we can keep going?”

Our mantra became, “It's okay as long as nobody is knocked unconscious.”  (I’m typing this with eight fingers due to dominant hand thumb surgery.  You can imagine what it does to my dexterity in other areas.) 

We advanced to proper supportive pillow placement. Getting numb hands was okay as long as we could keep the movement going. Now, we fight cramping muscles and attend to our spinal alignment.  All this while focusing on orgasm.

“I can’t stay in this position.”

“What do you need?”

Later, I started fantasizing about specially designed senior sex furniture.  How does one hold their head in the proper position for muff diving?  My tongue wags freely but there are positioning issues.  I need an adjustable stool and an elevating bed with a “V” design for extended legs so I can get proper mouth placement in the crotch.  Or perhaps a sling design for my partner to gently descend into the right position and “Hold it!”  Or some kind of neck and back brace.  

Carpal tunnel, spinal stenosis, bone on bone joints.  Suddenly, sex is climbing in the alps without the proper climbing gear.  REI does not have equipment guidance for sex safety.  No floor specialists to make educated recommendations.

We thought water buoyancy would help. The hot tub water was warm but this created an additional distraction of keeping one of us from drowning.  

With everything on the same level, floor sex might have worked except that floors are hard (really, any surface is); there are still positioning issues; and if we’re both on the floor, who’s going to help us up?

Even cuddling is tricky.  All furniture is now the enemy, either too hard or too soft, in an aging Goldilocks hell.  When traveling, we don’t look for views or romantic walks.  We drill into furniture details. Lofts with ladders are out.  If we rent or borrow an RV, we need a bed we can roll into and out of.  We can no longer crawl.

You’d think with all our sleeping issues we’d have lots of time for sex.  Certainly, the reverse was true when we were young.  We could have sex all night and wake up only mildly tired.  Now, we have no sleep and no sex, and we’re exhausted.

The good news is we’re still madly in love. Now, we know we can go the distance.  We enjoy each other’s company and still make each other laugh so hard we pee.  So, you young people, work on your humor.  If you’re lucky enough to get old, you’re going to need it.

Joceile

12.19.21

The Four Legged Government

Our cat and dog buddies have a two party system of government at our house. Call them the Cat Party and the Dog Party. They have represented their parties for eight years now. It is fascinating to watch them negotiate treaties, organize trade agreements, and commit to mutual defense. Like any system of government, these things do not come easily. Gradually, by identifying mutual interests, war can be avoided. 

When Sheba came into the household, Scarlett was strongly positioned in the government with five years’ experience. Initially, Sheba did not recognize Scarlett’s well established occupational rights. Moreover, Scarlett did not understand her understated but mighty influence over the human providers. Fortunately for her, the human providers had a stake in keeping Scarlett in her exalted position. Think of the human providers as the Supreme Court. 

Negotiations began. It was the eight and a half pound kitty versus the eighty pound dog.  Reestablishing the balance of power required equalizing the playing field involving the dining room table for Scarlett and treats for Sheba. Think of it as the Civil Rights Act of 1964 or the Americans with Disabilities Act. (Don’t think of the Equal Rights Amendment which did not pass.)

Each evening, Scarlett was retrieved from hiding and taken to a new place at the table with wet food. On a down stay in the living room, Sheba was given a treat every time she looked away from Scarlett. This would have made Henry Kissinger proud. The negotiations were lengthy but ultimately resulted in Sheba allowing Scarlett to inhabit spaces she had learned to love. An unintended consequence of this government intervention is that Scarlett now has rights to the dining room table. A status heretofore unheard of. The Supreme Court is not impressed. 

[Scarlett’s found a box seat at the table. Photo by Ronnie]

Neither of them like loud noises or invading armies. In mutual defense, Scarlett runs to the under-the-bed bunker while Sheba sets off the rabid-dog-bark alarm. Soon after, government stabilizes. No one is ever surprised by a sneak attack. 

Competing interests in laps still cause a saber-rattling dance with each relying on their greatest strength in rapprochement. As a result of the impaired historical memory of the Dog Party, this is a nightly occurrence. The Dog Party thinks might-makes-right by protecting laps from any potential approach and subsequent occupation. The Cat Party relies on patience and stealth. 

The human providers developed subsidized assistance for the Dog Party. When the paws of the Cat Party reach the purple pillow on the lap, the Dog Party gets a treat. Watching the Dog Party’s failure to remember the previous night entertains both the Cat Party and the human providers. The Dog Party must choose between competing interests: protecting the lap she’s too big to make use of or getting the government subsidy. This attitude can be self-defeating.

The Cat Party’s intellectual abilities enable her to reference historical trends and utilize a predator’s patience. The Dog Party can’t hope to prevail but gives a valiant attempt night after night.  

[Scarlett on the purple pillow AND loving it.]

Recently, there’s been a twist. A second lap has been identified by the Cat Party as desirable. However, there are no government subsidies in effect for this lap. In an act of supreme generosity and strategic power demonstration, Scarlett goes to the purple pillow lap first so Sheba can get a treat on her way to the non-subsidized lap where she settles. The human providers are impressed and touched by the checks and balances in this governmental system. Not every action has to be a power grab. Resources can be shared.

One wonders. If the Cat Party and Dog Party can create a working system of government salvaged from historical animosity, shouldn’t humans be able to make a go of government by identifying mutual needs, strengths, and vulnerabilities to create systemic sustainability? Perhaps not. Four legged creatures are superior. It is undisputed. 

To Life. 

Joceile 

12.14.21

[Picture of Scarlett and Sheba waiting. Scarlett is waiting for evening wet food. Sheba is waiting because Scarlett is waiting. Sheba hasn’t a clue.]

Clothing Wars

“My clothes are bothering me,” I say to Ronnie. 

“What’s wrong with them? Are they too tight?”

“No.”

“Too big?”

“No?”

“Worn out?”

“No! That’s not it.”

“Then, what?”

“They keep touching me! I don’t want them to touch me!” Even I know this is problematic. 

With my body aging, a certain skin sensitivity has arrived along with aching of one sort or another. To combat our various issues, Ronnie and I have discovered that massacring our clothing is the new shopping.  Barbaric alterations are all the rage at our house.

• Sleeves bothering me? Cut them off. 
• T-shirt collar too tight. Cut it into a V-neck. 
• Pants too big? Sew in an unsightly dart. (My shirts are never tucked in anymore anyway.) 
• Sock tops too high? Cut ‘em. 
• Warm-up pants too long?  Ditto.
• Need shorts? Cut the legs off an old pair of pants.

Ronnie looks at my feet with raised eyebrows. “Are you wearing your socks inside out?”

“Yes. The outside is softer than the inside.”  I’m not defensive. It’s just the way it is.

I never hem anything. My cotton clothes don’t ravel. It’s not like anyone is seeing us. It was only recently I had to wear a decent shirt for work video meetings.  I can’t believe I used to be comfortable in those shirts with those collars and a tie all day.

This isn’t new. It’s not like we discovered the Titanic. I certainly knew about cut-offs when I was young.  Somehow in the intervening years, I thought clothing must be good looking and tidy.  But, the shear number of cutting options has been a revelation. I believed alternations had to be done by skilled professionals, but a good pair of scissors works wonders.  We are the Scuff Patrol now. This works in pandemic life. It maybe normal in the over 65 crowd. Just like all recycling, we’re making old clothes new while simultaneously discovering the power of Who Gives a Damn?

Reporting from the front. 

Joceile 

9.20.21

[Picture of massacred clothing samples with an inside out sock.]

Crazy Old Women

I look at our house.  I try to see it through my daughter’s eyes in decades to come when we’re gone.  I see how it looks like my grandparents’ house all the times I visited after leaving home.  Picking out items, I think, “Is this something so old that another person would say, ‘Oh, geez, what did they keep this for?’”  I’m looking for the line indicating old age.  “Have I crossed it yet?”

I saw my Aunt Edith’s house after she was gone.  Ancient things squirreled away from the 1930s and 1940s.  Things of sentimental value that never found another home.  Things that should have been tossed long ago.  A partially broken vase or glass of some sort that landed in the garage or basement and never moved.

Is this what our house looks like?  Will it look more like that in another 20 years?  Most likely.  Although, I know the transition is slow from active to sedentary to still life.  For those living it, it hardly appears to move.  Is this what lies in store?

That envelope with my grandfather’s writing.  He seldom wrote.  I can’t part with it.  Another will look at it and think, “Why did she keep this?”  I was always surprised Grandpa knew how to spell my name because he never wrote it.  Ridiculous, I know.  He’d be hurt.  Still, his handwriting is precious to me.  It won’t be to my daughter.  She probably won’t recognize it.

I have his pins from various organizations.  I have my Granny’s purse.  There is a plastic container with the things she kept around her chair in those last years.  If I open it and stick my nose in, I can still smell her.  After touching a few items, I quickly close it to preserve her smell.  Until when?  Yes, the container will still be here intact when I die.

There are boxes hidden under the stairs with childhood items.  I have carted them around for 40 years.  Once, Ronnie said she’d help me go through them.  After two boxes of time travel, I came down with a raging headache and sick stomach for two days.  We both vowed never again.  Unless we move once more, they will also remain for our daughter to dispose of.  She will never know the power of memory in those boxes.  This is a good thing.  Otherwise, no one could ever get rid of anything.

Pictures of Ronnie’s parents adorn pride of place on the buffet.  The very same buffet that lived in my mother’s house, transferred to my grandparents’ Vashon Island beach cabin, finally resting in our dining room.  My daughter will appreciate the pictures but the buffet?  Who knows?

There are things Ronnie has perched on ledges.  I have forgotten their significance.  I’m not a decorator.  My trinkets lean towards two major league baseballs, a clay wizard made by Alex, and a wire boat given to me by a dear friend.  Everything matters and nothing matters.  It depends on whose eyes are observing.

We have vases.  “That one was Granny’s, right?”  We have bowls, baskets, and candlestick holders.  We have our various piles of collected stuff under the coffee table that would take a few minutes to sort.  If we’d have known what to do with it, it wouldn’t have landed in that pile in the first place.  We have things that seemed like a fun activity at the time.  Jig saw puzzles, puzzle and drawing books, drawing accoutrements.  

Ronnie often comments on my bedroom closet.  In addition to clothing and shoes, it is also a file cabinet for things I want to lay my hands on quickly but secretly.  Periodically, I clean it or reorganize it.  I keep the doors closed.  Ronnie peered in this week and said, “The amazing thing is that no matter how many times you sort it, it never changes.”  Indeed.  That’s why I keep the doors closed.  

She also doesn’t really know exactly what’s under the stairs.  Obviously, things that don’t require quick access or any access at all over decades.  I look around our house trying to see through a stranger’s eyes or the eyes of my daughter in a distant future.  Ronnie just told me there are blankets under the stairs she’d like to get rid of.  “The problem is I’d have to run the gauntlet with you.”

“Things under the stairs are better left under the stairs!”  I insist, “There is a door after all.”  

“It’s a station problem.”  A comment related to my grandparents’ three story gas station living abode. “It’s a Mustang problem.”

“Oh, I should tell them about the Mustang.” I’m writing this as I talk to her. 

The Mustang.  My grandparents gave me a used 1969 Mustang for my high school graduation.  It was the most astonishing gift I ever received.  I kept that car for 20 years.  I treasured that car.  I learned auto repair because of that car.  Ronnie called it a shrine.  Whenever I couldn’t get rid of something, Ronnie would say, “Let’s put it in the Mustang shrine.”  It was a not so subtle dig at my tendency for grandparent mementos. 

Ronnie moved to Olympia from New York City.  It was harder to cart stuff across country to live in our house.  My grandparents were just up the road at the station.  Every time I visited Grandpa, he’d take me down in the station basement and try to give me stuff he’d collected.  After attempting to say no repeatedly, I finally gave up.  If I said no to one thing, he’d just look disappointed and wander around looking for something else.  I resolved to take the items straight to the Goodwill on my way home.  I didn’t even take them out of the car.  After all, how many yard rakes, not quite broken shovels, coffee pots, and barely functioning toasters does one need?  He also had an impressive collection of electric motors.  I just needed one for my grinding wheel and rotating wire brush.  There was no point in telling him about the Goodwill.  At least, his gifts are being used by someone.

Having survived the Depression, he was a consummate recycler.  He was not a use and dispose of person.  Ronnie and I still laugh at his used sandblaster for renewing old spark plugs.  Most people would just buy new spark plugs.  Not Grandpa.  He’d demonstrate its effectiveness on an old spark plug any chance he got. “See how this works? Brand new.”  

“Wow, Grandpa.”  He built an elaborate aluminum can crusher for his one man recycling donations.  He collected cans to take to the recycler for money to donate.  Because they paid by the pound, the more he could pile in the bed of the truck the less money went to gas.  He tired of using a sledge hammer to crush them when his legs wore out.  Hence, his belt driven machine as tall as he was that squeezed the cans.  I wish I had a picture.

Ronnie has different kinds of collection issues.  Her people came from small city apartments instead of big buildings.  She never saw a rubber band that wasn’t worth keeping.  We have a basket of rubber bands.  They don’t age well.  It falls to me to toss them when they come off the broccoli.  If Ronnie gets her hands on them, they collect on doorknobs.  I don’t know why this is a thing.  And string!  We inherited a big ball of pieces of string her father had collected and tied together over the years.  Who uses string anymore?  Alex will inherit the majority of that ball of string as well as a collection of rubber bands.  I’m sorry, Alex, I can’t help you with this.

When Shirley died, Ronnie’s mom, it took five of us over seven days working eight hours a day to unload her two bedroom one bath apartment.  She had two closets and untold drawers of clothing.  After trying on and sorting, we filled a neighbor’s car with clothes for the county’s donation project multiple times and hardly made a dent.  

Ronnie joked Shirley never saw a piece of paper she didn’t like.  We had two shredders going for hours daily to get rid of the paper.  We actually burnt up a shredder.  We still have a 75 year old prescription pad from Ronnie’s uncle Sidney in New York who is long dead. Another thing we can’t get rid of.  Who gets rid of a prescription pad? You never know when forgery will come into vogue.

Every year when we visit Ronnie’s cousins, Shiffy and Shavey, in Montreal, Ronnie comes home determined to get rid of stuff.  They have lived in their house for 75 years.  It is filled over the brim with collections of stuff.  Shiffy was a fabric dumpster diver for quilting.  Shavey has collections of computers, keyboards, desk lamps, drills, and the like.  The best we have done upon our return is institute a policy that if something comes in the house something must leave.  We always have a giveaway box.  It still feels like we’re barely treading water.

Are we old? Our collections have definitely met the threshold. 

I find myself needing a thumb tack.  I know where they are.  They’ve been there for years in an old plastic butter container in the buffet.  In the container, I find thumb tacks, several old eraser heads that fit on the end of a pencil, and an occasional paper clip.  As I pick out the kind of thumb tack I want, I find myself shaking my head and thinking, “Old people.  What can you do?”

We all accumulate stuff if we haven’t moved too often or cleaned it out.  Those thumb tacks with blue paint on them?  It’s from when we painted our house twenty years and two houses ago!  Those thumb tacks are useful and keep following us around.  We tried to put them in the shop once but then couldn’t find them when we wanted them.  Back in the buffet they went.

I have important items in odd places that made sense in one house at one time.  I don’t dare move them to a more sensible place!  Then, I’d have to look in multiple places before I realize they should just stay where I can find them.  Ronnie and I have had conversations about where something might be.  “Well, I know where it was at the Thomas house.”  Two houses ago.  “I know where it was next door.”  One house ago.  “Did we get rid of it?”  Who the hell knows?  “I just can’t picture where it would be in this house.”  Uh huh, maybe because it’s not here.  “We did get rid of it.”  In times like these, I wish my grandparents were alive so I could say, “I’m sorry.  I just didn’t get it.”

This is how I end up looking at our stuff trying to see into the future.  Are we crazy old women now?  Or is it a bit further down the road?  What are the warning signs?  Did we pass them?  Is it too late to reel in this collection of odds and ends? Or is this just what inheritance looks like?

Sorry, Alex.  We did our best.

Joceile

8.15.21

[Picture of the buffet and it’s collections.  Is there no hope?]

Eternally Loving a Good Friend

I saw my old, sweet friend, Richard, last night in a dream. His birthday is next Saturday. He’d be 61 except that he’s been gone for 27 years. 

I see Richard in my dreams regularly. Of course, it can never be enough. Often, he’s the age when he died. Occasionally, he’s the age he’d be now which is entertaining. How would I know what he’d look like? Our minds are incredibly inventive. 

Last night, he was a young but modern Richard. He was mostly bald but vigorous. He was hip in a way I’d never seen him. He was still his gentle self with a sparkling smile. In the dream, Ronnie and I went to visit him annually for a week. I was painfully aware the week would zip by too soon and I’d have to say goodbye. Even in my dreams, saying goodbye to Richard is too soon. Something happened in the dream to cut our visit short. I was doubly sad knowing I’d have to wait another year for our visit. 

The dream was complicated as always. After leaving Richard, more drama elements appeared involving my mother and a young girl. In the last section, I was told there was an impromptu party on our dock on the lake. I looked out the window to see my friend, Anu, with several others. 

I yelled out to Anu, “Wait for me. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”  By the time I got down there, I was able to hug Anu before she had to leave. 

My friend, Anu, has elements of Richard. She’s gentle and loving. My fondness for her is immense. Unlike him, she has an underlying fierce strength. One may think she can be bullied but they’d be wrong. Perhaps, Richard would have honed such a skill had he lived. 

The point here is there are always those in our lives to notice and love dearly. The loving and noticing part is key. Anyone can pass at any time. I don’t want to be appreciating their presence only in my dreams. Also, Anu’s birthday is on Thursday. I won’t miss it. 

To Life. 

Joceile 

7.10.21

[Picture of Anu in jeans jacket and Indian dress at our office. 2019]

My Richard story is at https://joceile7.blogspot.com/2018/07/rice-braden.html

The Very Good Thing

My friend stays by my side even when I am in an inconvenient place requiring her to be in an inconvenient position.  She’s passionate about being with me, not wanting me to go out at night alone or drive somewhere by myself.

My friend loves when I share things with her, either experiences or food.  As long as we walk together in silent companionship, she does not get bored.

My friend believes in eating on time every day.  She never wants to arrive late for a meal.  I can count on her this way.

My friend is not keen on strangers.  She first wants to know if they will hurt me.  Once she determines they will treat me with suitable kindness and deference, she will consider letting them be her friend also.  She gets irritated if the proper niceties are not followed.

If my friend isn’t able to go out and about with me, she will not forget I am out, waiting for my return for hours.  She greets me the first thing as I walk through the door.

I caress my friend unconsciously.  She doesn’t mind when I reach out to touch her even if I just touched her a few minutes ago or an hour ago.  I told her recently that even one’s partner is not so tolerant.  She told me in not so many words that tolerance for me is her watchword.  She intimated she was committed to me as long as we could continue living together.  I frequently reassure her that we can stay together as long as we are both alive.  She’s relieved to know this.  My friend lost her family at a young age.  Enough years have passed that she only remembers our family.

When we experience a new place, my friend’s perceptions are different than mine.  If I pay attention, I can learn a lot about the way of the world from her.  She is a being of few words.  I learn much by simply watching.  I get the feeling she does the same with me.  We’ve both pledged to be tolerant of each other’s differing learning styles.

I’m certain if my mind were open enough there is no limit to the things she can teach me.  Because of our different backgrounds, I don’t think I can ever be open enough or learn enough from my wise friend.  When I’m with her, her acceptance keeps me from even thinking about her judging me for what I wear, how I look, or where I grew up. In her quiet ways, I only feel acceptance. 

I fear for the day that one of us will pass.  It will feel like a part of me has been cut away and left open to heal without any cure or medicine.  She would feel the same, though she hasn’t said so in so many words.

A wise friend knows not to say too much.  A wise friend knows the importance of a gentle press of comfort. A wise friend knows that much of what I need to learn I must figure out for myself.  A wise friend knows there is no forever in our physical bodies.  Though she is wise, she can do nothing for the gash in my soul made by her leaving.  Because she is wise, she knows I will take what I’ve learned from her and apply it to another wise friend.  

My friend lives in the here and now.  She’s implied not in so many words that it would be beneficial for me to live that way too.  In her wisdom, she is patient.  She is an angel in a dog suit.  Upon her death, she will be given wings to fly to new places.  

She knows my path will continue without her.  She insists not in so many words that I feel the grief in the here and now and that in doing so my resilience will be strengthened.  I wish she weren’t quite so wise in this regard.  I try to tell her not in so many words that this kind of resilience is over rated.  She insists in her own quiet way that resilience is never over rated.  Indeed, she states in not so many words that the earth’s success is based on resilience.

Looking at her calm eyes and slightly goofy tongue sticking out, I am forced to agree that our resilience reflects the earth’s resilience and that is a Very Good Thing.

Joceile

6.28.21

[Picture of my friend, Sheba, a long haired, large brindle dog leaning against my leg with my hand on her head with her eyes closed. 2019]

On My Retirement

Recently, I met on a pier with a long ago friend.  We hadn’t seen each other in 30 years.  Diane said she retired after 20 something years with the city two and a half years ago at 62 1/2.  She said she probably should have stayed another couple years until 65 to get a better retirement rate.  I gave a "What're ya gonna do" shrug.

She asked when I planned to retire.  I looked over at the water stalling for time, contemplating my answer.  I get asked this often.  I said I didn’t.  She asked how long I’d worked for the state.  I said sheepishly, “Forty-three years.”

“How old are you?  When did you start?”

I was 20 when I started.  I'm 63 now.  She said, “You’d be eligible for 100%.”

“Maybe.”

“You would.”

“Whatever.  I don't care.”

“You haven't found out?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter?”

“No, look, I still enjoy my job.  I like what I’m doing and the people I work with.  I work four hours a day.  I’ll keep working as long as I want.”

“Well, that’s good,” she said belying this by slightly shaking her head.

I’ve been thinking about this exchange today imagining other conversations when people said, “I figured out what I’d get if I retired.  I’m only working for 25% of my wage, so I figure I should just retire."  I wouldn't get 100% if I retired now.  But, I try to imagine deciding to retire simply because I would get 100% and someone saying, "You could get your paycheck without working.  Why would you work for free?"  Because, there is a qualitative difference between working and retiring.  Why should I retire before I'm ready?

If I'm lucky enough to work part-time, enjoy my work, and am paid a good wage, why should I give that up?  In any case, I'm 63.  I've got another two years before I get another series of looks like, "Why are you still here?  If I was 65, I'd be out like a shot."  That's the difference between you and me, bub.  Still, I don't forget that other people work 40 hours a week.  Doing that at 65, a body gets tired.

When I was younger, I had coworkers seriously tell me, “I only have 17 years until I can retire.”  I thought, “Do you realize you are wishing your life away?  Do you know how crazy that is?”  I was younger then, easily intimidated, and didn’t speak up. Now, I know there are lots of people who never make it to retirement or those who die after the first year or two.  One coworker died of a heart attack two weeks before his last day!  If there’s no quality to my life now, how is it going to be miraculously better in 17 years?  

Remarkably, I’ve long since passed retirement eligibility and continue to thrive.  However, I’ve learned to consider the situation before I tell people the whole truth about how long I've worked for the state.  For most people, over 30 years is sufficient.  My seniority has always been a point of pride for me.  My high numbers now require more consideration.

Two years ago, I attended a case law update on employment accommodation in Seattle.  During a break, another participant asked me a question about a comment I'd made.  We hit it off and were starting to talk about ways we could collaborate on projects.  She asked me about my government work history followed by how long I'd worked for the state.  Without thinking, I said 41 years.

The woman froze.  Apparently, it made me so much older than she expected she couldn't even comprehend it.  I don't know if it was my lack of gender clarity or if I just looked much younger to her in general.  Regardless, our connection was broken.  It was as though I'd violated a trust.  She quickly disengaged and never made eye contact with me again.  It was as if either she'd grossly misjudged my age which made her uncomfortable or I must be a crazy person because my reporting of years was not only inconceivable but also unbelievable.  It was a cautionary tale for me in the power of age assumptions.  Depending on the audience, I just stay with over 30 years experience.  This works for most situations.

My long time coworker who has become my boss at various levels has told me many times there's no need to retire.  His reframe is, "Clint Eastwood is still directing in his 90's."  I'm not sure this is the best role model but I take his meaning.

A few coworkers and I were once talking about a long time manager who was no longer innovative and basically phoning it in. I said, “She’s passed her pull date.”  Everyone thought that very funny, though it’s stuck with me. I don’t want to be passed my pull date. Fortunately, I have the luxury of making a different choice. 

Even today, I told a coworker the answer with my strongest conviction.  "As long as I am enjoying my work and adding value to my employer, I'll keep working.  I don't want to be here when people are asking…" I looked at my watch for affect. "'When is she gonna retire?' If that's the case, I've stayed too long."

My coworker nodded agreement.  I sighed as I successfully traversed this minefield question again.

Joceile 

6.17.21 

[Picture of me speaking at work in pink shirt with black tie. 2019]

My Alix Dobkin Personal Anecdote

Famous lesbian activist musician, Alix Dobkin, passed away today at 80.  Alix was famous for the song “Amazon ABC” and others to all lesbians coming out in the 1980’s and later. During my illustrious but short lived standup comedy career 35 years ago, I had the honor of opening for Alix Dobkin in a Halloween concert in Olympia with the Righteous Mothers, a beloved northwest group.

I didn’t have show biz chops.  I trembled mightily before each show.  When I got to the theatre, I was told I would be introducing Alix after my first bit on stage.  In my naivety, I went up to Alix to ask her how she would like to be introduced.  I knew of her, of course, but that was the extent of it.  Alix’s response was, “I prefer personal anecdotes.”

In my nervousness, I clarified, “So, you’re referring to a story I have about hearing your music?”

She said, “Yes,” in a way that implied I was dumb as a post.

I said bluntly, “I’m sorry. I don’t have one.” I thought she had gall. She looked at me coldly. I went off to talk to the stage manager.  Alix did the same.  Shortly after, the stage manager informed me she would do the introduction.  Naturally, the stage manager did a marvelous job because she did have an Alix Dobkin personal anecdote.  Alix no longer made eye contact with me.

It was my first brush with a famous person.  I missed the mark.  When I put on my mustache for my second act, Alix did deign to tell me I looked “svelte.”  I repeated svelte stupidly, thanked her, and thought about what svelte might mean.

When I told this story to Ronnie this morning, she said, “I imagine Alix has forgotten.”  

“Undoubtedly,” I said. “Death will do that.” The good news is, “Hey, Alix.  I do have a personal anecdote.”  She probably wouldn’t want me to tell it at her memorial.

Here is the link to “Amazon ABC.”  (This was prior to the Amazon we all know so well.)

https://youtu.be/lmr3ZYa0Aaw

Rest In Peace, Alix.

Joceile

5.19.21

[Picture of a younger Alix Dobkin in jeans and a t-shirt.]

The Day I Went to Western State Hospital

What can I say?  It was transformative. It will always be transformative. This is why I pay homage every year. A fourteen year old girl was plucked from terror and confusion and placed in a time out. Not as punishment or penalty but as an opportunity to mentally breathe. 

Generally, we don’t think of mental hospitals or psych wards this way. Used well, they can be a place where we take stock, adjust our thinking, and make a better plan. I was one such lucky person, able to reorient the trajectory of my life. 

So, I say thank you to that fourteen year old, the mental health staff, and my grandparents. We don’t need to abolish the things that scare us. We need support to find a way through them. 

May 19, 1972, will always be as important to me as my birthday, though obviously, not as highly regarded. I was lucky to be born and then given an opportunity to improve my lot. I know many don’t get such opportunities and when given are unable to embrace them. There are two parts: luck and fortitude. I am grateful I had both.

To Life. 

Joceile 

5/17/21

[Picture of my counselor, Jerry, and I. 1972]

May 7th Again

It’s my mother’s birthday.  She’s 86.  I wish I could call her.  Call her up and say, “Hi, mom.  It’s been a long time,” and listen to a voice I haven’t heard for 27 years.  It’s not that I’ve forgotten it.  It’s just that it’s not safe for me to call her, even though, she’s alive; even though, she’s near.

Twenty-seven years ago, she was 59—four years younger than I am now.  She was angry then.  I understand she’s angrier now.  My mom is consumed by the world in her head, victimized by so many people who didn’t do right by her.  Any list I make would never cover them all.

Her mother couldn’t take care of her.  Multiple foster parents were abusive.  Relatives who molested her.  Her father had a second wife.  I haven’t even gotten out of her childhood.  Husbands that didn’t understand her or take care of her.  Money that didn’t come her way.  Denial of either of her uncles’ estates she believed she was entitled to.  My grandparents left her nothing in their wills.  Employers who didn’t treat her fairly.  My father who had more children with his second wife instead of her and married a third.  Men who took advantage of her and tossed her away in a world that didn’t teach her self-sufficiency.

Then, there’s me.  From what I could tell, I’ve been a grave disappointment.  I left her house at 14.  I sought help from counselors when my mother could have provided everything I needed.  I manipulated mental health professionals into believing I was abused.  My grandparents wanted to steal me from her.  I went to live with my grandparents instead of her or my dad.   I became a lesbian.  My partner is Jewish.  I withdrew from her to protect my daughter from her.  

On and on it goes.  My mother can recite line after line of the ways she was mistreated.  In fact, she’s essentially unable to converse about anything else.  It is heartbreaking and abusive.  She’s ten digits away on my phone.  I could hear her voice speak to me just before the cascade of wrongs becomes her sole focus.

My brother still tends to my mom’s needs.  He drives her to her doctor’s appointments.  I don’t think she sees his children much anymore.  She’s unable to respect verbal and physical boundaries.  My brother told me she ranted so much on the way to the doctor he had to tell her to stop talking or he would never take her again.  Is this anyway to live?

To enter into a relationship with her is to engage in a war of grievances.  There is no resolution.  No peace treaties.  No reconciliation.  No end to the recitation of harm.  It is an endless stream of bile.  Apparently, she had an exciting ride as a Trump supporter.  One lifelong friend I knew as a child reported her mother was exhausted from my mother’s constant political ranting.  Finally, she pissed my mother off in some imagined way.  My mother stopped talking to her.  My friend’s mom said to her daughter, “Well, at least I have two hours of my life back every day.”

My mom has had an endless stream of recycled friends.  A few years ago, she came to the end of the line.  Everyone is dead or too tired to go anymore rounds with her.  According to my brother, even Trump was a terrible disappointment.  She believed he would not leave the presidency.  The voting results not withstanding.

Regularly, I have to re-adjudicate my decision to continue our separation.  I made a file years ago of my mother’s crazy letters so I can remember why I’m not in touch.  Her birthdays are the worst because I know one day she won’t be on the other end of that phone number.  The fantasy will cease to have any possibility of reality.  I’ve done all I can do with her in this lifetime.  I’m sorry, mom.  Happy birthday.

Joceile

5.7.21

[Portrait of my mother.  Circa 1980]

My Bionic Ears

They say hearing is a precious commodity.  I’m sure this is true.  There is also research indicating that unaddressed hearing loss can contribute to dementia.  The good news is that we have options.  The bad news is that hearing aids are expensive and health care doesn’t pay for them.

Initially, my hearing loss was only in my left ear.  It was difficult to identify what I was missing with a loss in one ear.  I had to work at daily wearing my left hearing aid until it landed in my shirt pocket (where it is never supposed to be) and went through the wash.  It couldn’t go the distance.  Getting it fixed, resulted in an updated hearing test. I now also had a hearing loss in my right ear.  How helpful.  Rather than spend money to fix the one, I purchased two brand new hearing aids.  Yes, I get a $700 contribution from my healthcare insurer which doesn’t go far for $4000 hearing aids.

When I sported my new hearing aids at work, I wasn’t shy in talking about getting them.  People were surprised.  I assist employees with accommodations at work for medical conditions.  It is incumbent upon me to be a leader in normalizing accommodations, demonstrating there is no shame.  My openness about my hearing aids caused people to ask me questions allowing me to spread the gospel of addressing hearing loss to improve mental health, social engagement, and as a bonus, act against dementia.

I remember working with a man named Greg who was reticent about wearing his hearing aids even when his wife complained he couldn’t hear her higher voice.  When I asked Greg why he didn’t want to wear his hearing aids, thinking it was because they were uncomfortable or some such, he told me it was vanity, pure and simple.  Wow, I thought.  I’m vain but not wearing my hearing aids is just stupid.  With two, I can very clearly hear the difference when I am wearing them.  It’s worth it.  And, not just because I can listen to the ball game on my iPhone and no one knows it.  It gives me a break from asking people to repeat things three times.  Three is my absolute limit. If I don’t get it after three, I just give up.  This way lies loss of engagement with people.  Not a good look for someone working in Human Resources.

The bluetooth feature with iPhones and iPads is really cool but only if one has a high tolerance for technical nonsense.  I’ve learned to switch between my iPhone and iPad and most recently my work iPhone.  It took me a long time to learn to switch devices effectively and turn off bluetooth on the device I’m not using.  I hate having one ear in my iPhone and one in my iPad.  While watching Saturday Night Live clips, my right hearing aid keeps sounding like a slow alien.  If I toss my head around or move my iPad, it clears up.  I’m not sure what part of the system gets screwed up—my hearing aids, my iPad, or my head.  At times walking by a fluorescent lightbulb, my left hearing aid hums like it’s in touch with the heartbeat of the fluorescent.  I don’t like to think about what’s really going on there.

Other than listening to baseball during work meetings—I have to remember to not shout out, “Yes!” in the middle of the meeting when my team scores—I’ve learned other dynamic uses.  I love to hear birds singing.  The more, the merrier.  My hearing aid has 12 settings from -8 to +4 with 0 being normal.  To hear birds beyond my normal range, I turn my hearing above normal.  So, sweet.  When voices or media outside of my control are too loud, I turn them down to the minus range.  Recently while hanging out in a public park people watching and eavesdropping, I discovered I can eavesdrop better when I raise them above normal hearing level.  “Those two look intense.  I wonder what they’re talking about?”  I boost my hearing.  I might learn an important stock tip or a plot to take over the government or just two moony eyed idiots talking about their dating lives.  If it’s good, I listen.  Otherwise, it easily goes back down.

The bottom line is these things are pretty damn fun.  I’m not advocating hearing loss.  But if I’m gonna have it, I sure like to adjust my experience a bit.  Why the hell not?  There’s so much in the world I have absolutely no control over.  And by the way, technology companies maybe bringing the cost down.  Already there is a setting paired with bluetooth headphones that enable iPhones and iPads to act like remote microphones when placed on a table.  I mean the table in front of you not for spying in the other room.  I’m positive they weren’t intended for that!

To life and tech.  Gawd help us.

Joceile

5.7.21

[Picture of me laying on a couch adjusting my iPhone.]