VINEGARETTES (aka vignettes)

Blog postings are like a snapshot in the home movie of the blogger’s life—a vignette as it were. When that life is distorted because a big jug of vinegar is being poured over one’s senses, you get what I call vinegarettes.
My PDI(Personal Discomfort Index) has shot up since leaving National Jewish Center in Denver. Not surprisingly the docs there want me to give the Very Nasty Meds another chance so I am. Also not surprisingly, I am having the same adverse reactions to those same meds. This is a life-plan that is going nowhere. Vinegar!
The Bad Bug has also been recruiting more bad company from the legions of Bad Bugs that inhabit our shared environment. Now the Bad Bug has a friend helping it do its dirty work in my lungs. Vinegar.
We are still living in a rental condo while all of our worldly possessions are in storage down in San Jose. We have been living with 2 suitcases of winter clothes, one laptop and one dog each since last Thanksgiving. There is no end in sight. Vinegar.
Now—other than that, Mrs. Lincoln……….. So Faithful 18 Readers, I apologize for not finding as much amusement in ordinary life as I might once have done.

We managed to get out of Denver with only a few mishaps. Poor Mr. T! He had no idea that the Target shopping cart he was using to bring adult beverages and other necessities back to our motel was equipped with a mysterious BUT VERY EFFECTIVE wheel-locking device that was instantly activated as soon as he pushed it over an unobtrusive line in the parking lot. Never one to give up on completing his mission he undauntedly continued to shove the obstinate cart across the street towards our motel. Just as obstinate in the successful completion of his mission was the Target employee who came running and yelling “STOP!!! WAIT!!! HOLD UP THERE!!!!” This was our first introduction to shopping carts that know the boundaries of the parking lot—I know we don’t get out much but this is appalling. The venerable shopping cart, the shopping cart we rode in as toddlers, hung on to as kids, and filled with only good things is now cast as the adversary. The shopping cart is not our friend--another icon on the dust heap of reality.

Perhaps it was this experience that gave Mr. T. such determination while pushing the wheelchair to the train that connects terminals at Stapleton Airport. In his final sprint to make the almost-departing train Mr. T. pushed my wheelchair onto the train and straight into a pole in the car designed for passengers to hold on to. There was not enough room for the pole, the wheelchair and Mr. T. to fit without leaking over the door—which began to close. The screams of the other people in the train car got Mr. T.’s attention as effectively as the Insta-lock Wheels on the grocery cart. With much commotion and shoving—I will refrain from mentioning the jarring shocks to moi from being slammed into the unyielding pole and ensuing shoving to get everyone out of the ‘Jaws of Death’ train door—we cheated the train from claiming 2 more victims. The screams then turned to claps and cheers as we were whisked to the Southwest terminal.

This time there was no super-sized G&T and no sympathetic travelers willing to consider singing patriotic songs in protest of our trampled liberties. All that distracted was a very sad scene of the party ahead of me going through security. The woman was about 70 years old and was traveling with her granddaughter who was about 2 years old. After struggling with removing her own shoes and those of the toddler, the wee one scampered through the metal detector and was on her way. All the bells and whistles went off as the woman jumped forward to retrieve the little girl—more bells and alarms. And what had caused this loud threat to national security? The little girl was fitted with a cochlear implant and the grandmother had the controls! All the commotion frightened the child so the scene quickly turned into an upset, barefooted grandmother and baby and a confused security person trying to understand the cochlear implant problem. The last I saw of them the grandmother was trying to get her own shoes on, get shoes on the granddaughter and gather up all the accouterments necessary for air travel with a small child. It is not as much fun being an American as it used to be.