Muddle
Muddle
Muddle through. Yes.
Mixed messages. A state of confusion. Check.
To mix together, especially the ingredients of a drink. (It’s too early. I don’t want to be THAT guy. But yes - I do like that thought; that take on the word “muddle”.)
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C is away. The boys are alone.
No C at home, we are lost boys.
But we’re glad for our C. She is away for a few days, visiting old friends. And that is always a good thing; reconnecting in 3D with family and old friends.
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So, we’re trying to lean into it. Lost boys. Wild and crazy guys, single again for a few days.
I ordered take-out last night from a place that C’s not so crazy about. Lamb Saag. Indian food. (I do love me some lamb with saag. It’s good stuff.)
Crazy, right?
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Look at that photo. Two of the three single guys. (Gerald is often by my side. He would be attached to me if he could be; if I would allow it.)
Kona is wisely off sleeping somewhere. Dog bed hopping, or maybe he’s on the sofa. (Guide dogs aren’t allowed on furniture, but Kona is retired now. Anything goes.)
Me? What am I doing? (you ask)
I’m showing you our beautiful house. I love this house. The wood grain looks tile floors (perfect for dog lovers, like us) and our beautiful french doors.
(Friends of our family used to have french doors separating their formal living and dining rooms, from the day to day living - rest of their house. A restored turn of the (last) century house in a nice section of the city of Syracuse. (As a kid, I loved those family friend’s house french doors. I thought they looked very elegant.)
And now… look at me, look at us. Almost trillionaires, we’ve got them too. Elegant french doors. (The bedrooms all have these french doors too. Not very practical right?)
Screw it. I don’t care. Practical Shmactical. (If you come to visit, bring some PJs or at least some nice underwears. (Plural intentional.)
I had a Puerto Rican roommate once. English was not her first language. She always used to say “underwears”. It was cute; she made my other roommate and I chuckle. Wherever she is, whatever she’s doing, I hope she still says “underwears”. (Some mistakes are worth holding onto.)
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I digress (all the time).
What is Scott doing in this photo?
I’m trying on some old scrubs that a great friend (a real doctor) lent to me in years, way back. 1980 something.
My Dad was in the hospital the night before some early morning surgery on his foot and lower leg. There was a chance he might lose some of his leg, depending on how the surgery went.
Stress. Fear. No one was happy.
My friend was in medical school, and he lent some scrubs and his stethoscope to me. I played dress up doctor, imposter and visited my Dad in his hospital room.
A little bit of tension relieved, my Dad loved it. He laughed and played along. A real doctor poked his head in the room while I was there pretending to be a doctor.
The real doctor nodded his head and greeted me with a scholarly voice. Head nod, "doctor” he said. I parroted his greeting with my best straight face and best I could muster scholarly tone; “doctor” head nod back at ya.
It was good natured fun. I hope my Dad felt a little bit better. (His surgery did work out very well by the way. A real, really good doctor, he saved my Dad’s leg and my Dad’s foot. The surgery was a big success.
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Once more, following breadcrumbs back from digression.
What am I doing? What is Gerald looking at me doing, in my pretty french door with imitation wood grain tile floor house?
While C is away, I’m trying to get rid of clutter, old stuff.
Are you like me?
A lot of this old stuff speaks to my heart.
It’s small pieces of stuff, they’re physical links that I can touch and hold and, in some cases, still wear on my bod. Links to people I love(d), my past.
Not every item, but so many of them;
clutter?
Treasure. Pieces of paper and cloth, plastic and metal and ceramic - they all speak to me.
They have stories to tell.
Not sure we’re going to part ways, those scrubs and I.
Treasure. Links to our past.
Stories.
Muddle.