What the Doctor Ordered

These days, I get up in the morning, make a big cup of black tea, and start reading Google News on my phone to find out what fresh hell Trump has stirred up.

Then I switch to the Washington Post, The New York Times, and sometimes The Guardian.  By breakfast, I am wired and outraged.    

I know I should stop.  But as my friend Debbie says, "I keep thinking I will take a day off, but then I don't because I'm scared to not know."

Me, too.  I'm scared not to know.   Take your eye off Trump for half a day and God knows what he'll do next.

Well! This morning I had an appointment with one of my doctors, a woman in her sixties who lives in Berkeley, so you can imagine the conversation.   She's incensed by Trump and just about ordered me (is it in my chart?) to join  Indivisible , an organization founded by Congressional ex-staffers who suggest ways to make your voice heard most effectively.  Apparently, you're assigned a pro-democracy, anti-Trump task  to do every single day. 

Among other things, the doctor wrote to Dianne Feinstein and told DiFi that she'd never vote for her again if  she didn't oppose the Cabinet nominees.  And what happened?  DiFi started opposing the nominees!  The doctor's very bucked up.

Then she wrote to Uber and told them she was quitting because their top executive met with Trump.  Haven't heard back on that one.

And the demise of the Affordable Care Act?  She waved that off.  Patients are being overcharged and insurance companies and hospitals are making millions.  She assured me that doctors were not.  We need single payer health insurance, and that's it.  She was very firm about that.

I came straight home and wrote to Dianne Feinstein and Kamala Harris. 

It's a start.

 Does he know this is for real?

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I'm in one of those phases where I feel like I've physically aged several years overnight.  I squint at myself in the mirror and wonder what the hell's happened.  Crepey skin, more chin hairs, and a shocking web of wrinkles under my eyes.

 My ineffectual arsenal

More cream, more plucking, more exfoliating more, more, and more, and not much difference.    Maybe I should start an organization called "Invisible," because that's what women in their sixties are,  unless they yell loudly,  which is not a bad idea (see above).

My mental state has also taken a hit, and not just by Trump.  Last week I learned that a friend has a serious illness, another friend has died, and someone else has had a skirmish with a cancer caught at an early stage.  You reach an age where death no longer surprises, but it's still shocking.  

The other night, Jerry and I watched an eccentric movie called "Still Life," about a nerdy, fortyish Englishman who's in charge of tracking down relatives of people who are found dead.  He's not very successful, and sometimes he's the only person at the funeral, for which he writes a eulogy that a minister reads.  In the end, you realize that the message is kindness, and we are in so much need of it.  It's classified as "drama/comedy," but I'd call it black humor (Amazon Prime).

* * * * *

We're taking on another bathroom remodel, due to leaks, mold, inconvenience, and, yes, a "dated" look.

For this, we're going to have to move out of our bedroom and into my studio,  which means I'll have to find another place to quilt.  Afterward, I'll have a sleek new bathroom in a former closet (converted by the last owners).

 Where will it all go?  Haven't dealt with that yet.

* * * * *

This rose bush will not give out!  I keep thinking I've cut the last bloom, and it produces another.  A rose in the winter of our discontent, etc.