4th of July weekend

Hey, happy birthday to me (almost)! I was on the phone with a medical "scheduler" on Thursday, and of course he could see my birthdate, since that's one way they ask you to identify yourself. "By the way, happy early birthday," he said. He sounded like a nice guy, but I can't talk to any phone person without thinking about my few weeks of working the phones at the IRS and how horrible it was. Maybe not everyone hates it as much as I did.

So, yes, tomorrow is my birthday and I will be 61. Not a very interesting age, nothing special happens at 61, and that is fine with me. Next year I will be 62, which is the earliest you can start taking social security, so I'll have to think about that (I don't think I'll do it, but I could). A few years after that comes Exciting 65, Medicare age, and two years after that is when I probably will start taking social security payments. And a few years after that comes 70. Oh yes, the sixties are a fun decade, I can see that already. I'm good with being 61. Nice, uncomplicated age.

Thinking of being 61 reminds me of the memorial service I went to this week, for a local police officer who was killed in the line of duty. He was only 51. He'll never get to be all these ages I'm looking ahead to. 

I can't write about the service, even though it was televised and streamed (but edited). I will just say this: it was the most amazing memorial service I've ever attended, and as I noted in last week's post, it was #25 for me. His friends and family did an incredible job of bringing back to life an incredible man. I only knew him slightly, but I went away from the service feeling like I knew him very well. And I cried buckets, as did everyone around me. At the end of the service I watched the hundreds of police officers march out of the church and I thought many of them looked mean, angry. Why couldn't they all try to be more like Officer Beesley, I thought. It took me a few days before it occurred to me that they were trying not to cry. A mean face can be a face that is holding back tears. Or fear.

Rocket Boy is here with us now, visiting for three weeks. I wish it were longer. He is scheduled to start lymphedema treatment back in St. Louis on July 20th, which is the day he flies back -- so he'll miss one day, but it goes on for six weeks, so no big deal. I don't want him to go back, I want him to stay here and find a way to do lymphedema treatment around here. But I seem to be powerless to make that happen. He's got his own ideas about how to do things, and I think I have to let him follow that.

Part of the reason I want him to stay longer is selfish. I'm scheduled for parathyroid surgery on July 23rd, and I want him to be here to take care of me, drive me to Aurora, wait for me, drive me back. But instead I'll ask a friend to do it. It's a pretty straightforward surgery, I should be fine to go straight home afterwards, resume normal activities immediately, etc. But I want someone to look after me! Oh, well. 

I have to drive myself to Aurora this Thursday for the pre-surgery scan, where they try to figure out which parathyroid gland has gone bad. I will be injected with a radioactive tracer and then I have to sit around for hours, be scanned for a long time, and then sit around for another hour before another scan. I actually have three separate appointments that day, at 10 am, 12:30 pm, and 2:15 pm. Anyway, it'll be a long day, and I figure it's not necessary for anyone to sit around waiting for me for hours and hours, so I'll drive myself. I'm basically OK with that, although I hate driving to Aurora. Then, on July 19th, I'll need to get a Covid test, and I can do that on my own, of course. July 20th I'll drive Rocket Boy to the airport -- I can do that, too. But that July 23rd appointment, hmm, I can't take myself. I wish he would be here to drive me. Oh, well. Pity party over, for now.

We are having a nice 4th of July so far. First, Rocket Boy and Teen A cleaned out the gutters. Those lovely gutters we got last summer -- we kind of forgot that gutters need to be cleaned. The last few rainstorms we've had, it was clear that the gutters were blocked. So RB went on the roof and raked off all the branches and leaves, and then he and Teen A spent a long time digging the gunk out of the gutters and washing them clean. Teen A actually did a lot of the work. It was kind of amazing to me, watching him. "Mom," he said to me from his roof perch, "It smells like ASS up here." I sniffed and realized he was right -- the stuff from the gutters smelled like cow poop. It also looked like cow poop when it came through the gutters, like a cow had diarrhea all over our lawn.

"And I smell like ass too," he went on. "I'm covered with all this nonsense." So sweet. My big 13 year old handyman, who just lost another tooth last night. He's been losing teeth the last few months, as though his mouth suddenly realized that his body is maturing and it's really past time to dump the rest of the baby teeth.

Teen B was not interested in going on the roof, though he did turn the water on and off a few times for Teen A. Things were definitely safer with only one twin on the roof -- it meant that Teen A could focus on the job, not on teasing his brother. "Be careful!" I yelled to Teen A. "I don't want to have to go to the Emergency Room on the 4th of July!"

Now we are just hanging out, waiting for it to be later so we can barbecue the salmon. We're having a very simple meal: salmon, potato salad, garlic bread. Marshmallows to roast, though I suspect Teen B should only have unroasted ones, with his braces. And a strawberry whipped cream angel food cake, although that's supposed to be my birthday cake, so I really should assemble it tomorrow, not today. I just don't care that much this year, though -- it's OK to have my cake a day early. 

I have two cards and a package to open tomorrow, plus I assume RB and the twins will give me a card. His present to me was a hanging basket (I chose a fuchsia called "Pink Marshmallow") and he's going to set up some more flower boxes on the porch railings. Fuchsias don't live through the winter out here, you have to plant new ones each spring. That seems terribly wrong to me, having grown up with long-lived fuchsias in northern California, but I guess it's just how things are.

Here are some of my Barbies having a 4th of July barbecue. This is the Asian family that I've been putting together. The guy in the pink shirt is the dad, and he's flanked by his gloomy 15-year-old son and his cheerful 10-year-old daughter. The three women on the left are sisters: the oldest, on the far left, is an actress and singer in Denver, and a waitress on the side; the middle one, in red overalls, is the mom of the family on the right; and the youngest, with the dogs, is a veterinarian (she really is -- she's "Pet Vet Barbie"). The older and younger sisters are unmarried, so they come to the middle sister's house in Boulder for major holidays. It's sort of interesting what Mattel thinks makes a doll look "Asian," and there's a lot of discussion about it on various blogs and websites.

I said I'd do a goals round-up this Sunday, but I don't want to do a detailed one. It's a new quarter and we're halfway through the year. I will read a biography of Ulysses S. Grant this quarter, probably this month, and work along on some of the other goals -- the files, the sewing machine, some home improvement projects, writing. We need to do something about how hot it is at the rental house. This month continues to be a health month for me, but once the surgery is over I should start feeling better. I sure hope so. And I sure hope Rocket Boy gets some relief from his problems. There's an ache in my gut about him -- will things be OK? I don't know, just have to keep going. Happy Independence Day!