The Second Half

A middle-aged lady (or old, depending on perspective) sharing this and that with whomever strays into her digital property. Of course there are cats involved ;)

Glum thoughts re: stuffed turkey — December 17, 2019

Glum thoughts re: stuffed turkey

I suppose turkeycide in the United States has reverted to its usual levels, and Americans are done ‘gramming pictures of the giant birds they consumed during the Thanksgiving feast.

To me, this feels like a slightly weird holiday. There are many things I’m grateful for, but I won’t recite them before a group of people over mammoth stuffed fowl. To each nation its own, I suppose – many of our traditional holidays probably appear beyond weird to foreigners and, frankly, I myself find some of them bordering on the bizarre.

I care not for Thanksgiving because it concerns a nation separated from me by a continent and an ocean. Actually, no one outside the United States cares, but you can’t escape it because of the media. It didn’t make it any less funny (as in weird) to get a Facebook message from a first cousin of mine wishing me “Happy Thanksgiving.”

He emigrated from Bulgaria to the US a long time ago, and I guess he has become Americanized. Still, his message made me go, “Huh?!” I noted in my reply that people here have no such holiday, not to mention that they rarely eat turkey unless it’s sandwich slices. It’s mostly a matter of cost – what the average family would pay for a whole bird can cover several days’ worth of grocery shopping.

Anyway, I don’t intend to discuss the standard of life here. Suffice it to say ours is a poor country where the majority of people can’t readily afford turkey unless it is some plastic-packaged processed shit. But while Thanksgiving means nothing to me, I still found it interesting to read some statistics in a report that popped up in one of the newsletters I receive.

Mind you, these are projections published shortly before the holiday, so the definitive data may be some time away and possibly a bit different (if anyone bothers to follow up on the issue). Now, according to OilPrice.com:

  • Americans likely gobbled up an impressive 46 million turkeys for Thanksgiving 2019;
  • The birds have been getting bigger over the years: the average turkey weighed 13 pounds in the 1930s but now tips the scales at 30 pounds!
  • Cooking the increasingly heavier fowl comes at a cost in terms of electricity: as the publication notes, preparing turkeys for the holiday “will suck up 350 gigawatts of electricity – equivalent to the entire world’s nuclear power capacity in 2012.”

But it also turns out that visiting family and relatives for the holiday significantly reduces the nation’s overall power consumption. “Estimates are that energy usage typically drops 5-10% on Thanksgiving Day compared to the November average, all thanks to that delicious turkey. And the estimated savings of that energy could amount to more than $2 billion in energy bills,” the article says.

I would have lived through another year without sparing a thought for Thanksgiving were it not for that message from my cousin. It prompted me to research the price of turkey in Bulgaria and to click on that report link. I can afford turkey whenever, but I can’t be bothered to buy any because I’m not too fond of cooking. As I’ve said before, I am a good cook but don’t really enjoy this activity – it’s just part of life, and I try to keep it to the bare minimum, which is not much of a challenge since I currently live alone.

I suppose Thanksgiving feels even weirder now because I can’t really see this person I grew up with surrounded by all the trappings of a fiercely American holiday, carving a massive bird for his gaggle of guests, and perhaps giving thanks for the new life he and his family have built in Arizona. I hope they are happy and never have cause for regretting their decision to leave home, but the latest exchange with my cousin made me sad. It was yet another reminder that I have lost many relatives and close friends to the immigrant life because we were born in a country where something like buying a stupid turkey qualifies as discretionary spending.

A shoutout to all the clichés out there — November 21, 2019

A shoutout to all the clichés out there

What a shitty blog owner I have been, right? My last post is dated March 2018 – who the heck neglects their blog in such a shameful manner?? Is it any excuse that my freelance practice took off, and I got far too busy to sit at my desk and stare through the window? A bit flimsy as excuses go, but I don’t have a better one.

My birthday is coming up, but that’s not the topic I have in mind. What I’ve been pondering lately is this: am I a cliché and, more importantly, do I care if so?

For those unfamiliar with the name Ali Wong, she is a stand-up comedian and one of my absolute favorites. I had no idea stand-up was such excellent entertainment – I only discovered it when I got Netflix. Anyway, in her second special for the streamer, Ali talked about mothers being attracted to glittery things, craving the sparkle “to compensate for the light inside that has died.” You know, the hardships and sacrifices that accompany motherhood and all that.

I’ve never shined brightly or dared to, but this seems to be somewhat applicable in my case. Only I crave color: my hair is pink, lilac, or turquoise these days (green and lemon yellow to be tried next), and I’m buying brightly or multi-colored clothes, shoes, and bags as if my life depended on it.

To an outside observer, this probably appears to be some sort of a mid-life crisis, which it very well may be, but it might be another thing. You see, I was quite pretty as a young woman and never lacked for attention or opportunities, but confidence and self-esteem were not really in the picture.

These days, I don’t care who thinks what (one of the perks of growing older), on top of which I’m enjoying a comfortable life. Don’t believe those telling you that money doesn’t matter – it freaking does! Not losing sleep over bills and being able to buy stupid things on a whim are empowering! These are also relatively new developments for me, so I do what the average person does when they get financially comfortable – I buy tons of stuff I don’t really need.

Back to the colors. Yes, I’m obviously compensating for the lack of self-esteem and financial stability in my younger days. I can go out now decked in all colors of the rainbow, giving no hoot about what anyone has to say as regards age-appropriate attire. OK, let me make something clear: I don’t prance around in skimpy skirts, bum-baring shorts, or crop tops. There are certain boundaries I’ll never be confident enough to cross, which is fine with me and good for the general public, I assume. The point is that I have no problem now with being bright and conspicuous.

Also, the number of my cats has grown to four, so what that picture up there suggests is a ship long sailed. This brings me back to the cliché part. I’m a middle-aged lady who lives alone with a bunch of cats. Cliché? Seems so. Does it matter? Not to me, it doesn’t. I am healthy (well, relatively, nothing unusual for a person in their 50s), family members are fine, financial worries are out of the picture, and my few friends have stuck with me through the years. Why concern myself with inconsequential perceptions?

So, I’m turning 53 next week. Wisdom is not something I pretend to have acquired, so I won’t be offering any lessons to the young people out there (not that they would listen anyway). What I can say at this juncture in my life is that being a cliché is fine if it doesn’t bother you. When you are content and appreciated, you get to own that shit.

Time to go harass my cats now – these critters owe mommy some lurve because she spends crazy money on them. Here are a couple of pictures of the latest arrival:

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By the way, his name is Loki. Yep, he is named after the Marvel character, specifically as portrayed by Tom Hiddleston.

To wrap this up, I can’t promise I’ll suddenly get my shit together and behave as a responsible blog owner should. However, I will certainly try to pop up at least once or twice a month. Maybe I’ll introduce you properly to Loki next time or divulge some shameful secret. You stay positive, a’right?

Take it back, kid, or else! — March 22, 2018

Take it back, kid, or else!

It looks as if the universe is doing its damnedest best to drum it into my noggin that I’m old. (Which I’m not, by the way.)

First, there was the recent winter episode, which I’m now convinced is the product of unwelcome cosmic intervention into my daily comings and goings. And I suspect this planting of thoughts has been going on for some time.

Then there was some nitwit trying to manoeuver his car in front of a neighboring building as I was walking by, his frustration spilling over in “Move it, granny!” shouted in my direction. What the…?! I’m 51, you twerp! I neither look nor feel like a senior (bless their souls).

But it would appear said universe has made up its feeble mind. Its latest attempt to instill a granny mentality in me materialized a few days ago, and the agent of this misguided campaign was a kid.

On my trips to the supermarket, I pass by a playground, which is a relatively recent addition to the neighborhood and still a very bright, clean, and pleasing fixture. It’s got this deep blue fence with doors on opposing sides. They are mostly decorative, not meant to keep anyone out, and are usually open, with people often taking a shortcut through the playground.

So, there I was, striding along and flipping through my mental list of daily groceries. (Side note: I do the shopping every day or every other day, mostly because I need the exercise – working at a computer gets you all crampy and you need some leg-stretching.) On that day, I decided to take the shortcut through the playground. On approaching it, I saw the doors were open and a kid – a girl of about five – was romping about. Her mother sat on a bench, reading or something. The girl saw me draw near and made a dash for the door, shutting it under my nose.

Now, I’m not the type who turns to goo at the sight of babies or chuckles indulgently at the boisterous shenanigans of toddlers. So, I gave this kid a contemptuous look, opened the door and headed for the one at the other end, which the pesky girl had also shut in the meantime. I exited the premises and was about to resume my walk to the supermarket when I heard the child let rip an indignant scream, then run after me, slam the door in my back and squeal reproachfully, “Hey you, granny!” I hope it’s clear that her tone absolutely implied “bad, mean granny.”

I admit it: I was so shocked I froze in my tracks. Really?! OK, I get it, I’m no spring chicken. I qualify for “auntie” but “granny”??! It took me a few seconds to unfreeze and then, of course, I stooped to her level by responding, “You’re an ill-bred little shit, aren’t you?” Then I turned around and walked away.

I have a pretty good idea what most of you would say. It would be either “Shame on you!” or “Give it a rest, woman, it’s just a dumb kid and every adult looks old to them.” In fact, I don’t blame the kid; I blame the universe, which was obviously using the little oaf as its mouthpiece. Well, the universe has really gone and screwed the pooch this time, and I’ll be exacting my vengeance forthwith.

Here’s how things will unfold: since I’ve apparently been chucked into granny territory, I plan to enjoy the special privileges that go with it. So, from now on, I’ll be taking every opportunity to lecture any person under 30 who crosses my path. I’ll be harping on about manners, respect for seniors, wrong life choices, and whatever promises to annoy the most.

And you know what, my dear readers? I’ll be laughing hysterically on the inside because I’m in no way, shape or form qualified to lecture on any of those things. I’m civil enough, but I certainly can’t claim to have impeccable manners. While I respect my seniors, I’m not willing to let them always have their way or rub their perceived wisdom in my face. Wrong life choices? Heck, I could write a book about mine!

And I won’t stop at lectures – no, siree! I’ll demand a seat on the bus (dang, I’ll have to start using public transport!) and the right to jump lines. I’ll begin all conversations by detailing the havoc that the weather is wreaking on my old bones and will scrupulously list all my pains and aches.

I think I’ll start with the neighborhood kiddies to get a bit of practice, and then I’ll upgrade to annoying teenagers and smug young parents. Maybe I should join some silver surfers’ forum to prep for sermonizing…Good luck to me!

Of winter and old farts — March 5, 2018

Of winter and old farts

Can winter make you realize you’ve grown into an old, crotchety fart? Quite so, I assure you.

See that above? It’s what the landscape around these parts has looked like in the past few days. When I woke up on the morning after the first heavy snowfall, I glanced out of the window and my first reaction was, “Holy cow, this is marvelous! So white, peaceful, and clean!”

And a few seconds later: “Bloody hell, how am I supposed to wade through this to go get beer??!”

Yeah…

When I was a kid, the first heavy snowfall brought jubilation, with squeals of delight echoing around the neighborhood all through the day. We were outside till dark – sleighing, staging snowball fights, making snow figures, or just wallowing around in the white fluff, then rushing home to change into dry clothes and dart back outside for more fun and games.

Now, in my early 50s, I look out of the window on such days and the first few seconds of wonder are quickly replaced by thoughts such as, “Huge electricity bills again…I probably need to buy new boots, the old ones seem to be giving up the ghost…Will trains run on time?…Eff it, I’ll have to do without beer today cuz I’m not going out in this!”

I catch myself thinking these thoughts and I feel sad. When did I get so old, in spirit, that is? Why doesn’t the sight of this sparkling white canopy compel me to bolt out and make snow angels or engage in some other frivolous activity? Ah, never mind, I’m sure learned people have produced countless volumes to answer such questions.

But I’m not totally depressed. You know why? I can still remember how it felt and the longing lurks in there, so maybe one of these winters I’ll throw decorum to the wind, sprint out, and act in a completely age-inappropriate way.

 

 

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