Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I have a lot of lists. Long lists and short ones, memos and notes. They are on my phone, on rolls of paper in my kitchen, sticky-noted to my laptop, and pasted on the walls. These lists are meant to keep me on track, keep the larder stocked and the business of life flowing. The problem is not that there are no lists. I’ve got them up the wazoo. The problem is that I do not look at them, or if I do, I quickly forget their content and go on about my day accomplishing none of the items their presence demands.
Hence, I have failed to make a reservation to take a “Mature Driver’s Course,” the completion of which would significantly lower my car insurance. I really should take the class; that’s why it has been on the docket for months now. Months.
There is also a need for change of address on my renter’s insurance, for example. Should have been done in January. Still not done. The roster of things that I really ought do is ever-growing and any day now, the items on it will surely be attended to.
Any day now.
“Oh my God!” I wrote to my accountant, Jerry. “I totally forgot to drop off my W-2’s and 1099’s and other tax info! I am so sorry. There were notes everywhere reminding me to do it and I just screwed the pooch. I do not know where my mind is; it went missing some time ago. I am so sorry!”
I sent that note on April 17th. The subject line read. “Oops! Shoot! Dang it!”
“It’s okay. I have already filed your extension,” he assured me. “And you have until October for the state because of the fires. Don’t break anything getting here, but as soon as you can get the paperwork to me, I can figure out what lies ahead.”
Whew. Thank GAWD for Jerry. He is an absolute gem. The fact that I got bailed out on that one does not excuse my lack of basic planning. I mean, what the heck??? Taxes are important—well, most things on the list are, or at the very least, are prudent and worth doing.
I promised Jerry that I would drop by the following day. In order to assure my follow-through with this, I stuck notes all over my home that just said, simply, “TAXES.” That worked. I couldn’t open the fridge or a cupboard or sit at my desk or open the front door without seeing that simple sign. The next day, I went to the very formidable offices of Platinum Financial Management, where Jerry has worked for decades, and we sat and chatted and caught up. Both of us were lamenting the steep-cliff drop-off of work in the industry we have loved and spent 40 years in. There was also talk of our families and the general state of things in our lives. It was good to see him, and I am grateful for the rescue.
I am a very busy person, of course, but I have ALWAYS been a very busy person. It is only now, in my dotage, that I have become a keeper of copious lists. Lists that never seem to get checked off. If I have not seen or talked to you in a while, it is likely that your name is written down somewhere. If I don’t write it down, even the keenest desire to see a friend or loved one can get buried in the haze of activity that clouds my aging brain.
I am sure that there are clinical reasons for this, and equally sure that I do not give a fig what they are. I mean, this is how my life rolls now. I figure I will manage to get most of the stuff I have slated “to do” handled at some point. It also seems like if enough time has passed and an item is still on the list, well, then it’s perhaps not that essential, and I can just waltz on by it on my way to lunch with someone I love or a stroll in my beloved park. Okay—let’s face it—a HIKE in the park. I’ll leave the strolling to y’all.
Mike A. staged a lay-down flat-out on the living-room floor after the final hike of his visit, and I snapped a picture. This was after a three-day stay filled with many glorious treks into the hills. I sent it to Russell, who felt the same way after a week with me and my obsession with fresh air and exercise. This was his reply:
“You are a mean bitch. Leave us alone.”
Poor darlings! The two of them have been traveling down the road of life with me for 50 and 35 years, respectively. They are in it for the long haul, and while they may occasionally protest, they will keep logging the miles. We all know that it’s good for all of us. Our minds might be a tad fuzzy, but our bodies still work like gangbusters. A bit of grace there.
Gangbusters may, in my case, be a wee bit of overstatement. I have been in the midst of a prolonged allergy attack. I wake up sneezing, nose running a hundred miles per hour. That last bit annoys me. My Dad had a runny nose every day of his life. We swear we will not grow up to be like our parents, and yet here I am. I’ve got Dad’s fountain of a schnoz and Mom’s testy attitude toward her fellow drivers. I refrain from yelling, though I would dearly love to at the L.A. driver who is often a callous and careless sort. I have to placate myself by holding up the middle finger below dashboard level. So we differ there. Mom would have stuck hers out the window and hurled epithets to boot. I take comfort in that. My temper is as hair-trigger, but the way I express it is at least a tad more restrained.
STICKY NOTES, SNIFFLY NOSE.
As for Dad’s runny nose, I try to tame it with a tab of Children’s Zyrtec every morning. The adult version is too strong for me, makes me wiggly, and worsens my already severely challenged ability to concentrate on the task at hand. The tricky part of this equation is that, due to stupid dang Psoriatic Arthritis, my hands barely work in the morning. I cannot open the pod with the pill inside. I have a pair of scissors which dwell permanently next to the chair I use to help get dressed in the morning. They are in a jar with the allergy medicine, which also holds special thick healing Band-Aids for my feet, the outer casing of which I cannot for the life of me open without a tool to cut into them. If it’s not one thing…it’s another.
You have to love getting older. It is annoying as hell, but also pretty hilarious. Another friend came early to work in my office before dinner with a group of pals. He was on the road and on a deadline for work.
“What is your Wi-Fi?” he asked.
I had to think about it. Then remembered the name.
“Look for roxeymotel6.”
“Ah, okay. Password?”
‘Dang it,’ I thought. I know this one!
“Happyhootowl345?” I exclaimed hopefully.
He tried it. No go.
“I am probably typing it in wrong,” He said charitably.
The thing is written on the back of the router. Yes I am still using the password that it came with. I have big plans to change it to something of my own choosing. That is written down on a list somewhere.
I had to get down on hands and knees and twist my body around, tipping my head just so to get close enough to see it. Then I had to whip out the giant magnifying glass thingy that I keep on my desk, because even with a strong—as in Mr. Magoo—strong prescription, I still cannot see well enough to read the tiny type or, for that matter, at least half of the stuff that I really must read. Which is why it is written on another list somewhere that I need to make an appointment for an eye exam.
“Here it is. Got it. Happyhootowl354!!!”
“Bingo!” he cried.
On we go …
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