Stewing In My Own Juices
Anyone want the recipe?
Welcome to Crone Life, where I chronicle the trials and tribulations of getting older, my style. If you enjoy reading this, please comment, click the heart, share and subscribe.
Hi, how is everyone? I’m sorry I missed yesterday. I’m OK, but it’s been a busy week, at least for someone with a fractured patella, fractured metatarsal and fractured metacarpal. The bruised ribs are the worst though. I aggravated everything by going out three times, including twice on Wednesday. Wednesday was the day for doctor and imaging appointments, plus the insurance company called to let me know my car is a total loss, sob. It’s not so much that I loved the car–I’m not a car-lover–but it was reliable and no trouble and I knew where everything was. Now I have to buy a new one. Ugh.
After The Call about the car, I had to run off to the orthopedist where I was informed I’m healing fine and I will be out of work until after Thanksgiving. I am not supposed to drive until then, and honestly, I don’t feel capable of it. I also complained about the pain in my calf and got sent for an ultrasound to make sure I don’t have deep vein thrombosis (DVT). I guess I don’t, because nobody has called me back about the results. This is my second u/s this year to check for DVT. I’m kind of frustrated, because when I had the same issue back in 2010, the ortho at NYU ordered an MRI right away, then drained the fluid from the joint and gave me a cortisone shot and prescribed physical therapy. After a few weeks I was fine and stayed that way for several years. I don’t know what the orthos of the mid-Hudson Valley have against diagnostic imaging. I asked about the pain and was told I could get stronger painkillers or just wait till it got better. This ortho (Dr. K) was at least sympathetic.The first ortho I saw about it in the spring (Dr. C) informed me I shouldn’t worry about the pain because “muscles aren’t complicated.” I think he meant compared to joints, but I wasn’t impressed.
On Thursday I was flat-out exhausted and hate-read the first few books of an old (00s) supernatural thriller/urban fantasy series by Mike Carey, who is a screenwriter and comics-scripter (Marvel, I think) and author of genre novels. He has a lot of series. I read the ones about the mycelium zombies (The Girl with All the Gifts, The Boy on the Bridge, etc, written as M.R. Carey) which were kind of fun and certainly entertaining. This series, about “freelance exorcist” Felix Castor, who plays a tin whistle (is that like a kazoo?) to exorcise ghosts and demons, is always behind the eight-ball in terms of sussing out the villain, and takes an unbelievable amount of physical punishment from the were-folk of London. Seriously, in all three that I read, the villain turned out to be a guy he met early on who was suspiciously nice to him. Every time! You’d think he’d figure it out. These were the only three available on Libby, so it was logistically impossible to embark on Felix Castor #4. There are something like 10! He must have some kind of hold over his publisher. Another problem was that Mike Carey, or at least his character Felix, hates cats. Maybe that’s because he’s called Felix. I like cats, so that put me off too. As did the random insertion of Yiddish terms. Why would a protagonist who grew up in Liverpool and attended Oxford be dropping those?
Then on Friday, the hubs and I went to the collision place to get personal stuff out of the car, turn in the remaining key and get the plates. It wasn’t as sad as I feared because the car was partially disassembled and didn’t look like my car anymore. Mr. Crone Life found some missing lipsticks and other stuff that had fallen out of my purse and rolled under the passenger seat, so that was a plus. Otherwise it was all reusable grocery bags and rolls of paper towels. I left all the CDs I got from when the library weeded their collection. I gave the Mozart ones to my mother, but her caregiver never plays them for her because the boombox is wonky. The car contained my only CD player, I have no idea when I’ll have access to another one. It’s not a priority. They were all jazz and contemporary piano composers. I feel a little bad about leaving them. A good person would have taken them back to put in the library giveaway box, but whatever. I still have a bag filled with operas in the closet.
The collision place kindly offered us a ride home. Everyone there was so nice. The driver was a trim, good-humored guy in his 50s. He had some good advice about buying cars–mainly that you should find one that you’re comfortable driving and make that your main criterion. He was also willing to stop at the pharmacy so I could pick up my prescriptions. I told him how my dad made me learn to drive a stick shift and take my driving test with it. He said his kids did the same. Then he gave a short précis of the history of computers in cars and I drew some parallels to the use of technology in libraries, which he was not so interested in. By the time we pulled into my driveway, he had revealed he was owned the place and had since 1987. I do love an expert.
I’ve been thinking about topics for the newsletter that aren’t just a humorous recounting of my recent life experience. To tell the truth, I thought this thing would be more overtly feminist. I am of course a feminist–what else could I be? Every woman should believe in her own equality and agency. But I haven’t really dug into this. Lyz Lenz of Men Yell At Me recently published a smoking post about the demise of Jezebel and other places to express female anger and I was reminded once again of how angry I am underneath it all. Here’s my comment on her piece:
It is hard to feel that rage and not be able to express it and have to struggle to not take it out on those who can't fight back, like your kids and other women (sometimes even your own mother). I've been living my life kind of how I want to and I'm well aware of both the socioeconomic privilege that has allowed that and what I've given up along the way. And of all the other people who haven't been able to achieve even a modicum of contented life. The anger threatens to rise up like a tidal wave. Even now, I feel it pulsing under the surface, but I also feel a desperate need to turn it to something that does everyone good.
Therein lies the angry woman’s dilemma of course. You’re FUCKING ENRAGED, but you don’t have anywhere to put it or anything constructive to do with it. I was brought up to be a nice girl and Nice Girls Don’t Yell. Women are supposed to use their soft power to influence events in their favor, but we don’t agree on a final goal. I’d rather be on the throne than the power behind it, anyway. At least I’d like a choice. Cis-het women have it the worst, in some ways. What do you do when you really do love men, but you also want to scream at them? Or what about when you can’t leave and don’t feel safe to ask for what you need? Help with the kids and the housework when you work full time, even? What about wanting good sex or some room of your own? What about control over your own body? I did go to an abortion rights rally last summer and that helped to ease some of the angst, but it’s not like it really helped anything here. New York is a very liberal state.
I have written more in-depth things about being angry, as well as being injured. Sometime in the future I will dig those out and polish them up to post here. In the interim, I tend to tamp down the anger, because what else am I going to do? I can't even distract myself with physical exercise right now. I guess I could listen to Taylor Swift and Olivia Rodriguez, but they’re just angry at their ex-lovers and that’s only a small part of it. One aspect of my maturity is I’ve tried to forgive all the guys I was once involved with. This is a big thing for me, since I’m a legendary grudge holder. I just try to see our interactions from their point of view. Having known my husband for so long has helped with this. Previously, the dominant male figure in my life was my father and that’s a whole different ball of wax. He wasn’t big on emotional introspection. He was, in fact, allergic to it.
If you too are angry, here’s your chance to express it in the comments. You can also relay any tidbits of wisdom about buying a used car.
I love your observations of that series. 😂
Yes that is the pro car guy advice. My cousin the international Renault mechanic advised me, drive it for 10 minutes alone. Park it. Ask yourself do I want this car. If you get an unambiguous yes, buy it.
Tin whistle. Penny whistle. The poet sang, "They all play on their penny whistles you can hear them blow if you lean your head out far enough on desolation row." Novelty item of USA folk circuit, like nose flutes and as you say the kazoo. A serious instrument in Ireland.