Everything Blog

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Ever since I gave myself a blog for my sixtieth birthday I’ve been everything BLOG. I now use the word blog the way the word fuck is used: for everything.

“What the blog are you doing?” I ask Duke, who appears to be digging through my underwear drawer. He’s naked and a bit excited. “Oh, for blog sake,” I say in exasperation when he holds up my silk-robe sash.   “Get your blogging ass over here and show me something good,” he says, taking up my new lingo. “We’re blogged now.”

You get my point.

I turn SIXTY day after tomorrow! Blog me!

I was up fretting about it last night. I left the bed to wander the house, looking for an easy way to feel.  It was too hot last night.  I opened the refrigerator door and stood in its special, cool light.  Maybe I was thinking the answer to my age-angst was somewhere in the small jars huddled together on the middle shelf. They’re a fine collection of special ingredients, aging in cold silence: mustard, olive paste, capers, lemon curd, marinated artichokes,  and a tiny, unopened jar of Russian caviar  I bought 4 years ago to impress dinner guests who turned out to be vegetarians. Or maybe I was finding answers in the mouth chilling 2012 Chardonnay I took a couple slugs of. When the warning alarm sounded–the blogging door is open too long–angst still intact, I made my way to the living room to sweat out a couple of hours thinking about the past.

It’s easy to think of your past for the simple fact that  you, and you alone, know what it contains. Oblivious youth followed by decades of illusion filled adulthood where dreams came true and nightmares stayed in the sleep-realm. Things start getting all blogged up somewhere around fifty-five and crash hard at fifty-nine. That’s how it was for me anyway. But that’s the past.

Here and now, I’m blogging.

Day after tomorrow , what the blog do I know?

The Author

Quintessential Berkeley Homemaker

2 Comments

  1. Dear Free Crone,
    What the blog…..! One thing you seem to know very well is to express yourself eloquently while entertaining your reader. Instead of getting a chill imagining you contemplating the mustard and the olive paste, the capers and the lemon curd, the marinated artichokes and the tiny, unopened jar of Russian caviar, all aging in chilled silence—now exposed to the erie self-conscious refrigerator light—my soul leaps with spontaneous relief. Wow, Free Crone is human! I love her! I love you, Free Crone. You speak out the horrible truth about aging. Free Crone, you are my heroine. Who said “aging isn’t for Sissis?” Whoever it was, was right. And we, you and me, and the rest of us in this land of refrigerator alarms who are surrounded by the dogma of youth and sold an alarm system for and an insurance against everything, are the ones to scream out loud. Or else, become a new brand of walking (aching) dead while a slightly older brand of charlatans is getting blogging rich. Who is the zombie? What happened to that fountain of youth? And who is left to honor us and to blogging delight in our wisdom, 10 iota for every wrinkle? My dear sister Free Crone, you are allowed to hurt in anticipation of your 60th birthday. I, however, celebrate you as my truth-speaker friend and as one of the wisest wrestlers with life. Much LOVE and happy birthday!

    Like

    • Soul leaping to relief! Slightly older brands of charlatans getting blogging rich! You eva are the fountain of youth! I blogging delight in your wisdom.

      Like

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