I Worried

I worried a lot.  Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

— Mary Oliver

Bday girls

Beware the mighty Capricorn trio!

Likely to confuse the elderly

My father watches three things on the big TV on his sun porch: Wisconsin sports teams, YouTube shorts about Hitler, and anything on Netflix. Also Fargo, I guess. He has a thing for Fargo in any format. At Thanksgiving my brother Kyle introduced him to The Ballad of Buster Scruggs and he’s been watching it on a loop ever since, except for the last episode, which he doesn’t like. Too chatty, maybe. Too “woo-woo.” But the rest he knows practically by heart.

Anyway, when I went back for our second Christmas on the 29th, we all crammed into the sunroom to watch Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas on the big TV (our only true annual tradition), and we followed that up with The Ballad of Buster Scruggs because somehow the dudes always get to choose what we watch, which I object to vocally and repeatedly and usually storm out on. I was mad about having to sit through a boring bloody macho Western but I was wedged into the sofa in the corner so I just sighed out loud for a while, like a grownup, and then finally, begrudgingly, paid attention because there was nothing else to do.

I’m sorry to say this, because I hate admitting I’m wrong about these dudes’ suggested viewing, but I really loved it. I dreamed about it all night long and then I drove home on Sunday and watched the whole thing again voluntarily, after True Grit, which I also love. Damn Coen Bros! The Zoe Kazan episode broke my heart in 95 different places and the last one, the Tyne Daly one, the one my father doesn’t watch, it reminded me immediately of Lincoln in the Bardo even before I knew what was going on, and I loved it even more for that. (I suppose that could be considered a spoiler but this is no safe space.) The whole thing was weird and rewarding, is what I’m saying, and it caught me by surprise, which all things considered was not a bad way to end a year or even a weekend.

Also: I watched my first episode of Bob’s Burgers tonight (“Topsy”) because it was on before The Big Bang Theory and I was toooo lazy to change the channel, and long story shrt I now have a new favorite TV show.

In summary: congratulations! We are all winners!

Your merchandise return credit

Update from my breasts: Per federally mandated guidelines (look it up), I was informed weeks ago via email & post that I needed “additional mammographic views and/or ultrasound for a complete evaluation.” Dense breasts, they said. Cool, I said. Fun stuff. So today I had both. All clear!

I didn’t go into this thinking they would find anything—what would be the point—but I definitely strike myself as the kind of person who would wander straight out of good news into the middle of a knife fight. Instead I drove to the gynecologist to chat about my ovaries.

Update from my ovaries: It’s no secret that my reproductive system and I do not see eye-to-eye. (Heh.) I get that as strong, empowered, modern groovy women we are supposed to love our bodies and the miracles they can perform and that nature made us all beautiful and blah blah blah but seriously, that is all horse shit. Fuck the fuck off. The poking and the prodding and the scraping and the scoping, the pap smears and biopsies and ultrasounds, the fibroids and the cysts, let’s just end it already. We can’t, though. Every single option sounds worse than the current state of affairs, so until everything finally just gives up on its own, this is life. Still: no surgery!

After that I picked up my Vitamin D prescription from CVS and a chocolate shake from McDonald’s and came home and took a nap.

Update from my mother: “Why on earth would you post this?!”

I don’t know. Would you rather hear it in person?

Every choice we make

Everyone makes a youthful promise not to get old and regretful, but every choice we make, by definition, rules out something else, so there’s always something to what-if about. Even the people happiest to be doing X are still going to wonder occasionally, what if they’d chosen Y? Sometimes this is sad, yes. Sometimes, though, it’s just routine maintenance on an open and dynamic mind.
— Carolyn Hax
Source: http://www.washingtonpost.com/lifestyle/st...