From Where I Sit

Aren't dreams supposed to be . . . dreamy? Last night, I spent the whole dream attempting to calculate whether my client should buy the tax-free municipal bond at 3% ytm for 12 years at a premium on the secondary market, or if it would be more profitable to purchase the 8-year corporate A-rated bond at 4.8% ytm, also secondary. The new issues were so disappointing, rate-wise, that paying the premium would result in a slight edge. I knew the client's current tax bracket, but there were some questions about whether they would retire within the next few years and, if so, whether their tax situation would improve as a result. Of course, the client wouldn't answer any questions beyond showing me their latest tax return. In my dreams, I cannot read or work basic mathematics. It lasted a long time, and I awoke wondering if I'd made the right decision. Tonight, I hope to look for unicorns in an enchanted forest. From where I sit, it would be so much more rewarding.

April showers bring May flowers. We've had a few too many showers, though, and we aren't even a week in yet. Still, it IS spring and, for that, I am grateful. At the end of fall, I had to say goodbye to my little brother. Winter has been a season of sadness, and it's not the first time. My heart still hurts, but spring brings renewal, even hope. Life's underside is hard, and accepting that truth is despicable.

The grief is overwhelming. It sneaks in and hurts everywhere. I cry and cry out, keening, and can't help it. My dreams are ugly, my good memories are tainted by loss. My heart hurts. This is the price of love.

I hate the freaking kitchen, I hate everything about it. I detest cooking dinner every night, after having to decide what it will be given whatever ingredients are on hand. Tonight, for example, I made barbecued chicken wings, red beans and rice and spinach. If the frozen wings weren't the first thing I saw in the freezer, it would have been some other meal. I am tired of deciding on the menu and cooking it. I am tired of prepping vegetables for salads, peeling potatoes, braising or searing or roasting meat. I can't understand why anyone would choose a culinary career. The creativity is tiresome. If I lived alone, I would never cook more than a fried egg sandwich, soup from a can or toast.

My mom has been gone for 14 years this month, which is too much to bear. I miss her every day for one reason or another. Today, it's because I feel neglected and I know I could talk it over with her. She would find the right words and I'd be able to shrug off the hurt. She wouldn't judge me or think I was being petty or selfish, she'd put her arms around me and hold me close. Now I often wonder if she needed me to hear her sorrows, to hold her in my arms and breathe love into her. Maybe I did, I hope so.

What are her dreams? I watch my cat sleeping, and there are times when she's restless. She raises her head, but her eyes don't open. Her legs move, almost as if she's walking, but she isn't awake. I think she's dreaming, which is more romantic than deciding she's having muscle spasms. But then, I wonder. Do animals dream? Are cows in the field dreaming of warm barns? Are raccoons in the woods dreaming of open trash cans? Is my cat dreaming of her kittenhood, or treats, or other cats? Or of me? From where I sit, this is a question worth pondering.

I'm in my winter happy place: sitting in my chair, watching the football pre-game, drinking my glass of wine, reading the newspaper with the scent of cooking chili in the air. "Sigh*. From where I sit, it's the simple things

This one time we were at that place about four blocks from the house that Suzi and Anne rented. It was, like, a restaurant but without any decent food. We all sat there around a table with Cokes and sang along to this new song we barely knew but already loved. It was called "Hey Jude". Stevie and Anne and Suzi and (was it John?) and I had a good time. It's so long ago, and such a clear moment in my mind. Every time I hear that song, I remember it as if it were yesterday. Anne's dead now, Stevie and (was it John?) disappeared, maybe died. Suzi and I are still friends but she doesn't remember this at all. From where I sit, life is freakin' weird.

I don't like to complain (which is generally the way one begins a complaint). We received a lovely invitation from our niece in March for a May wedding. We weren't able to attend, so we dutifully went to the couple's wedding website to send our regrets. Their website also included the gift registry, which we scrolled through diligently. We chose two fairly expensive gifts, ordered and paid for them and had them shipped to the address provided. While looking through the gift registry, we saw that we could have chosen to give cash under a couple of "gift" topics -- honeymoon or down payment for a home -- but we weren't tempted. Today, in late October, we received a long-awaited acknowledgement. It was a pre-printed card with a picture of the couple on one side and a generic paragraph on the other thanking us, and everyone else, for making their day special. When you care enough to send the very least. I don't suppose the happy couple was going for "it's better than nothing, I guess" but, from where I sit, that's my response. (Not out loud, of course.)

I have a dream, a very simple dream. I dream that one day I'll call my doctor's office and someone will answer the telephone. That day is not today. Instead, I left a message that will be returned in 24 to 48 hours. There is virtually no way to see the doctor on the day l call, and I don't know two days in advance that I'll be sick. The last time I complained, I was chastised and told that I should have "checked the portal" for a response, though the message tells me to leave my phone number. I am looking for better health care options. I have a dream and, from where I sit, we all need one of those

My calendar is full. If a stranger looked at it, though, they would not be jealous. Entries include the mundane dental and medical appointments, the social small town fish fry, the responsible volunteer meetings and the fascinating rummage sales and craft shows. Who wouldn't want to be me?

I've been grieving the end of a long friendship but, for perspective, it's ended a couple of times before. She's very needy, likes attention and has no compunction about punishing those who don't toe the line. I thought that, after she exposed us to Covid, she might check to see if we were okay. She thought we didn't show enough concern for her health after that. We're a couple (thank God), she's a widow who can't understand that we want to do things together. We think she should invite both of us. She doesn't agree. But, this week would have been the 44th anniversary of her marriage to her deceased husband. Did any friend of hers besides me send her a note, remembering the occasion ? Doubtful. It hurts, but I, too, can be needy.