December 19, 2016

I went to the nine o'clock stretching class this morning. There is a leader, Beverly, but the class instruction is via CD. The 40-minute class is fine except for one set of leg stretching which is done while sitting on a folding chair: I found it to be uncomfortable. There were about 20 women there. The woman who told me about the class was there, and she introduced me to Beverly. She also pointed out a dolphin in the Indian River a few minutes into the class – exercise with a view!

​I took the dogs for their pre-prandial stroll at three-thirty this afternoon. I intended to take them to the beach, but a maintenance man in a golf cart stopped me to tell me that the water would be shutting off in ten minutes for several hours because the water main had blown. I reeled the dogs in and beat a path back to BOB to add water to his tank. The meter read two-thirds full when the water stopped flowing. It's enough for two showers and dishes, the former being more important than the latter.

This morning, maintenance men starting cutting through the asphalt around the corner from me. By sunset, there were six male residents standing beside the hole watching the crew work. Men like to watch other men work. I had always assumed that the road construction crew guys were just a bunch of lazy bastards because I never saw more than one guy working while the others watched. Now I realize that they can't help it: there’s some genetic code transmitted on the "Y" chromosome which says, "Watch while one man does. Each take a turn. Maybe." Run your own experiment with any guy: take him to construction site and he will become a statue. You could leave him there for hours and he won't move. The only thing that would distract him from the crane, backhoe, or steam roller is a hot chick in a bikini. Once she was out of sight, the heavy equipment would once again have all of his attention.

My parents drove to Baltimore today from their house in northern Pennsylvania. My mother has a hernia which impedes her ability to swallow, and she is having laparoscopic surgery at Johns Hopkins on Wednesday, my 52nd birthday. My father pointed out that the last time she was in the hospital on my birthday was when I was born: this time, it’s not my fault.

This is their fourth trip to Hopkins for diagnosis and treatment. I have made all of their hotel reservations at Marriott properties because I have "gold" status. My father likes the concierge (hospitality) suites at the various Marriott properties. He has enjoyed them with me in places like Bucharest, Copenhagen, and Heidelberg. He meets people, has buffet breakfasts, has light snacks and drinks, and escapes his room just to occupy a different space. The Marriott property in Baltimore didn't want to give him access to the concierge suite because I wasn't there, although the reservation was in both our names. (The last time they stayed there it wasn't a problem.) My father called me when he learned this at the check-in, and I had a conversation with the desk clerk. Apparently, he couldn't see my account information attached to the reservation. I haven't heard from my father since his call, so I know everything is fine – at least with the snacks.

After my aborted dog walk this afternoon, I rode my bike to Publix to buy groceries. Considering I can only buy a backpack's worth of groceries at a time, any list which fills the pack is worth getting. The ride is 10-15 minutes each way, and it is relatively safe and pleasant. I locked my bike up to the railing outside Publix to the sound of the most horrific Christmas song wailing I have ever heard. Animals in their death throes are more melodic than the Salvation Army solicitor was. I can't sing, but I can hear, and I have never heard anything so bad. She didn't even know the words as she sung above recorded tracks. If I had had cash, I would have paid her to stop singing as a public service. I can't wait until Christmas is over.