Good Bye Pennies

There aren't very many common, everyday items I hate more than a penny. I've hated them for years. I have hated two pennies more than one penny, and three pennies more than two pennies, but there has always been a number, a tipping point where the pennies became tolerable due to their sheer numbers. For me, I think it has been approximately 10 pennies. I'd rather have ten pennies than no pennies. Of course I would quickly convert the pennies to a dime.

My hatred of the penny goes back to high school. In my high school, picking up a penny from the floor was considered very uncool. I was uncool enough without making matters worse, consequently I refrained from rescuing the wayward one-cent coin.

After my high school days, I went into the American work force. I bought a lot of snacks out of vending machines. Excluding the gumball machine, I know of no self-respecting vending machine that ever took a penny. Even when candy bars were a dime long ago, a candy machine would refuse a penny.

There is nothing so exasperating as feeling a hunger for an 85 cent bag of potato chips only to discover that the massive amount of change in your pocket is a quarter, four nickels, and six pennies. This happened to me a few days ago. I glared at those copper coins with hatred and frustration. They did not go back into my pocket.

Early this afternoon while at my workplace, I was pulling some keys out of a pocket when a couple of coins came out with the keys. I did not see the coins but I felt them land upon my shoe. Since they were not readily visible upon the floor, and coins being coins, I knew they had rolled under a nearby table. Not knowing the value of the escaped coinage, I decided to give a quick search under the table. After exploring around for thirty seconds or so on my hands and knees, I spotted two pennies. I immediately realized that I had lost a half minute of my life to two pennies, pennies which I did not bother to retrieve. To make matters worse, I hit my head on the underside of the table as I was backing out from under it. None of this modest tragedy would have transpired had my pockets been free of pennies.

At 1:06 PM today I made the decision to forever vanquish pennies from my person, automobile cupholders, and any other place where one or more pennies might be secured. From now on I will leave pennies in the change tray at grocery stores. Small numbers of pennies owed me will be charitably rejected.

I have quickly done the math and I figure if I live to be 95 (25 more years), and spurn all pennies until that time, I will be forfeiting approximately $4.62, depending on inflation. With a hatred like mine; it's worth the sacrifice.

  

Fake Blogging

I am going to make a confession; I have a second blog, and no one can ever know its internet location. It has an alias for a author, even a photo of someone else next to the name, a photo stolen randomly from the internet. That blog has about twenty posts and in some ways is closer to being a diary than is this blog. The closest this blog comes to that blog is the specific blog entry where I write about being 14 years old and finding a treasure trove of porn in a trash can. Now, just imagine that being the most docile entry, and you can imagine that other blog. We all think this stuff, I just put it into a blog. However, like everyone else, I won't let anyone know those secrets are inside me.

Not all of the entries are about erotica. It goes about 50/50. I generally lean to being liberal, but some of the blog entries are politically incorrect; too politically incorrect to have my name attached to them. It's not that they would be embarrassing, exactly. It's just that they are kind of personal opinions. Still I want to air out these thoughts, at least a little.

I have several blog entries written by "guest bloggers". One such guest blogger is an attractive, 30-something woman. In her blog commentary she states that all things being equal, she prefers older men. In her blog entry she says that when compared to younger guys, older guys are "more thoughtful in every room of the house, including the bedroom". Unfortunately, for her to appear somewhat realistic, if not sane, her "older guys" are never much over 50. Now well into my 60s, it would appear that I'm gotten too old for my own fantasies.

Now and then I am tempted to tell someone about this second blog, specifically it's internet address. Then I give it a little more thought and good sense takes root and I keep silent. The blog actually has readers, at least according to the view counter. In fact, that guest blogger I mentioned had several dozen readers viewing her confession. I'm not sure if someone came upon that blog entry and sent the link to various friends, or if someone came upon that blog entry and returned to reread it twenty-four times over about a week or so. Either way, I've never had twenty-four views of this blog's entry about my little league career. And that was non-fiction, unfortunately.    

The Day the Music Died

I am 63 years old and partially retired. I have a lot of spare time so I decided I would undertake a constructive hobby. I decided to take up the violin. I wasn't sure I would enjoy it, so I rented an instrument. It cost me $20 a month with all the money going to the purchase, should I get that far.

I picked up the violin after work one day and as soon as I got home I took it out of the case. I went to YouTube on the internet for lessons. The first day, and in fact within an hour or so I knew how to hold the bow in my right hand and how to hold the violin using only my chin and my shoulder. The next thing was fingering the strings; how to properly do it. I learned how, technically, but clearly I was going to have to spend a lot of time practicing. I had plenty of time and I am willing.

By the end of about the second week, or approximately twenty-five or thirty hours of practice, I tried to play every violinist's first piece; Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. I placed the bow onto the strings and began. It was very slow, crude and an made a lot of mistakes, but I actually did it! By the end of a month I could play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star with a bit of soul. I also had a couple of other selections that I could perform, albeit crudely. 

Six weeks in and I had a handful of tunes that though they were not done expertly, were fully recognizable to any would-be listener. After two months, and countless hours of practice, I decided I would take my violin out to a local park for a free recital for any passersby. Believe it or not, an older woman stopped to listen. When I was done she smiled and said, "That was really very good." It was my first compliment. 

That in the italicized was how I thought it might go; my violin career. It seemed plausible. I was willing to learn the correct methods and practice, and I had no thought of being a virtuoso. I don't think I was looking for the unrealistic.

The reality is; I picked up my violin after work and as soon as I arrived home, I took it out of the case. I placed it under my chin and at the "10 o'clock position"; just as the experts advised. I found two problems; the violin was not held securely, making it impossible to play, and worse; it was painful to turn my head to the 10 o'clock position for more than about thirty seconds or so. My neck just did not want to do it.  

I partially solved the problem of securing the violin by placing several folded towels on my left shoulder, held in place under my shirt. It was better but probably not the long-term answer. As for the pain in my neck and upper back caused by keeping my head turned to the left; that actually got worse. After holding the violin in place for a few minutes using only my chin and shoulder, I tried to turn my head to the forward position. Not only did I find my neck almost locked into place, but I felt a shooting pain down my jaw and into my chin.  

I tried again the next day and nothing had changed except for the shooting pain had gotten worse. I think at that point I knew I was done, my career finished before the bow and touched the strings, before a single note had been played, my career finished literally before it had begun. The next morning I placed the violin in the case and when I climbed into my car to go to work, the instrument came into the car with me. After work I returned the violin to the music shop where I had first rented it two days before.

The lady behind the counter good-naturedly remarked, "You didn't give it much time."

"Well, I gave it enough time to feel achiness in my neck and pain in my jaw and chin," I replied with a smile and a note of regret. "I gave it enough time to know I was never going to be able to do it."

Then after a short pause I added, "I gave it enough time so that it'll make for another in a long line of mildly amusing, self-effacing blog entries."

Writing In a New Room

I am writing this from a room in my new condo. I think in my last post I was in the grip of my anxiety disorder and I stated that it would be nice if I composed my next entry from my new residence. Well, here it is.

I am in a one floor, ranch-style condo on Columbus's northwest side of town. It's in a relatively small, very quiet condo community. A few hours ago a neighbor, an older lady named Pam, came by and gave me a welcome gift of a basket with some fancy mints. It is a far cry from my old condo community which had loud cars, barking dogs and occasionally barking neighbors. I never knew the name of any of those old neighbors, not one, and I lived there for over 20 years. In my new condo it took two days. I met a neighbor before I had furniture.

As for my anxiety disorder that I have mentioned in this entry and in my last; it is not gone, but it has subsided greatly. Death no longer seems imminent.

I am buying new furniture and carrying almost nothing of any size from my old place. The old sofa, rickety table and chairs, and bed are going either to the Volunteers of America, or out along the curb for bulk trash pickup. In about a half dozen car trips I have moved small appliances, dishes and plates, a few small pieces of furniture, and a lot of knickknacks. This evening I made one of my last trips back to the old condo. I drove off with golf clubs, some clothes, and the few hand tools I own. With my car loaded, I locked the old condo's door and drove a few blocks down the street when I abruptly pulled off the road. I had suddenly realized that I had forgotten one of the most important things. I had been taking stuff from the basement, closets, and from the drawers. I had missed what had been prominently hanging from one wall in my living room.

Mom, Dad, wherever you are, no need to fret; I drove right back and got it... 

Framed photos of Mom and Dad, as they were during WWII

The Travails Of Buying a Condo While Suffering From An Anxiety Disorder

I'm pretty sure that somewhere in this nitwitty blog I have mentioned I have an anxiety disorder. It's pretty much impossible to explain what an anxiety disorder is like to anyone not familiar with the illness. In extreme cases, an anxiety disorder can be completely debilitating. A person might be unwilling to leave the house, or even a room. As for myself, I have it good compared to some others. Most of the time the affliction is pretty manageable and I'm not overly bothered by it... most of the time.

About six weeks ago I realized that I could afford to have a domicile upgrade. In other words; I decided to move into a nicer place. For some strange reason I thought that my anxiety disorder would not be affected by this decision. I hired a realtor and put her to work. I looked at my first house prospect, chatted with the other realtor, and everything seemed fine inside of me, psychologically speaking. Then, a few days later, came a proverbial cloudburst. I realized that I was in for putting a lot of my life savings into the new house, buying new furniture, and then getting everything moved from one place to another. My anxiety disorder went crazy, in effect, I went crazy.

My doctor prescribed for me an anti-anxiety medication. I was told that it would be easily tolerable. Well, it would have been easily tolerable if I had flushed it down the toilet. Three days into the medication I awoke one morning... well, that's just it; I barely awoke at all. I felt very lethargic. I suffered from nausea, and of course I still had the anxiety. I missed a day of work, spending the day on my sofa, nauseated and half comatose. So much for that medication.

I realized that I was going to have to go about this whole buying process quickly. It was either going to be fast, or I was going to die. Well, maybe not die, but at least be in miserable state of anxiety.

I looked at a few places and finally decided to buy a nice, ranch-style condo. As recommended by my realtor, I made an offer significantly below the asking price, a move that worked to fuel my anxiety. I received a counter offer, but my realtor advised me to make yet another offer rather than accept their counter offer. With my anxiety now through the roof, I made a counter offer. The result was yet one more counter offer from the condo owner. I had had enough and so had my anxiety; no more counter offers. I accepted their last offer. It may have cost me a few thousand dollars. Such is the price of an anxiety disorder.

Next came the professional inspection of the condo. I watched the guy check the pipes, the electrical outlets, and the furnace. He found a couple things that were fixable but unacceptable as is. Naturally these issues will have to be remedied one way or another or I'm probably going to retract my offer. If you think this situation eases my anxiety, you would be mistaken.

Anyway, that's where I stand as of today, October 8th, 2014 at about 5:57 PM. Maybe writing about this ordeal will act as therapy and help with the anxiety. It can't hurt, trust me. Heck, maybe my next blog entry will be written in my new condo and this extreme anxiety will be just a bad memory. That would be nice.        

Old Stuff

I've got a ton of old stuff. I can be seated at my computer, swivel around in my chair and my eyes will focus on several ancient relics.

There's an open closet just to my right. I can see a team shirt I wore while playing softball around 1976 or '77. In fact, now that I look in the closet a little deeper, there are two softball shirts hanging in there. One of them has Out-r-Inn stitched on it, which was the tavern that sponsored us, sponsored us about 1979 or so. Hanging alongside the softball shirts is a coat that was purchased for me by a former girlfriend. We broke-up in 1984. There in the closet is a workshirt from the mid-80s. Up on the shelf is an analog video camera, one of those things that weighs about 20 pounds. Okay, I should to get rid of that.

Across the room is this old table. Upon it is a computer that I no longer use but have never felt compelled to dispose of. The table was in my first apartment, left behind by the previous tenant. I moved into the apartment in 1970, the table has been with me ever since. I received my chest of drawers in the same apartment at the same time. I see in the corner a floor fan. God only knows how old that is. I probably bought it at Sun TV about 40 years ago. Next to my computer monitor is a souvenir cup from Yosemite. It's 25 years old, or in other words; practically new.

In the basement I have two sets of golf clubs. One was used by my father until he bought a new set, which represents the other set of clubs down in the basement. My dad died in 1991. There is a hockey stick down there too, hanging on the wall. The stick was used during the one and only hockey game I ever played in the mid-70s.

There is one new item in my cellar; a hot water heater. I had it installed yesterday. It cost me $700. I can afford $700. There wasn't much financial sting because I've saved some money over the years. Geez, I wonder how.  

A Personal Imperfection

I have a few imperfections. I admit it. One of them stays pretty well hidden most of the time, even to the people who know me best. But the imperfection is there, this I can assure you.

I have an anxiety disorder with distinct hints of depression. The anxiety disorder generally goes by GAD or General Anxiety Disorder. It isn't always general however. About a dozen years ago I had trouble driving a car because the anxiety took the form of  obsession/compulsion. I had an unrealistic anxiety of wrecking the car and killing myself or others. Driving was terrifying. Even being a passenger was unsettling. I got cognitive therapy from a psychologist and over the course of a number of visits over several weeks, I beat the obsessive/compulsive element of the problem and ever since I've been able to drive a car with just occasional periods of emotional discomfort.

For most folks who have this form of disorder, their first negative experiences come fairly early in life. I first started getting signs when I was in my late forties; much later than the norm. For the last fifteen years or so the disorder has been with me. I can't shake free of it and probably never will. The good news is that most of the time it is not much more intruding than a background noise. But there are times when it just kind of jumps out at me and then just as quickly ducks back undercover, just lurking.

Now and then the disorder grabs a hold and sticks to me for a longer period of time. Maybe a week or so. I will feel despondent and worn out. I try to hide it because no one can do much about it. But for me, when those times come, I will occasionally get a moment when the discomfort subsides and I get an instant of feeling good. This "instant" is just that; perhaps fifteen seconds or so. Like the sun bursting through an overcast sky. That bit of sunshine may not be much but it can be enough to let me know that the sun still shines.

The last month or so the anxiety and depression have been unwelcome guests a bit too often. I am back with a psychologist and taking cognitive therapy. I also have medication which I have not yet taken due to the very real possibility of adverse side effects which happened to me about ten years ago when trying a different medication.

For me this isn't a totally crippling affliction. I still go to work, laugh, and crack bad jokes. But it can be like going to work and cracking bad jokes while standing in the cold rain; much of the fun and enjoyment is absent. But I'm an optimist, and I know sunny days are just ahead. They always have been.