Dying Young At 85
Day 3 of non-functioning furnace.
The Patrizia-torium is close to becoming non-toasty because a space heater can’t really prevail against 40° temperatures, and it is 40° inside the house.
I am mad at myself at not being madder at Iggy-who is still in NYC. Does this signal (cue the echo machine) Low Self Esteem? I suppose it must, although what I’m feeling more is irritation-Iggy! What a dick!-& also some amusement. Of course, being amused by things that are not particularly amusing is my primary coping mechanism.
I was out of the house a large chunk of yesterday. Iggy & I texted back & forth. He sent me detailed instructions: Check the oil level. Push the red button on the furnace. Are you sure there was five inches of oil when you measured the stick? Sounds like it’s run out of oil.
This was pretty hilarious to me. I mean, I don’t actually have much experience measuring furnace oil levels with a dipstick. In fact, I have no experience measuring furnace oil levels with a dipstick. But the fact that Iggy was reframing the narrative so that the furnace failure was my fault because my dipstick measuring was ineffective rather than his fault for not ordering heating oil in a timely fashion seemed absolutely hilarious.
Blame shifting is Iggy’s primary coping mechanism! Iggy is never wrong! Iggy will stand his ground & argue the point relentlessly on every conceivable issue till the other person, exhausted, stops arguing. And then, Iggy will mistake that exhaustion for victory.
Of course, I have been busily researching implied warranty of habitation and asking Siri: If my landlord doesn’t provide adequate heating, can I get a hotel room & deduct it from my rent? I have always wanted to stay at the Mohonk Mountain House!
But I think Iggy will deal with the furnace today. The spawn are coming back from their Twixmas holiday.
###
The Ulster County TaxBwana squad is much better at Adult Education than the Dutchess County TaxBwana squad was. Most of the training is being done by Zoom, & the training sessions are actually interesting. But they couldn’t avoid having one F2F meeting, and that meeting was yesterday.
I carpooled into Kingston with Stephen W., who will be my coordinator-presuming I pass the IRS certification exam-at the TaxBwana Gardiner Library site.
Stephen W. was shambling and nice, and also one of those rare people in their 60s/70s/80s whom I could look at and see not just the man he’d been 30 years ago but also the boy he’d been 60 years ago.
Mostly, you can’t do this with older people. Age has this odd ubiqutizing effect, and all old people look alike If I wasn’t tall with purple hair, I’d look like any other Italian grandmother. I mean, I guess you can fight it with Botox and cosmetic surgery, but in the end, it happens to everyone.
We chatted casually over four hours or so. Nothing intense. But I extracted a detailed narrative: He’d been born in Brooklyn, joined the Air Force, earned a Bachelor’s in Physics and a Master’s in Business Administration, did something relatively high up in the logistical operations sector of New York City’s government, divorced, remarried. Had a son who died-
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I said. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question-”
“Morbid obesity,” he said, and from that, I knew everything about the failure of his first marriage.
Stephen W. also has Parkinson’s. I kind of thought he might from his odd, shambling gait-gait is the primary diagnostic symptom for Parkinson’s; people walk with odd, boxy steps. He confirmed my diagnosis when we were talking about Biden.
“From the looks of it, he has Parkinson’s-” I said.
“So do I,” said Stephen. “My doctors say it’s a mild case as of yet. But, of course…” He shrugged.
Anyway, he seemed very sympathetic to my standard complaint: I don’t know anyone here. That’s hard. And invited me to join the New Paltz/Gardiner Senior Club: “Lot of activities. Lots of events. Lots of events.” Which I think I will do. Even though I hate the word “senior.”
###
At home, I finished my first book of the year-Lily King’s Writers and Lovers, which is mostly delightful and funny, but which also kinda planged those An aged man is but a paltry thing heartstrings: It’s the story of a 31-year-old woman who finally publishes her first novel, and it’s filled with hilarious and finely observed scenes of her horrible waitressing job, her insomnia, her disastrous love life, her adventures in writing.
I hate old people, she remarks somewhere in the middle of the novel. Or maybe she doesn’t say “hate.” Maybe she says “don’t like.”
And she rejects the 48-year-old suitor she spends half the book with in favor of a suitor her own age. Of course, lots of reasons are given for the rejection-the suitor is self-involved, moody, doesn’t ask to read her novel. But the real reason was age: They first have sex when he invites her over to his house for dinner, and he brushes his teeth before they have sex-which strikes her as odd.
Good oral hygiene standing in for “too old to have spontaneity & passion?”
Interesting authorial choice!
What’s even more interesting is that the author herself was in her 50s when she wrote the novel.
###
Anyway, I do understand the universal revulsion of the young toward the old. I had it, too, when I was young. I never expected to die old. I would die young! Only it would take me 85 years to die young.
The Patrizia-torium is close to becoming non-toasty because a space heater can’t really prevail against 40° temperatures, and it is 40° inside the house.
I am mad at myself at not being madder at Iggy-who is still in NYC. Does this signal (cue the echo machine) Low Self Esteem? I suppose it must, although what I’m feeling more is irritation-Iggy! What a dick!-& also some amusement. Of course, being amused by things that are not particularly amusing is my primary coping mechanism.
I was out of the house a large chunk of yesterday. Iggy & I texted back & forth. He sent me detailed instructions: Check the oil level. Push the red button on the furnace. Are you sure there was five inches of oil when you measured the stick? Sounds like it’s run out of oil.
This was pretty hilarious to me. I mean, I don’t actually have much experience measuring furnace oil levels with a dipstick. In fact, I have no experience measuring furnace oil levels with a dipstick. But the fact that Iggy was reframing the narrative so that the furnace failure was my fault because my dipstick measuring was ineffective rather than his fault for not ordering heating oil in a timely fashion seemed absolutely hilarious.
Blame shifting is Iggy’s primary coping mechanism! Iggy is never wrong! Iggy will stand his ground & argue the point relentlessly on every conceivable issue till the other person, exhausted, stops arguing. And then, Iggy will mistake that exhaustion for victory.
Of course, I have been busily researching implied warranty of habitation and asking Siri: If my landlord doesn’t provide adequate heating, can I get a hotel room & deduct it from my rent? I have always wanted to stay at the Mohonk Mountain House!
But I think Iggy will deal with the furnace today. The spawn are coming back from their Twixmas holiday.
###
The Ulster County TaxBwana squad is much better at Adult Education than the Dutchess County TaxBwana squad was. Most of the training is being done by Zoom, & the training sessions are actually interesting. But they couldn’t avoid having one F2F meeting, and that meeting was yesterday.
I carpooled into Kingston with Stephen W., who will be my coordinator-presuming I pass the IRS certification exam-at the TaxBwana Gardiner Library site.
Stephen W. was shambling and nice, and also one of those rare people in their 60s/70s/80s whom I could look at and see not just the man he’d been 30 years ago but also the boy he’d been 60 years ago.
Mostly, you can’t do this with older people. Age has this odd ubiqutizing effect, and all old people look alike If I wasn’t tall with purple hair, I’d look like any other Italian grandmother. I mean, I guess you can fight it with Botox and cosmetic surgery, but in the end, it happens to everyone.
We chatted casually over four hours or so. Nothing intense. But I extracted a detailed narrative: He’d been born in Brooklyn, joined the Air Force, earned a Bachelor’s in Physics and a Master’s in Business Administration, did something relatively high up in the logistical operations sector of New York City’s government, divorced, remarried. Had a son who died-
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I said. “Do you mind if I ask you a personal question-”
“Morbid obesity,” he said, and from that, I knew everything about the failure of his first marriage.
Stephen W. also has Parkinson’s. I kind of thought he might from his odd, shambling gait-gait is the primary diagnostic symptom for Parkinson’s; people walk with odd, boxy steps. He confirmed my diagnosis when we were talking about Biden.
“From the looks of it, he has Parkinson’s-” I said.
“So do I,” said Stephen. “My doctors say it’s a mild case as of yet. But, of course…” He shrugged.
Anyway, he seemed very sympathetic to my standard complaint: I don’t know anyone here. That’s hard. And invited me to join the New Paltz/Gardiner Senior Club: “Lot of activities. Lots of events. Lots of events.” Which I think I will do. Even though I hate the word “senior.”
###
At home, I finished my first book of the year-Lily King’s Writers and Lovers, which is mostly delightful and funny, but which also kinda planged those An aged man is but a paltry thing heartstrings: It’s the story of a 31-year-old woman who finally publishes her first novel, and it’s filled with hilarious and finely observed scenes of her horrible waitressing job, her insomnia, her disastrous love life, her adventures in writing.
I hate old people, she remarks somewhere in the middle of the novel. Or maybe she doesn’t say “hate.” Maybe she says “don’t like.”
And she rejects the 48-year-old suitor she spends half the book with in favor of a suitor her own age. Of course, lots of reasons are given for the rejection-the suitor is self-involved, moody, doesn’t ask to read her novel. But the real reason was age: They first have sex when he invites her over to his house for dinner, and he brushes his teeth before they have sex-which strikes her as odd.
Good oral hygiene standing in for “too old to have spontaneity & passion?”
Interesting authorial choice!
What’s even more interesting is that the author herself was in her 50s when she wrote the novel.
###
Anyway, I do understand the universal revulsion of the young toward the old. I had it, too, when I was young. I never expected to die old. I would die young! Only it would take me 85 years to die young.