Oh, Darling Ones,

The August Malaise has got me in its clutches. Bad.

I thought with all the neurological news, I might escape. Maybe, perhaps learning of the baby aneurysm in my brain would put my anxiety in overdrive and I’d be kept occupied by my fantasies of my imminent death.

Nope. The Lexapro is doing its job and I’m being uncharacteristically rational about it. Even Tuesday’s impending sleep study isn’t getting my anxiety too hopped up. I’m curious why I gotta be there at 7 p.m. when I usually don’t even climb into bed until midnight. That should be fun.

Instead of worrying about calamity, I’ve just been restless and bored like virtually every other August of my entire life. Sick of summer and summer food and air conditioning, all I want is everything and nothing.

Recognizing the Malaise and trying to ride it out is being seen as growth in these parts.

In attempt to soothe my restlessness I’ve:

• Spent an entire days listening to The Pointer Sisters
• Read one chapter in three books and quit because
• Watched every TV appearance by Cass Elliot (I recently finished a biography of her)

This last one led me to enter episodes of “The Midnight Special” on YouTube. Since I was only paying half-attention to the TV, I got pumped when I heard it say the next episode was going to be hosted by Seals & Crofts.

Imagine my disappointment when I started to pay attention and realized Seals & Crofts had zero to do with Sid & Marty Krofft.

This is why I ended up watching the first episode of “The Bugaloos.”

Now I understand why I am the way I am. I’m a little Benita Bizarre (weird old lady obsessed with music living in a jukebox or as Wikipedia describes her, “A jealous, untalented, unattractive, old crone”) and a little Bugaloo (also loving music, refusing to sell out and trying to me helpful and full of joy). This show is probably responsible for the whole GenX ethos. Seriously, just go read the episode synopses.

This show, that I loved when I was a little kid, pretty much predicted how my life would turn out. Neat, innit?

Restlessly yours,
Jodi

P.S. I finally found a book to capture my attention. It’s called Thistlefoot by GennaRose Nethercott. I’m only 1/3 in, but it’s super good thus far.

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Dear Darling Ones,

I woke up this morning with Simon & Garfunkel’s “Homeward Bound” stuck in my head. Every stop neatly planned for a poet and a one man band.

Over and over in my head while I strapped on my lymphedema garments (which I hate with the fiery passion of 8000 suns), when I doled out morning pets to los gatitos, and as I made breakfast.

This is surprising because I’ve spent the last week or so listening to Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon” on repeat. And, I had just woken from a dream where Jason Isbell was playing Wolfdogg’s daughter’s wedding (which happened two? year ago).

When I turned on the music today I obviously went to Simon & Garfunkel. The fact that they’re one of my favorite bands has always creeped my mom out because they were also the favorite band of the biological father I never met.

Anyway, I was just minding my own business when the song “I am a Rock” came on and I burst out laughing.

I don’t know what kind of seventeen-year-old kid you were, but I was the kind who related entirely too much to this song. It was 1989 and I truly believed I have my books, and my poetry to protect me. I was determined to be a rock, an island.

To be fair, I was deep down it. A 6’3″ nerdy, never-been-kissed girl whose family had just moved to Wisconsin. I was going through some stuff.

But still. . .

I remember scrawling the lyrics to this song in my journal, a blue Mead notebook I’d doodled peace signs all over.

Not sure how I reacted to the “island never cries” bit. I cried all the damn time. I still do. I was probably crying while I wrote that lyric down on the lined paper in purple pen.

For the record, I am not crying as I type this.

Today my melodramatic melancholy struck me as funny. It seems like just another case of you always were who you were gonna be, you know?

Love from my fortress deep & mighty,
Jodi

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Hey Darling Ones,

If you had the great misfortune of attending Roosevelt Junior High in Blaine, Minnesota during the 80s, you know the very special hell that was swimming.

Roosevelt had a pool and just like dodge ball and other assorted athletic tortures, swimming was part of the curriculum.

Nobody enjoyed the swimming unit in gym. We dreaded swimming so much we’d talk about for weeks leading up to it.

Since this was the 80s and big hair was, well, big, girls really hated swimming because it meant their hair would be flat for the rest of the day. This was a big deal.

If you were a girl and you had flat hair you would have to explain, “Oh, I had swimming today.” Personally, I used swimming as an excuse to never do my hair. I loved sleeping. I was really quite bad at being an 80s girl, for the most part. Makeup and big hair have never been my jam.

This was a minority stance in the 80s. Some girls hated the idea of having flat hair throughout the dat they would use a butane-fueled curling iron to fluff up them bangs after swimming.

Even with the built-in flat hair excuse, I hated swimming as did probably every pubescent student that ever roamed the halls of Roosevelt Junior High. I cannot think of anything worse than having to stand in front of your peers in a bathing suit.

Not just any old bathing suit either. It was a school-issued bathing suit which were 50% thick polyester + 50% burlap. They were a horrid forest green and unflattering on every single teenage body. All of them. Nobody looked good in that bathing suit.

Swimming at Roosevelt Junior High nearly 40 years ago has been on my mind. On Tuesday I start physical therapy in the pool. Or, as I call it, swimming, though I don’t think it will involve any actual swimming.

My bum knee is starting to impede my progress in physical therapy. My therapist really want to focus on building up my stamina and balance, which will help my walking. That’s hard to do when my left knee is being a jackass.

I’m seeing an orthopedic guy, doctor next Friday? I call him “the knee guy.” I’m super anxious about this easy I’m afraid the knee guy will take one look at me and say, “You’re fat. That’s why your knee hurts, dummy.”

And of course my junior high dears are flooding back because my entire stroke recovery makes me feel like an eighth grader again.

With every new medical professional I have to see I worry about fat-shaming and name-calling. This is why I try so hard to be an A+ patient, to stave off the shaming. I go out of my way to be the very best possible, because if I am, maybe nobody will make fun of me.

There’s also the added bonus of liking to be really good at things.

Tuesday I went to the doctor for my three-month diabetic checkup. My A1C which was 10 when I had my stroke in March, 6.4 when I had my three-month checkup in is now down to 5.6.

I was so impressed I gave myself an A+ in Diabetes. I needed that A+ because I got a C (73%) in Physical Therapy. I have raised the grade from F (56%), but still.

Even so, I when I did the evaluation Monday I was able to turn around in a circle without holding on to anything. I couldn’t do that in July.

Gotta go, fourth hour starts soon. I hope Cam Anderson is here today.

Glass Tiger Rulz,
Jodi

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Hi Darling Ones,

One minute it is the summer of 1997 and you’re sitting on the cool stone porch steps of your college best friend’s post-college rental smoking Camel Lights. It’s Sunday morning, though it still feels like Saturday because you haven’t gone to bed yet. It’s so late/early that you don’t even feel drunk anymore, but you were at some point in the evening.

She’s propped a speaker from her stereo into the window of her basement apartment and Tom Wait’s “Christmas Card from a Hooker in Minneapolis” plays softly. Of course it’s that song, because you are in Minneapolis at that exact moment.

“Marty’s really got me into Tom Waits lately,” your friend says between drags.

You are skeptical because you’re neck-deep into your Replacements’ phase. However, you are going to be endlessly delighted to discover “Date to Church” in a few months. But you aren’t there yet. You’re still skeptical, but trust her musical judgement. So you smoke cigarettes and close your eyes to listen because you are young and it is August and time is not a concern.

And when you open your eyes it is August still, but a different Sunday morning, Tom Waits floating through another pair of speakers. You are putting a chorizo & black bean chili in the crockpot trying to muster patience for your Floppy Scoop as you chop chipotles.

It all happened that fast. One moment smoking Camel Lights and discovering Tom Waits for the first time, the next recovering from a stroke and making chili, using a crockpot, and having definite opinions about Tom Waits backed by 25 years of listening.

I’m glad this was a thing I can’t forget.

Nostalgically yours,
Jodi

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Oh Darling Ones,

Last night I found out a friend from college died of colon cancer. He wasn’t even fifty.

While I haven’t seen Baltus since the 90s, I’ve thought about him every Valentine’s Day for the last twenty-eight years.

The Baltus-Valentine story looms so large in my memory, I’m surprised it didn’t appear sooner or more often. Of course he appears often in the archives as one of the Cross Country Boys. And while I can’t say with 100% certainty Baltus introduced me to the music of The Jayhawks, my memory is re-writing history to give him the credit. Sorry, other Cross Country Boys.

When I texted my sisters last night I pointed out that Baltus died the same day I had my stroke. “Not a good day for Blugolds,” I said, referencing UWEC’s nonsensical mascot.

I’ve spent a lot of time today thinking about grief and Baltus and my college years and the impact we have on each other.

As I mentioned, I haven’t seen Baltus since the 90s. I cannot attest to the kind of man he grew into. However, I was fortunate enough to be the recipient of his goofy kindness which has stuck with me for actual decades. Hopefully, it sticks with me for many more.

And while I’m hoping, I’m gonna throw some at this tsunami of terrible, no-good, very bad things. It’s got to come to an end. I am quite literally sick and tired of being the Queen of Unending Bummer. I’m ready to give up this crown if anyone wants it.

Unendingly yours,
Jodi

P.S. COVID-Stroke is continuing to kick my ass. I’ve never been this exhausted in my life. I owe so many people so much gratitude. I will get to it. I swear. But I continue to have limited reserves of energy and today I needed to take a nap after fixing myself a bowl of cereal.

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