Be Still My Shrimp Friday (Saturday) Round-Up

I bought two jigsaw puzzles at Goodwill. Before she died of Alzheimer’s, my mother worked on a jigsaw puzzle set up on a card table in the living room where the afternoon sun came through the sheer curtains over the picture window. She looked serene sitting there holding a puzzle piece in her hand, although it was likely the same piece held for many hours. She also put Christmas bows on the canned goods in the basement. Both things seemed to make her happy. I’ve been thinking a lot about her and her puzzles and bows. My time for jigsaw puzzles has arrived but, hopefully, not for the same reason as my mom’s. See below.

My new ear is limping along. There has been a cochlear implant in my right ear for eight years. It’s the ‘in charge’ ear, so any noises floating around zoom to that ear and usually (not always) get quickly understood. The new implant in the left ear is a slacker. Knowing the right ear will do all the work, Lefty just swings in its hammock. Working on its own (without the right ear) Lefty’s sound quality has been cartoonish, voices sound like Donald Duck. So, to deal with this, I am a) listening to an audiobook with just Lefty while b) working on a jigsaw puzzle (because I’m too itsy to just sit and listen). Today’s first four chapters were magic. It’s working! I think.

A younger professional told me that he and his peers statewide were working on reframing the terminology used to talk about aging issues. That’s swell, I thought. Is there anybody over the age of sixty involved in the conversation? I have been swimming in a world where ‘representation matters’ for a long time – Black, Brown, LGBTQ+, veterans, women, people with disabilities, all of the groups – and I endorse and try to advance representation as paramount, but older adults are never considered as needing representation. Why is that? Because we’re just older versions of all the groups that are considered essential to represent? Or because we live in a grey zone that is so marginalized people don’t even see us anymore. I want to say, ‘the sun hasn’t risen on a day that I need somebody else to speak for me,’ but I have sworn off belligerent talk.

My husband thinks I’m critical of his cooking. He is right. I laud his cooking derring-do but am often drawn to flaws in his cooking decisions. He takes this as criticism. I see it as commentary or, at least, constructive criticism. Despite this, he maintains his policy of never criticizing me, except, of course and understandably, when I criticize him which he then constructively points out is not helpful.

There is Panang Curry Shrimp for dinner. I have been given ten minutes with one minute’s grace to finish this blog post. I just visited the shrimp cooking and thought, gee, it really needs a lot more time, so it was convenient to need just ten minutes to finish up my writing. I could be called conniving if one was given to criticism. And yes, I know ten minutes is too long to cook shrimp, unless, of course, there are extenuating circumstances.