So far, 2024 has not gone according to plan and now we are in the midst of a semi-shitstorm; semi because it pales in comparison to what many of our friends are going through but still...shitstorm. To help put things into perspective getting old really sucks it just really really does. There is no point in sugarcoating this fact even if aging is sucking less for us than others we know. 

A couple of weeks ago, just to remind me that I was, indeed, getting old, my blood pressure tablet that I'd begun taking a month or so earlier began to fuck with me. And by fuck with me, I don't mean a leisurely roll in the hay. I mean hard, hard fucking with no lube and no foreplay nay not even a kiss. At one point, I actually thought I was having a heart attack in the shower. Fortunately, it turns out, I was not having a heart attack. No, it was the massive white blood pressure capsule, the size and shape of which suggests that it could conceivably be put into service as a sexual implement if I were inclined to do so which I am currently not. So, I called my friend, the most excellent cardiologist Dr. S, for whom I have most likely become a major pest because that's how I am when it comes to doctors who are also good friends. Personally, I can't stand people who do stuff like this but I may be something of a hypocrite so there is that. Dr. S changed my meds and it's been 3 days since the last bit of really dire unpleasantness so I am good, or I would be if it weren't for my teeth and the iguanas trying to break into our house. 

Re my teeth: the last time I was at the dentist's office he told me that I was flossing the wrong way and to take the floss all the way down to the gum and really floss like hell, like a lumberjack sawing a sequoia tree in half, although he didn't actually say the sequoia tree part but, you know.... Of course, all that activity didn't bode well. In fact, my flossing was so vigorous that, after several days, the 3 bottom teeth in front were so thoroughly overwrought that I could push them back and forth with my finger, which, in fact, hurt like hell. Naturally, mere minutes before I discovered this oral dilemma, I'd come across a 2-for-1 sale on bags of Gummi Bears at Walgreens. I've been keeping an eye on them over there on the kitchen cabinet but have thus far not succumbed to temptation. Last night I checked and noticed that my teeth are still moving, although they are not painful now and I guess I'm stuck with loose teeth until my next dental visit or they fall out, whichever comes first. Oh, and I read this on my phone: as we age our gums recede and our teeth get loose which, fuck yeah of course they do, and this is just one more thing. 

Recently, it suddenly got super-hot when it was supposed to be winter which in Florida means whatever is below 80 degrees. It was up to 90 when it should have been 75-ish and then the iguanas came out to sun themselves since that's what they do when it's not winter in Florida. Now its cooler again which has confused the iguanas who don't know whether to shit or go blind because global warming. The news guy said there is a larger population of iguanas than usual this year and that is why they are all over everything everywhere all at once: shitting, nesting in palm trees, snacking on the leaves of our outdoor plants, splattered in the road (iguanas tend to loiter when crossing lanes of traffic because, while they are crafty, they are not particularly bright). Every time a car squashes one iguana, 10 others pop up and this is why we are now under siege by these nasty filthy beasts who carry salmonella, chlamydia, mites, and other noxious microbes. And now they are trying to break into our condo. Because the lady in the condo below us is not a good neighbor, she has allowed the rain forest growing on her front patio to run amok without ever trimming the considerable foliage. This enables the resident squirrels, rats and iguanas to scurry up the trees and scavenge for food on our kitchen balcony. We have tried trimming the highest of her trees so they will be inaccessible to our balcony, but it's a fucking jungle out there and that shit grows about a foot every week and she absolutely does not care. But more about our unneighborly neighbor later. Yesterday, we heard a loud scratch scratch scratch and caught an iguana trying to claw his way into the dryer vent next to our balcony. The dryer vent! I mean, what the actual fuck? With this mission underway, one of his slithery pals sat in the top of a downstairs tree observing the action and preparing his next move because iguanas are nothing if not cunning, Unfortunately, this cunning, along with their refusal to be cowed, proved to be their undoing. Drastic measures were taken by us, the homeowners, because we don't want iguanas prowling around inside the house spreading salmonella, chlamydia and mites. We also had to put mouse traps around the plants these fuckers have been dining on and, oops, I just heard one snap shut while I was writing this. Upon examination, the mouse trap is topsy turvy, indicating that, yes, a critter of some sort had been there, but it did not linger. I knew those damn traps were too flimsy. Once the weather heats back up, the iguanas will stop with the breaking and entering shit and stay out in the open spaces where they can sunbathe, like on people's lawns and in the road. 

But, yeah...the people downstairs: in addition to her agricultural endeavors, the lady of the house has gotten herself a dog, and not just any old dog but a fucking Rottweiler (maybe mixed with pit bull) that barks its head off whenever these people go off to work, and whenever it sees us coming or going. Anyway, C recently had a word with the daughter and suggested that they shut the door to the front bedroom so Lulu--that's the hell hound's name, Lulu--wouldn't be disturbing all the neighbors with all the barking and carrying on. C's advice worked, but, of course the next time he ran into the old bat, she informed him that the reason the hound was remaining relatively quiet these days is because she and her husband had a stern talk with Lulu, who absolutely listened diligently and totally understood what they were saying, thus putting an end to the unholy din. Uh-huh. BTW Lulu has a twin sister named Lila who lives with the daughter of these folks, and though they are from the same litter, Lulu and Lila are like Bette Davis and Bette Davis in Dead Ringers. Sadly, evil Bette lives below us and nice Bette lives across the way with the daughter who, incidentally, is also very nice. Lila doesn't lunge or bark or try to bite us but rolls over on her back whenever she sees us and insists that we rub her stomach. Technically, both Lila and Lulu are bitches, being female dogs and all, but only one of them fits the unqualified, if politically incorrect, definition more than the other. This is a scientific fact so don't rag on me for calling an actual bitch a bitch and, in the meantime, I'll say nothing more about Lulu's owner, ahem, even though there is lots more I could add. Her husband, a 70-something year old chain-smoker, is gruff and way standoffish, and goes outside on their patio to smoke cigarettes amidst all the forestry, sending plumes of stink upwards to our balcony door, but since he jump-started our car a few days ago I decided I like him okay. 

And, yes, the jump-start. C sold his car a few weeks ago, thereby making us a one-car family. Pretty much as soon as he sold his car the battery in my car immediately died because of course it did. Hence the jump from the guy downstairs. As soon as we replaced the battery ($150 what is the country coming to?) the engine guard broke because it was already being held in place by zip ties and spit. What happened was it cracked during our epic road trip to Vegas 3 years ago and a mechanic in Utah hooked everything up with the zip ties and told us to purchase a new engine guard soon which we totally did not do. Anyway, C has every tool, screw, washer, fuse, and whatever other handy man thing you can think of, including zip ties in his pantry. So following the battery's demise, he put down an old blanket and crawled underneath the car with a flashlight and re-zip tied the engine guard because yes he is a superstar! I have reason to say this because he repairs, cooks, cleans, sweeps and mops the floors, so yes he is most definitely a superstar. And no, C does not stand for Cinderella in case you are wondering. For my part, I do the laundry, shop for groceries, sometimes do a bit of dusting, and go to the gym. That is what I do. I know I know I am decidedly not a superstar but that is how it is and C seems to like it this way now that he's retired and likes to stay busy. And why would I argue about this anyway? C is CLEAN all caps and I am a bit untidy without being an actual sloth. What I am saying is that I am fine with clutter but dirt is not my jam.

For the past few days, absolutely no crises have arisen, which could mean that the year is going to get better or else Armageddon hovers on the horizon. I try not to anticipate things too far in advance because why borrow trouble am I right?  In other words, I am aware that shit happens and then things get better for awhile before taking a u-turn back to utter hell, so I appreciate the days when we are not under threat from the animal kingdom or have cars breaking down or experiencing the malfunction of various organs and body parts. I'm a bit like Scarlett O'Hara in that I won't worry much about potential calamities now. I'll think about it tomorrow. At Tara.