I had the pleasure today of attending a residents association meeting at Carolina Meadows, a retirement community. It’s a very nice place, with high ceilings, a variety of puzzles and books, and all sorts of elderly types riding around in golf carts, sometimes smiling, sometimes yelling at you, whatever.

I joined the throngs in the auditorium and was actually very impressed with their setup. The officers sat onstage and passed each motion using a “yea” or “nay” system and a few committees gave reports, including an arts guild and recycling and environment committee. There was an update on square-dancing. There will be a hoedown next week if anyone is interested. I’ve got the details.

I was sitting there smiling, just soaking it all in, because as some of you may know, I love older people and I’m not just saying that. I love their stories and the way they say what they mean, like the time I was volunteering with this couple in Boston, and Jessika, a feisty woman in her late eighties, absolutely screeched with delight when she met her friend in the hallway and then when we’d traveled, oh, about half a foot away said, “She’s such a bitch,” to me. Loudly.

Well, when the presentation I needed to cover came up on the agenda, I scribbled some notes then moved forward to snap a picture of the individuals on stage. I got a nice one and went to take another when I felt a mighty strong arm on my shoulder, pulling me back towards the wall. I looked over my shoulder and saw an elderly man, frowning and gesturing towards the video camera he had set up. I was standing in front of it and there would be NONE of that. I retreated. Old people. They’re awesome. But sometimes, also, really really mean.

Last night my friends and I partook in one of our favorite pastimes, which is talking about inappropriate things really loudly at a public place, like a bar or restaurant. We were once doing this exact thing while out one night, sitting next to a father and his three young sons. The subject was boys, and things one might do with boys, and perhaps this is how we should have been discussing the matter. “Oh, and then that thing? He did that thing and I did that.” But we were using full-on specific vocabulary and creative descriptive images using our hands as stick figures. Before the father left, he bought our table a round of shots and said, “Thanks for educating my sons. That’s better than I could ever do.” That was pretty gross, looking back. But we drank the shots.

Last night’s discussion was brought on by the onset, earlier that morning, of what must be the five millionth urinary tract infection I’ve incurred in my life. Once I mentioned it we four girls were off and running with comments regarding “prickly hot needles when you pee,” and so forth. The conversation quickly moved to yeast infections, of course, and it’s a good think we were in a crowded restaurant because, damnit, these people needed to hear about the horror!

Luckily I’ve curbed the pain in my urinary tract, the most hospitable environment in America for E.coli, with my latest prescription of Cipro. But the most important thing is that my girls understand. I mean, it’s one thing to tell J, coworkers, and others who haven’t experienced one of these fantastic infections, that you don’t feel well, while all the while you look and sound normal. You may be curled up on the floor in a ball, cursing your body, the world, but anyone can do that. It’s another thing to hear sympathetic friends say, “Oh, you poor thing.” Friends who mean it, who’ve been there, the prickly hot needles, the things we shout about in bars and restaurants to those who wish to listen and to many who don’t.

Last night J and I drove to Raleigh to hang out at Chappy’s new place and drink some wine, get dinner, and then see Ted Leo and the Pharmacists, something we’d all been looking forward to for weeks. We’d seen the band in this particular venue before and it was an energetic, unforgettable show. The thing about Ted Leo is he likes to come on at midnight or so. What is up with that, Ted?

Or should I pose the question inwards? What is up with J and I that we could barely crawl out of bed this morning? Because staying up late and drinking a few beers shouldn’t warrant me sitting here with my coffee contemplating lunch options as though that is the most strenuous thing my I’m capable of this morning.

Last night at about 3 a.m. I awoke to find myself in the backseat of J’s Saturn, crumpled up after having passed out for the whole ride back to Chapel Hill. And when I say the whole ride as though we participated in the Indy 500, all I mean is the whole, thirty-minute ride from Raleigh to Chapel Hill. Woooooooo, we are nothing but risky! The reason I was in the back seat was that I failed to get into the front after we dropped Chappy off after the show. So what we had here was a guy, J, driving a girl, me, passed out in the back seat of his Saturn amongst all the clothes and camping gear we still haven’t unpacked. My contacts were seared to my eyes as I peered through the blinding glow of our motion-sensitive light in the carport.

J and I stumbled into the house like we’d been mugged and beaten, instead of having seen a really cool band. He told me that the drive had been impossible - that he’d had to stop in a Waffle House parking lot for a few moments of sleep on the way. I used to ride down Commonwealth Avenue in a shopping cart during Boston winters after drinking tequila straight from the bottle right before closing time at the bar…still ready to party. And now, the Waffle House parking lot. But the night was worth it. We are adventurers, still, in this new stage of life.

We did it, J and I - we finally cleaned up the house and got it in good working order. Well - he says we did it. He said, last night, “Aren’t you glad we’re done?!” I looked at these boxes, these cardboard boxes half full of 10 year old receipts and whatnot laying around the office, and explained that we were NOT done, but yes, I was glad. For it is much, much better in the Rotondonough household. It is a place fit for guests! But only a few at a time as J and I, the dogs and cat, take up most of the room inside.

After I’d carefully put away all of my belongings last night I felt that a reward was in order, I poured myself a glass of wine and sat down to look at an album my mother made me when I graduated from college. It contains pictures and other mementos from the first five years of my life. She said that she planned to make books similar for all the stages of my life, up until my graduation, but this one was all she’d finished, and that was fine with me. It is full of my various faces, outfits, attempts at dancing, and hugs with family members. There are other things my mother saved, such as cards sent to my parents congratulating them on my birth, and the first story I ever wrote at preschool (clearly dictated as I couldn’t write although I was amazingly smart) in which I explain that my favorite food is, “Corn, corn, corn and asparagus and that’s it!” What a great kid.

But the best item is the book is this coffee-stained sheet of paper covered with my father’s barely legible handwriting. Numbers that appear to make no sense are written all over. When my mother gave the book to me, she explained. It is the piece of paper on which my father timed my mother’s contractions before I was born. I remember thinking it was so cool that she’d kept it when I first received the book. And I remember thinking how funny it was to picture my father recording contractions before my birth. But last night that piece of paper, the cards from relatives, the picture of my father pushing a bottle to my mouth and my mother holding me in the hospital - it became so evident that my birth and those first moments of life had been so important to my parents and others and I felt absolutely lucky in the most true sense of the word.

Thankfully only a few pages later is the “Corn, corn, corn,” nonsense and a picture of me in a hotel along with the description added by my mother: “you were very bad,” so that I don’t get mired in the tearful joy of my birth.

Yesterday my father sent me the link to the blog of one of his friend’s daughters. He’d been forwarded the information by his friend, and kindly passed it along. It was a very interesting blog, and I liked reading it, and told my father so, and then explained to him over email that his very own daughter had a blog that he never read and he better the hell read hers before pimping out other people’s daughter’s blogs.

He replied, “Sweetheart, I can’t open hers, and I can’t open yours.”

He and I have been over this numerous times. He doesn’t seem to understand what, exactly, my blog is, and how to access it on a daily basis. I position the link so it’s highly visible on the page and tell him to click on it with the sensor. My father, since his very first time on the computer, has referred to the mouse as the “sensor.” I told him to do so again.

This time, he replied, “When I put the censor there. There is no open sign.”

I forgive him, because he is teaching me about stocks and bonds, and is buying all the liquor for the wedding.