You weep for the children of Palestine, their mothers, their fathers, their grandparents, as do we all. But you go a step further. You applaud the rape, the murder, the dismemberment, the burning to death of the citizens of Israel, who weren’t only Jews, but also Arabs and Thais.

Am I obsessed with Jelly Juice? No. It’s a time filler for when I don’t want to think of other things I should be doing, like figuring out health care choices now that it’s open season again.

In my continuing efforts to clean out the basement, I found a bin with old photos, yes, from real film, before digital took over the world. The only question I can ask myself is how did I allow myself to get so fat!

My husband, may I label him the ultimate hoarder? He has moved to assisted living, I’m left with the detritus. He saved test papers from high school on. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. From bin to trash in one easy step. Well, not so easy, three steps really and carrying them isn’t fun.

What shall I wear today?  What says me? Well, okay, I guess I’ll go with the usual and look like a schlub. 

I didn’t meet all of my husband’s family until our first trip to Israel in the summer of 1967, right after the Six Day War. The only introduction before that was to his older brother, who lived in New York City, the one we came to call Uncle Monster.

I said to myself, Carolyn, here’s the opportunity to make the world a better place. So several days later I drove—okay, that sort of negates making the world a better place, but it was too far to walk—to the Container Store and bought myself a kitchen counter composter.

I like remembering my friends’ birthdays. Two of them I’ve known since we were eighteen years old and in college together.

At home in the flatlands, I’m fortunate in that there are many walking paths I can take, either in the neighborhood or within a ten-minute drive. But I have a problem. I’m addicted to solitude. I don’t want to see another walker, I don’t want to have to say hello to someone with her dog, or to wonder if the person is talking to me or is on her phone, talking to whomever.

As Erin related this whole tragic series of events to us, I tried to contain my hysterics—laughter—while others of our group expressed such a deep feeling of empathy I had to wonder—are they joking? But, oh no. It seemed that every single person came up with their own bird story.

So what did I gain from this course—aside from the few dates with the instructor after the semester was over and I ended up with a A? I think I gained an appreciation of how varied we all are, how we have evolved or devolved over the eons of time.

A friend of mine recently died. She had Parkinson’s, and her husband said she was in a lot of pain. I knew things were getting bad for her when her emails became less chatty, the last one just two sentences.

Let’s face it, I have a body that no designer would love. Furthermore, no designer designs for it. I am of peasant stock. Perky breasts now droop, my 22-inch waist decided it was too small for my hips. To sum up, I’m dumpy.

So, another year has come and gone and I have to say—so what?

When I married my Israeli husband so many years ago, I had a feeling that would be the end of the Christmas tree for me. Saving the forest one Hanukkah candle at a time? But Christmas trees were part of my youth. A festive part? Let’s not go there. Yet.

Why is every single day cluttered with things I don’t want to do? Why do the clothes need washing and folding and being put away? Why does the dishwasher need emptying? Why is there crap on the floor that wasn’t there yesterday, and why do I have to get out the vacuum cleaner to take care of it?

Our country was never what you thought it was. There was racism and isolationism and all sorts of discrimination, all those isms we were actually on the path to overcoming. And then— Well, we’re just not anymore, are we?

Happy birthday to me.

Where is the likes of Victor Borge now! Well, okay, we still have Mel Brooks and his brilliant movies and Carl Reiner’s laugh-out-loud “Enter Laughing.” But really, there would be long stretches before I found something to laugh at. Perhaps that’s why I married my husband. He has provided a constant, if perhaps unwitting, source of amusement.

Now, my husband is a rather mild-mannered man. And yet, when he gets frustrated, I recede into the background and pretend I have no idea who he is. Take, for example, our TGV ride from Paris to Nantes.