Still Polly

  I have a lot of (possibly) very unpopular opinions. I think holding unpopular opinions may come as a privilege of old(er) age. How I developed these isn’t anything earth-shattering. I tried a lot of things that failed. I took some failures and flipped them and was happy with the results. In those cases, I had probably listened to someone else’s opinion, took their advice, and decided it wasn’t for me. Some are just personal preferences. You might share some of these opinions, but you might strongly disagree. That’s okay. Differing opinions make (or used to make) the world go ‘round. Not every wall needs something on it. I think I was a “maximalist” before I knew it was a real thing. I had “stuff” on every wall in every house or apartment I ever lived in. If I didn’t have real art, I made stuff. Fabric stretched over old frames would even work in a pinch. Gallery walls made me happy and stuffed full gallery walls made me even happier. I picked up other people’s framed family pictu...

  “On the list of places we’ll never live: a renovated school house.” Bob nodded in agreement. It is a kind of game we play when we’re on a road trip. I see a home that I like (or that I don’t like, for that matter), and I add it to the list of the kinds of places we’ll never live. It’s quite a long list, actually. I’ve always been a bit of an architecture nerd (rank amateur level, so don’t quiz me). I love looking at floorplans. I dream up renovation projects. I am fascinated by exterior design. I pour over books on everything from bungalows to mid-century modern design and devour Architectural Digest magazines. I’m drawn to odd structures like geodesic dome houses, underground dwellings, and tree houses. From log homes to ultra-modern designs, I have love in my heart for all kinds of styles and always imagine what it would be like to actually live there. My fascination with different types of residences stems somewhat from lots of art and design classes, but at a much simpler le...

  “How could she even tell ?” my brother-in-law asked my husband. The “she” was me. And the question was: how could she tell I had a party at your house when I was house-sitting? Bob’s answer was right on. “This is Polly you’re talking about. One look inside the cabinet, and she knew: the glasses were all mixed up.” You might call it OCD. Or you might just call it a very well-organized cabinet. Either way, Bob was right. I have a very particular way I organize dishes and glassware. Not just as a way to trap young brothers-in-law in their party schemes, but so that when I open a cabinet, I can quickly find what I need. It’s obvious where things go, and it’s peaceful, not chaotic. Dear brother-in-law’s chaos was a dead giveaway. One of the selling points of our current house was the pantry. It’s not a walk-in pantry (that would be glorious) but more of a pantry cabinet: floor-to-ceiling cupboards with slide-out shelves and long doors. It was a luxury, and I couldn’t wait to get our t...

  “I read an article this morning claiming that my goal of walking ten thousand steps a day is totally worthless.” We were on our morning “family walk“—me, Bob, and our 8-month-old Bernese Mountain Dog puppy, Stein Eriksen. While we often find ourselves yelling at Stein to behave, that morning, we discussed something interesting I’d just read. I told Bob that the article basically said that making a step goal was meaningless unless I walked at a certain pace. Bob said, “I think when I tell my doctor that I am walking a 10-minute loop in our neighborhood several times a week, he’s going to say, ‘Great job!’” And I agreed. We’re not trying to break records, we’re not entering any competitions, and we’re not training for a marathon. For us, and I’m guessing a lot of people, moving is simply better than not moving . There were, I’m sure, plenty of facts and evidence to support the article about “meaningless” steps. But it brought up something that has been bothering me for some time n...

It was a Polly kind of Saturday. I had my route all figured out: antique and thrift store shopping, dropping off donations, washing the car, and then hitting Aldi for groceries. It was the perfect blend of things I enjoy and things that needed to be done. I was in the groove. I first noticed this little family as I was on my way from the carwash to get groceries. They were apparently panhandling at a busy intersection. One of them was holding a sign, although I couldn’t make out what it said. I was focused on getting my shopping done, so I kept going. At least it was a sunny day, I thought. By the time I got home, the fun was over. I was tired and hungry and just wanted to put things away to get lunch when this happened: the half-gallon of milk I bought had leaked all over my bag, and my thumb went right through the lid of the butter because the seal was broken. I texted Bob in the basement and told him I was going to have to go back to Aldi to return these things. (Yes, we text each o...

 "It's not really death cleaning," I told him. "It's more like 'near-death' cleaning."  This was my attempt to reassure Bob that he wasn't going to come home to an empty house, that I wasn't planning to sneak any of his beloved items into the Goodwill box without his knowledge, and that I hadn't joined some Swedish death cleaning cult. His raised eyebrows and silence indicated he was not convinced. The truth is, for a few months now, I have been radically clearing out closets, drawers, and cabinets. It all started with the linen closet.  I remember the moment I pushed something out of the way to grab a bath mat. It was like the flashback loop started automatically. How many times had I pushed this thing out of the way? Five times? Five hundred times? I stopped. Something didn't seem right. I organized this space when we moved in over seven years ago, and I did a bang-up job. The towels were all uniformly folded and stacked. Sheets and...

“The ultrasound showed nothing abnormal, no masses. What we saw is consistent with a diagnosis of lymphedema.” I stood, stunned, not knowing whether to hurl my phone against a wall or dissolve into a puddle on the floor. Lymphedema. I have lymphedema in my right arm. This is the disease-which-is-often-named when you've gone though breast cancer surgery and treatment, but always in the context of how to avoid it. There give you several "simple rules" to follow, and a pamphlet with some frequently asked questions, and then you're sent on your way.  The rules they gave me six and a half years ago were easy to follow: don't have your blood pressure taken on your right arm, and don't have blood drawn from your right arm (forever after). That was essentially it. And then, the parting words were: watch out for swelling and contact us with any questions.  So all these years later, this happened. The last Sunday in January I discovered a kind of lump on my right forear...