Dear Winter, Without your austerity, your bare branches, your wind chill, how would we appreciate the warm things of this world? Candles that smell like a wood fire in a Maine cottage. Dinner in a bowl, crowned with a delicate wreath of steam: split-pea soup with smokey ham; blue-collar beef barley with a beer; mussels in white wine broth with a side of frites. Soft thick socks in bed. Showstopping sunsets that say, “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.” Cars with seat warmers and space heaters tucked under desks. Putting on pajamas straight from the dryer. Warm-blooded, true-hearted dogs and cats that lie on our feet at the foot of the bed, purring and furring us to sleep. Our fire pits and fondue pots, fleece, and flannel sing the antiphon to frozen pipes and snow flurries in a psalm of praise to winter. XOXO Nikki
Dear December, You’re the month of light-seekers and soul searchers, of night vision and stargazers. You shower us with heavenly meteors that make us believe in magic and angels and awe again. You’re the bonfires and fireplaces and firepits that tug on our DNA to remind us of the ancient cave days of community and safety and warmth. You’re the porch light pulling someone safely home, always on in our hearts for those we’ve lost or not yet found. You’re the Full Cold Moon that lingers on the horizon, reminding us that we live in mystery despite the blue light screens of constantly streaming information. You’re the candlelight that softens the edges of reality, the solstice summoning, the fireworks that drive out bad spirits. Dear December, in the deepest, bleakest, secret night, you turn on our lights, inside and out. XOXO Nikki
Yes, I know, it’s Medicare enrollment time! How could I miss it given the near-constant confusing ads from private companies urging me to use their services to get a better deal? It was barely endurable when it was just Joe Namath smirking and shilling, but now Meredith Viera has caved and touts a slicker version of a competing plan. But at least, she’s not Joan London. Every time her ad comes on, I text my kids to ask them to sign a notarized affidavit stating they won’t send me to A Place for Mom. I know Ice-T barely qualifies as a senior, but his CarShield spots make me feel that it’s only a matter of time before my car viciously turns on me. Even revered West Wing President Martin Sheen is popping up in drugstore aisles like a benevolent Jiminy Cricket on speed to rant about prescription drug prices for SingleCare. But I can’t leave out the king of cable ads, Tom Selleck. Like a cut-rate Gary Cooper, he sternly assures me that this is not his first rodeo when it comes to reverse mortgages. Over and over and over. His ubiquity is the tv equivalent of a 24/7 leaf blower. I know that it’s almost impossible for older people to find work (congratulations on the side hustle, folks), but your scripts only serve to remind me of my own mortality (and my car’s). In other words, Senior Spokesters, your ads seem focused on people at the end of the road who still have enough money to be gouged out of them while their cars are still running. I go through a mini existential crisis every time one comes on, and sad questions flood my mind. What is the meaning of life? Is this all there is? Will Medicare enrollment ever end? Is it really too early to start drinking? XOXO Nikki
