P.J. Colando's Blog

I’m feeling nostalgic and more a little picqued. Twelve weeks post knee replacement, I long to resume my healthy lifestyle activities to accompany the cessation of pain. Weekly I participated in water aerobics, yoga, and tai chi, activities recommended by health experts to improve and prolong one’s life.

But no more. Not until the eight-inch scar is fully healed and my knee’s adjacent tissues stretch to full limberness again.

In the interim forty minutes has been emcumbered daily by PT and/or the requisite home exercises. All of which cause pain to receive gain, despite consumption of copious amounts of Tylenol. After the rigor, twenty minutes were devoted to icing the knee area, while I gave myself the bonus of a frozen yogurt bar (a sly upside i snuck into this downer post)

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Our doodle despised the walker I used for weeks, too. He was used to being king of the carpet, sprawling in semi-sleep mode anywhere, anytime he chose, but when I’d come barging into the family room, requiring him to move. Further, he moped a bit because I wasn’t up to tossing his balls and chew toys, preferring to read and read and read the dozen books preloaded on my Kindle. These were my preferred distractions from the subtle pain that plagued me 24/7.

At least the period of being unable to drive has passed. That loss of independence was tough to cope with!

The sharp, painful zaps when nerves that had been severed by the robotic saw reconnected were brief but insidious signs of progress, but disturbed my peace…

The worst of post-surgery insults occurred when rain storms brought barometric changes to which my titanium knee reacts badly, whereas the arthritic knee that was replaced did not! Can’t wait to get on a plane to resume our adventures abroad and to visit Midwestern family members – not!

A week ago, I wrote the upside of the past several months, contented with the procedure and process since: https://www.pjcolando.com/attitude-of-gratitude/ I was professing the ying and upside, but today I confess the yang and the crap..

On January 4, 2026, I return to the orthopedist and hope to be cleared to resume all components of my good health regimen, I’ve been faithful with the prescribed exercises and deserve to be free…

A Happy New Year it will be!

Though an attitude of gratitude should rule my heart and mind, especially as a white-privileged Americans, I find I often fall short. As I age, gratitude has become easier, perhaps I no longer have to strive or prove my worth – or its source. But America has dedicated a holiday for giving thanks, so gratitude is among my primary thoughts.

So I write, because that’s how I process and express my thoughts.

I am grateful for modern medicine, with its procedures and pills, a plethora of ‘magic wands’ that can be wielded to cure what ails you. There were days and nights in the past sixty-some days when I wouldn’t have espoused this attitude.

I had a knee replacement surgery onSeptember 9.

Here’s a blog post from that day, written and cached before the surgery, natch https://www.pjcolando.com/my-legacy-of-tylenol-and-tape/

I am grateful that I found a skilled surgeon and have insurance to pay the costs. I am grateful for a loving longterm relationship, a husband willing to dig deep to work and do whatever he needed to do to help. Improv does not come easily for him, though fully-saturated kindness does, so the recovery process went as well as it could. I wore my best courage and well-honed can-do attitude. we prevailed through the voluble pain, inevitable to the process due to the sliced tissues, nerves, bones, and flesh.

I am grateful for the slow pace and low demands of our comfortable retired life. Grateful for a one-story house. Grateful for generous loans of all necessary equipment a gimp requires. Grateful for meals provided by others so as to not tax my overwhelmed husband further. I’m grateful for our doodle dog, Spark, who intuitively cared for both of us along with continuing to spark joy.

I am grateful for simplicity, for the principle of “Less is more,” for the idea of deletion, which is much easier now with the laptop computer, an entire key devoted to it. I’m grateful to be a better writer, so that button is seldom used.

I am grateful to have nestled into life filled with peace, joy, and love, having long ago deleted unnecessary drama, hassles, and snares.

A recent headline, hidden among the dire and more dire news, grabbed my attention. In fact, the print words practically shouted from their mid-page position in the newspaper. “Studies have shown that regular weighted hula hooping can decrease abdominal fat and waist circumference, and a study found that it was more effective than walking for reducing belly fat and increasing core strength in overweight individuals.”  

Overweight?! Yeah, I admit it.

I lost five pounds to augment the success of my knee replacement surgery, to reduce the load of daily living activites on my bone-on-bone knees. That was all ‘well and good’ as they say, but the inactivity inherent in recovery – coupled with cheesy, calorie-laden meals provided by well-meaning friends – have caused me to regain those pounds.

And add five more.

It was a conspiracy of good intentions amped by my total lack of will power. The inclination to equate good food with feeling love in embedded in our bodies and souls by Midwestern/Southern hospitality.

Ever the fun-seeking individual, I sought a novel way to help me increase my exercise and activity level… Voila! A hula hoop, prompted by this video sent by an encouraging friend.

https://www.facebook.com/reel/716538401465871

The hula hoop gained international popularity in the late 1950s, when a plastic version was successfully marketed by California’s Wham-O toy company, though its first use was in Australia. This goofy tune, issued in 1958 at the height of the craze, probably coincides with the year I got one as a Christmas present.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=np2ZapISRzM&list=RDnp2ZapISRzM&start_radio=

The bottom line – and your takeaway from my designated exercise program – is that I’ve recovered knee function, balance, and stability to the point that I no longer require a walker or a cane. I can engage in the seductive sway and boundless joy of hula hooping…

For at least four minutes!

November 5 question – When you began writing, what did you imagine your life as a writer would be like? Were you right, or has this experience presented you with some surprises along the way?

In 2012 my passion for my private practice in speech-language pathology began to wane, hastened by several abusive toddler clients.(!) While toddlers are prone to tantrum, these kids behavior tested the boundaries. Thus, I couldn’t help them.

It was an unfathomable situation for one who’d adored her career choice from its inception  – as well as being a ’50s kid who was raised to respect adults.

What to do? How to fill the time, further, how to fill the hole in my heart if/when I closed my private practice? I was intent on maintining my purpose-filled life, inherent in a cereer that was 100% give.

And I wasn’t about to surrender the privelige of being my own boss and work for an employer again. Further, I worked with toddlers, whose pre-occupation was play…

I was paid to play, in a career in which The Hero’s Journey was implicit.

My husband and I had recently witnessed an older friend who’d neglected consideration of how to pass his retirement time, so he spent endless hours in his La-Z-Boy watching TV. I was determined that this wouldn’t happen to me. I had more self-respect than to allow myself to molder and fade away into self-sequestered oblivion.

Throughout my adult years, I’d dabbled  in many hobbies, expanding beyond my childhood pastime of choice: reading. I’d tried lapidary, knitting, photography, painting, tie-dye, pottery, and many others. In fact, I’ve attempted so many that my retirement hobby list only contained two items: French horn and creative writing.

As a speech-language pathologist, I’d written thousands and thousands of clinical reports, some containing fabulous fiction to dramatize the need for an insurance company to pay for my services. Thus, creative writing was a natural choice. Writing was also a great choice – to obviate the anguish of quitting my private practice – because, if I didn’t like a character’s behavior, I could hit delete.

My husband was elated that I didn’t select French horn in 2012. You see, I most often wrote while he watched TV sports…

Writing is a silent hobby. Endlessly creative, cathartic, and easy-peasy for a word nerd like me.

 

Halloween allows us to juxtapose darkness with lightheartedness. It’s a chance to poke fun at some of our greatest fears, to turn them into absurdity and something less threatening. It’s a way to cope.

It’s also the ultimate kids’ holiday – in some ways it’s better than Christmas because it combines sweet tooth indulgence and creativity, without limits. The only adults who may object to the sugar overload are dentists because the parents I know are surreptiously raiding their kids’ haul.

The seemingly endless slog of recovery post knee replacement surgery is wearing on me. So is the seemingly everlasting pain, punctuated by occasion nerve zaps as the severed nerves reconnect.

I should have bought stock in Tylenol.

Truth be told, I wasn’t a fan of how Oxy made my brain feel though I’m certain I couldn’t have born the immediate post-surgery pain. Forcing myself to do the home exercises assigned by the physical therapist to return my knee’s range of motion is making me crave candy. Well, Yasso yogurt bars, my current reward of choice. https://www.yasso.com/collections/greek-yogurt-bars.html?gclsrc=aw.ds&gad_source=1&gad_campaignid=21261947710&gbraid=0AAAAADMhVjBF578fq5yN1kFhtt9Jqh_B-&gclid=CjwKCAjw3tzHBhBREiwAlMJoUkof10WS-2kiUYc2Of_HxuUfJOTOXwc8rTdJg0tpUc6wzB4Cvy7UuRoCEGEQAvD_BwE

To not add pounds to my frame, to worsen the stress on my knees, I need to switch course. I need to infuse more creativity in my life, a boost that is calorie-free.

I decided that the “Double,Double,Toil,and Trouble” lines, written by Shakespeare, needed a California twist – so I wrote a bit, to override pain with creativity, one of my gifts.  (the picture prompt is irressitable, don’t you agree?)

The witching hour had been declared and the site of the enclave had been set. The coven members flew from all corners of Orange County, CA to bolster their spirits, to take on the other Halloween creatures, including the goblins, ghosts, ghouls, and bats. The leadership had noticed that their presence among the most notable costumes had fallen, overwhelmed by the plethora of Disney princesses and cartoon character expansion.

Now, unbeknownst to most in the world, witches have significant sweet toothes. Eating voluable amounts of candy fueled their spooky spirits. How best to boost their shares of the spoils of Halloween? It was “Double, Double, Toil, and Trouble,” indeed.

The witch coven believed they couldn’t fail. They were wily, and competitive, perhaps spurred by their ugliness. They brewed and cooked and drank. They buzzed through the night skies on their spiffy self-flying brooms, Google-searching for creative ideas.

Sadly, their efforts sank; their witchcraft was for naught. Orange County was Disney-ruled and the sunny good looks of beach tans overrode the scraggly, bedraggled looks of coven citizens. And, none could afford Botox or plastic surgery.

So, they zipped through the November 1 morning skies, intent on settling Elsewhere.

After hiding in the color wheel almost all year, orange has emerged as a dominant color because it’s fall. Pumpkins on porches, pumpkin spice lattes at Starbucks, and a change of leaves’ color on deciduous trees. Sunsets come earlier as the days shorten and emblazon the sky with orange.Orange, a word for which there’s no rhyming partner, distinguishes itself in October.

So do pubishers, large and small and independent, as they release a flood of books for which they’ve built a buzz, ready as holiday gift purchases for friends and lovers and such.

I won’t be participating in this annual reading extravaganza this fall, when walking into a bookshop can be an orgasmic experience due to the massive and colorful book displays. I had knee replacement surgery in early September and, on the advice of my orthopedist, I filled my Kindle with books to read through the pain of the early days and the ennui of subsequent days when I’m not strong enough to walk far. I’ve read seven books through the first month and still have seven books to go. Based on my progress to date, my pre-selections to get me to a bookshop by Thanksgiving, when the pumpkin shape-shifts into pie.

While I won’t say that I’m languid or neglect the suggested exercise regimen, though I admit I’d prefer prefer to reading to this work prescribed by my PT. Reading doesn’t hurt. I’ve elected to read when I ice the tender tendons and new joint – a heavenly reward after the formidable demands of PT.

I’ve also been grateful for my Kindle at bedside when awakened by pain in the wee hours of this process… when the night wasn’t short enough.

P.S. Despite the fact that “orange” has no rhyming partner, there’s still a poem to accompany the pumpkin theme. Read it once, read it twice, then please tell me what the heck it means… otherwise, it’s “ew” on every level for me!

 

When I’m Ninety-five(By Bruce Handy and Jay Martel (from The New Yorker )ListenDo you want to know a secret?Do you promise not to tell?Whoa, oh, ohCloserLet me whisper in your earIt’s the left one that still hears?Now I’ve forgotten what I wanted to sayOoh-ooh-ooh-ooh ooh.•Anytime at allBefore 9 p.m.Anytime at allBefore 9 p.m.Anytime at allIf I’m not in bed just callAnd I’ll be there.•All the lonely peopleWhere do they all come from?All the lonely peopleYou’d think some of them would’ve at least sent food for Eleanor’s wake.•Doctor RobertYou’re a new and better manThough he’s off most Medicare plansPay out of pocket if you canDoctor Robert.•When I get older, losing my mindNot that long from nowWill you still be sending me a valentineBirthday greetings, hydralazine?If I keep napping past quarter to threeWould you assume I’m alive?Will you still feed me, please don’t delete meWhen I’m ninety-five.•Why don’t we do it if we canWhy don’t we do it if we canCialis will be helping usWhy don’t we do it if . . . oh, well.•I call your nameBut you’re not thereWas I to blame?For not texting instead?Oh, I left a long voice mailThough no one listens to them anymore(I just wanted you to know that Rachel’s cousin’s brother-in-law has leukemia, but I think the good kind.)I never keep it shortI call your name.•Turn off your mind, relax, and float downstreamIt is not dyingIt is not dyingLay down all thoughts, surrender to the voidI really hope it’s not dyingIt feels like it might be dyingThat you may see the meaning of withinI think I’ll get up nowThank God I can get up now.•Asked that gal what she wanted of meShe said, “Listen, babe, come and see.My kids took my car and it’s breaking my heartBut let’s take a spin in this sweet golf cart.”•Here comes the sunDoo dun doo doo (phew!)Here comes the sun and I sayI’m still here!•Well, she was just seventyWork done, from eyes to kneesBut I’m almost sure she still had her own hairWell, I couldn’t dance with anotherOoooo!Or anyone in level-four care.•Woke up, got out of bedSo glad I wasn’t deadFound my way downstairs despite my kneesAnd looking up . . . I forgot why I’d walked into the room[Breathing sounds]Found my phone, but not my keysIf you see them, tell me, pleaseFound my way upstairs to make a callBut couldn’t make it work, these new phones are such a painIiii . . . Iiii aiii aiii . . . Iiii aiii aiiiiiii . . . .I’d love . . .To turn . . .This on.•Yesterday . . .That’s all I really have to say.

The brass was coming for a visit and the branch manager wanted to impress…

And so, she ordered a sheet cake, to sweeten their evaluation of her skills.

Royal blue icing slathered thickly on the top and down the sides of the cake, with the branch name written in script that pranced around the corporate logo on top. She would certain the brass would be impressed by her celebratory gesture and that she’d get a generous pay raise.

The woman was single, devoted to her fluffy tabby cat. She loved it so much that she brought him to work, emotional support for a stressful job, she rationalized, Because it was outside policy perameters to bring a pet to work. He also obliged to wear the glasses she required to read spreadsheets, but was too vain to wear when others were in the office.

He usually cat-napped in the knee hole of her desk and no one was the wiser. The cat ate fancy cat food out of the can, opened noiselessly with a tiny opener she kept in her desk’s top drawer. All went smoothly for months, each content in each other’s company. The cat never once walked on her keyboard, as others’ cats reportedly did, so he never over-wrote her monthly reports.

But the cat had a thing for sweets… And so,

His nose led him into the break room where the cake was esconced on the tabletop, ready to shown off, and then imbibed by the brass. She intented to impress.

The sassy cat was impressed and had a different intent.

He circled the cake several times, tail swashbuckling the air like a sword, sizing up the possibilities. The scent tantilized his nostrils, his whiskers twitched, and soon he could stand it now more. He sat – splat – at one end of the cake and butt-scooted across the top, Then, he sauntered into the outer office and began licking his blue ass contentedly, interrupting the manager’s presentation to the brass at its climax.

Yes, the cat helped the manager make an impression, but, but, but… his butt scooting stunt conquered her prose.

And so, rather than be promoted, she was fired.

 

When an audience of newbies convenes to imbibe the wisdom of an established writer, he/she is often asked, “What’s your process?”

Many things are interwoven in this be-all question:

are you a plotter or a pantser (or, like me, a plodder)what time of day do you writedo you engage in re-writes constantly or wait until the end of the day/manuscript(fill in the blank)I believe the place one writes is an important part of the equation…

Many writers convene at a nearby coffee shop, using their laptop as their writing tool of choice. I prefer to remain at home, in the silence of my home office, rather than decamp to a coffee shop where I’m known and likely to be distracted by people and sights and incidents. BTW, I know of no one who writes their stories longhand these days. If you do, tell me so in the comments.

I like to use my laptop with the built-in grammar and spellchecks, components of WORD. I’ve added Writer Pro as an writing aid, too. I don’t need the dictionary or thesaurus – I need the curbs on my over-reliance on ellipses…  and exclamation points. (ha!)

The drawback of the laptop is its power to distract. I might be busy about the task of writing something sensible and useful and shining light into dark corners, and then succumb to the temptation of sending Google into other dark corners (never the dark web for me), such as the mystery of Amelia Earhart’s disappearance and how much was Howard Hughes worth and has anyone located the original Ten Commandment tablets and was Beowulf a real person and did Teddy Roosevelt kill any beasts on his African safaris or did he only pose with a rifle, and was J.D. Salinger happy after he vanished from public view, and is it true that Albert Einstein was unable to sail a small boat, and how soon as a rule do famous people become unknown.

Yes, Goggle has everything!

Including ChatGPT, but I vow to never use it to write a piece for me.

THE SILVER PALATE COOKBOOK came out in 1979, the same year my husbnd and I moved permanently to California.

I adored it, feeling so grown up and removed from my Midwestern roots. Who ever heard of baking prunes with chicken! Blueberries, too. The only way I knew prior to this cookbook was to fry chicken, something at which one of my grandmothers excelled. The Silver Palate was a bit more relaxed than Martha Stewart, but more precise than my grandmother’s methods. More experimental, too – garlic and capers became go-to cooking ingredients – and over the years my husband and I cooked our way through the book.

Despite being a 4-H baking champ, I was seldom invited to help my mother prepare meals growing up.

But in the kitchen, that flighty curiosity was a friend. Savory pancakes for dinner? Certainly. Fruit and meat together? Why not! Raspberry Chicken became my signature dish, something I’d eatern first in the home of a gourmand friend.

 

The pages of the cookbook are sprinkled with notes, friendly inspiration, as if your grandmother stood beside you in the kitchen. Or, your vaunted 4-H leader, Margie Vulmer (yes, I remember her name and have a fully-formed memory of her assistance with making a perfect angel food cake, well over fifty years ago)

The recipe for the banana nut bread I make frequently for my husband is from this book.

Successful flavoring depends on many things. To appreciate this fully you must experiment, something that my husband is much better at than I am. Perhaps, because his nose isn’t allergy-clogged and he has a well-honed sense of smell…

My advice: Try some lemon in the rice. Grate an orange on the broccoli. You will learn to create boldly, trusting in the results. You will be a cook with a silver palate.

Like the “Galloping Gourmet” swigging wine while he prepared a dish, so long ago – and in black & white! – on tv.