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I resumed attending water aerobics classes. It has been awhile since I’ve been able to go due to a combination of factors, including medical issues and scheduling conflicts. I love being back in the water bopping around . . . it felt good to be moving and not sweating (or at least not knowing when I am).

But I have the big ouch in my muscles tonight. My legs and arms are talking to me, saying, “What the . . . ?”

I know from past experience that this shall pass quickly and I will be feeling better and better as I maintain a regular routine of classes. I also know that I will reach the point where just the classes won’t be enough and I will have to incorporate other activities such as weight lifting (will have to talk to my retinal surgeon about that first, though, and make sure I stay within the limits he suggests), bike riding, etc. I’m thinking very seriously about buying a new bike . . . I love to go bike riding around town, although this is obviously the wrong season to be making the purchase. It would be wiser to wait until spring when the days are getting longer rather than shorter. I’m not even sure what kind to buy. Will have to ask around for some recommendations.

Anyway . . . for now, attending classes several times per week is enough.

And I’m going to go collapse.

I’ve been gushing on and on about James Gandolfini. I even said he was the greatest actor ever in the history of television.

I admit that I should have qualified my assessment. Gandolfini is the greatest actor ever in the history of primetime television.

Daytime television? Different story.

The greatest actor in the history of daytime television is none other than my very dear friend, Clint Ritchie. ((Clint is retired, so I no longer get to watch his handsome mug on my television screen on a regular basis which explains my “senior moment”.))

Things just haven’t been the same since Clint decided, in December 1998, not to renew his contract with ABC and left the role of Clint Buchanan that he created on “One Life to Live” back on September 10, 1979.

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The folks in Hollywood often don’t get it right.

But this year they did. They got it absolutely, perfectly right earlier this evening when they gave the Best Picture Oscar to “Crash.” Bravo!

If you haven’t seen it, run — don’t walk — to your local video store or sign on to Netflix and put it at the top of your queue.

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It has been four (4) months since my mother, Ethel, died. She left this world on October 13, 2005, but she left her family long before that.

She left us very slowly, very gradually, literally inching further and further away until she finally retreated into a little corner of her own mind, her own universe, where we could no longer connect with her.

And then I did something I never thought I could ever find myself doing: I wished that she would die.

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