Taking a Break

I've done all the tax stuff I'm going to do today.  Between handling my newfound responsibilites as a landlord and working toward the looming tax deadline, I've been really, really busy.  So I'm ready to take a break, because I'm going to have to get back on it tomorrow.  I'm heading to some friends' house to cook out.  We have this arrangement.  I get the ground beef at the Folks' Folly meat market, and they do the rest.  These are the best burgers in the world.  We always make extra so we'll have leftovers for The D and Kiddo (when he's around).  I'm quite sure there's no pink slime in this stuff!

My friends live less than a mile away, so I'm going to hitch up the dog and walk over there.  Their dog is named Charlie (he inspired Lucy's name), and they are BDFs.  Best Dog Friends.  He's a big Weimeranner, but my little Lu-Lu thinks she's the Alpha Dog.  They bonded over their common lust for squirrels.

Gotta run.  Over and out...

My Run

Just call me Flo-Jo!  I ran a whole mile today.  Without stopping.  In 10 minutes.  A personal best.  Don't scoff.  I don't have the longest femurs.  And I have a big butt.  If you took physics, you'll cut me some slack.  You understand about drag.  Its effect on velocity and lift.  If you're a physicist, you might be impressed.  And if you like big butts, and you cannot lie...

Oh, my...

More sadness

It's too painful to elaborate, but (sorry for the awful mental images this might conjure), old wounds were opened for me today.  I was hoping for some closure.  Is that what surgeons call what they do when they close up shop?  Count the sponges, grab the staple gun or gorrilla glue, and call it a day?

Today, I thought I'd close the old wound.  I keep reinjuring it.  So a year and a half later, I'm still not healed.  I wanted that today.  It didn't happen.  Screw it.  Screw her.  Screw my former sister, the Emotional Vampire.  There wasn't an audience for her to court, so my civility was met with disdain.

I'm done.  I hope.  Thought I was.  A good friend told me, "Don't play games with a game-player.  You'll never win."

I wish I could talk to The D about it.  I'm craving affirmation.  But I have it.  It's just not verbal.  And I know that I'm strong enough to make do with that.  For my mother.  Sometimes I miss her so much.

Sad News

There's been a spate of tragic events.  All involving sons.  Young men with a bright future.  My heart breaks for the young man (whose parents I've known from church and mutual friends) who had a terrible accident while swimming in the ocean.  I've received frequent email updates, and the last one was from his mom, who said he was going to be an organ donor.  This woman is one of the sweetest people I've ever met.  She's a nurse at St. Jude, and she frequently requested prayer for specific children and their families.  Her compassion was clear each time she quietly shared some tender bit of empathy.

I've been so sad about the Trayvon Martin case.  I hate that it's so polarizing, and I haven't wanted to learn all the details, but from the few headlines I've seen, there's something awry with our legal system.  But either way, it's bigger than that.  I remember the riots in L.A.  Rodney King.  I have never in my life, heard such profundity, put so concisely.  "Can't we all just get along?"

So, I can either 1) slit my wrists, 2) work on tax returns, 3) do WWF (I have about 20 opponents waiting for me to take my turn), 4) figure out something to eat - I skipped supper, 5) Pack up FF's belated b-day gifts, 6) do my last set of sit-ups, 7) draw and paint a little, or, hmmm, go to sleep?

I think I'll take a bath (I did major yard-work at my newly rented house), and head to bed.  I'll be decadent and leave the windows open and turn the thermostat down to 55.

Tomorrow's a big day.  Big hurdle to face, but I have a feeling I'll be just fine.

Happy Little Things

Even though I have lots of work to do this weekend (the tax deadline is looming, after all), I'm transitioning into my weekend.  My favorite time of the week:  Friday night!

In about an hour, I'll walk 5 houses down to my BFF's abode to have a girl's night in.  Her hub and daughter are going to dinner and the theater, so we'll have the house and the hot tub to ourselves.  Pure bliss.

Since I've had such a good week, I thought I'd do that thing I do when I come back from vacation.  List, in no particular order, all the things I want to remember.  It's amazing how happy it makes me when I look back at those posts.  I'm thinking of last summer in Panacea, FL; Baltimore/Ocean City, and Boston. So, here goes...


...renting my old house to my new best friend...planting rosemary and oregano from cuttings, and basil from seeds...finding incredible bargains on hyacinths, tulips, daffodils and orchids, and sharing them with my friends - Deb, Angela, Dana, Sarita, Peggy, Ruth and Meg...planting beautiful shamrocks (purple and green) given to me from Ruth's garden...finding white bratwurst at Kroger after searching for months...getting enough exercise to make my muscles really sore, in that good way...seeing my scale reflect my newfound self-control...hearing The Daddler doing his silly baby-talk to Lucy and consistently calling her "he"...watching Jeopardy and sweeping a category...sleeping on my new, crisp, white, cotton sheets with a chilly breeze coming through my open windows...finding and eating really good navel oranges...getting a sweet text from Kiddo in response to mine...remembering my ex-husband's birthday and liking him enough to call and tell him "Happy Birthday"...running into someone who'd broken my heart and coming to peace with what happened...giving up hope for capturing FF's heart, and knowing that it's his loss...knowing that I can make myself happy even if I never find my Prince Charming...and that I don't need rescuing...

Ok, that's enough.  Time to get moving. I'm all icky from my run and gardening.  Gonna hop in the shower and head down the street.  Fix The D some din-din first. Wipe that goop out of Lucy's eyes and kiss her on the snout.  And hope this happy mood and incredible weather last a little while longer...

Gather ye rosebuds...

...while ye may.  Where lies the land to which the ship would go?

There's a theme.  We've all heard Carpe diem, etc., ad nauseum.  But there's more.  Here goes:

Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero.

Loosely translated, that means, Seize the day, rather than place trust in the future.  Wow.  Who knew?  Carpe diem is so very hackneyed.  The next time I'm at a cocktail party and I replace WTF with CD, I'm going to continue with quam minimum credula postero.  Hmm, does Google Translate have Latin?  I'd hate to pronounce it wrong and expose my pathetic attempt at being an intellectual.  But if necessary, I could mention the fact that I passed the sample test in the Mensa brochure I picked up at the library.  That I thought about joining, but I was committed to maintaining my connection with the hoi polloi.  Which I'll follow with the phrase, the great unwashed, not as a matter of explanation, but emphasis.  Hey, just mentioning that I go to the library should count for something.  I won't divulge that my car is about to be impounded because I lost some stupid self-help-inspirational-organize-your-life-cut-the-clutter-find-your-soulmate-by-being-the-bitch-all-men-want-to-marry book-of-the-week.  Hey, there's an idea!  Weekly Reader for lonely, semi-affluent professional women for whom carpe diem is like trying to catch a greased pig.  It would feature inspirational-girl-power non-fiction and weird post-pubescent-fiction (am I the only one who doesn't get the whole Twilight/Bella/R-Patt thang?).   You scoff, but one of these days, you'll say, I read her blog when...

Back to the cocktail party.  My next line will involve the word "Quixotic", which I will pronounce the way it looks (which is counter-intuitively correct) rather than the way you'd expect it to sound if you knew the right way to say "Don Quixote." And if you realized, before college freshman english, that the g is silent in champagne. Damn, I hate those frogs. They're so sybaritic that they're immune to getting hooked on phonics.  Oh, and in case you're interested, Don isn't a first name.  It's the spanish form of Mister.  A title.  Did you realize that not all of the big-wigs at your college were named for Jerry Lewis' sidekick?  Before the breakup.  Have you ever heard of Jerry Lewis?  Or Dean Martin.  Rowan and Martin?  Laugh-in?  Hee-Haw?  The Flintstones?

Am I the only one who remembers how crazy-embarrassing it was to watch Love American Style?    These youngsters can't imagine a time when the whole family had to sit in one room, agree on one show (out of three - I'm not counting PBS since we were definitely hoi polli), change the channel at specific times, and suffer through the commercials.  It just dawned on me that Joe Namath's commercial, Let Noxema cream your face, could be a little racy.  Euww.  That whole trannie thing with the pantyhose.  What a perv.

Ok, here's the thing.  I struggle with pronouns.  Objective and nominative cases throw me for a loop.  Since I'm a reverse-snob (I'm not impressed with a Germantown address), I decided to eschew I for me.  How many times have you heard some pretentious, vapid dummy say something like, He sent a nasty email to she and I?  So I err on the side of error.  And I think, but I'm not sure, that the title of my blog is grammatically incorrect.  As in wrong.  I own it.  But I'd like to set the record straight.  I knew what I was doing.  I wanted to reach out to the Great Unwashed.

What a way...

...to start my morning.

The dog peed on the carpet.  After I cleaned that up, I called the no-count roofer who put a new roof on my house two years ago.  Apparently, he did a crappy job, if it's leaking so soon.  I've had to call him three times.  He was a no-show twice, and then he came Saturday while I wasn't home.  The Daddler said he brought "some ole' girl" and that they looked like they were casing the joint.  I need to check my jewelry box.  All he did was look in the attic and say he'd be back.  Right.

When I called this morning, I explained that I was getting impatient and that I wanted the roof fixed before it rains again, i.e. today, since it's supposed to rain tomorrow.  He made some excuse about the roof being too wet to get up on it Saturday.  I asked if he could come today after 4:00, so I'd be sure to be here, and he said no.  I asked him when he could come, and he said he was trying to get 15 men ready to start a job and he didn't have his calendar.  I told him that if he'd done what he said he was going to do, it wouldn't be a problem.  I asked him when he was going to call me back to schedule and he said in an hour.  I told him I expected to hear from him by 8:30.  He kept calling me by my first name, which I thought was inappropriate, and was very rude to me.  Wrong thing to do.  I'm mad as a wet hen.  Hell hath no fury...

When The D got up a few minutes ago, I told him what had happened, and he said he wouldn't have "that ole' boy back."  Which made me think that if he did such a shoddy job putting it up, he'd probably do a worse job repairing it, especially since he wouldn't make any money doing it.  So I decided to follow The D's advice.  I'm going to call the roofer I've used at my old house.  Pay him to fix it and do a thorough inspection.  Then I'm going to file a complaint with BBB and give him a terrible review on Angie's list and take him to small claims court for breach of contract.  And I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that he won't be calling back before 8:30.  If at all.

I get so sick of getting jerked around by these repairmen.

I'm going to take a deep breath, look for my yoga DVD, and reboot my day.  I'm getting my hair done today - the works - so that'll help, I'm sure.

Better get started...

Random Musings

I just walked into the living room to retrieve my new Chord Buddy I saw the postman deliver.  When he saw me, The Daddler exclaimed, "I ain't eatin' no more of that slime meat!"  I thought it was a commentary on his lunch.  Which, when I thought about it, was a week old - my sister-in-law brought it after my surgery.  I asked him if his lunch was bad, and he said no, and pointed at the TV.  They were doing yet another story on pink slime.  If you don't know about it, just Google it.  Look up roast sucking pig first, and then you won't be quite as repulsed.

Apparently, pink slime is pervasive.  Particularly if you partake of fast food on a regular basis.  Or the meat counter at the grocery store.  I see lots of trips to Charlie's Meat Market in my future.  Or tofu.

I headed upstairs with my Chord Buddy, and was unsuccessful installing it.  I suppose I'll have to watch the DVD.  I have a feeling it's not going to fit.  I think my guitar's neck is too wide.  I love the song book, though.  I'm not sure I'll tackle the songs in sequence.  That would mean Amazing Grace followed by American Saturday Night.  I don't know the second one, but trust me, it's quite a contrast.  Judging from the lyrics, anyway.  Then there's Folsom Prison Blues followed by Garden Party.  Precious Memories and Proud Mary.  And my favorite:  Have I Told You Lately That I Love You, and He Stopped Loving Her Today.

Wow.  This is all kinda overwhelming.  I think I'll close this silly post and try to scrounge up some din-din for The D, sans slime.

Enough is Enough, The Sequel

Oh my.  It only got worse yesterday.  I was talking on the phone and climbing over the baby gate which keeps Lucy from terrorizing Beulah the Cat and eating all her food.  My shoe caught on the gate and I did a great little header.  Actually, a big one.  My head smacked the door frame and I landed on my knee and my hand.  Yep - the one that's already in a cast.  The phone went flying into the laundry room and I was sprawled out, assessing the damage.  Sarita was standing right there and she launched into angel-of-mercy-mode.  She picked up the phone and told my friend what had happened, and told her to get over here right away.  My friend was an orthpaedic nurse back in the day - how serendipitous.

My head is still really sore, and when I went for my follow up visit to my ortho doc today, they refused to x-ray my skull, so I made him feel it to see if it was cracked.  He thought I was ok.  He got confused about the second fall (yesterday), and hadn't even looked at my hip x-ray.  When I explained about the baby gate and my aching hip, he poked around and said he'd let me know if anything looked damaged on the x-ray.  I told him it was probably my inflamed bursa, and he asked me if I wanted another injection, and I told him the other ones hadn't helped, so no.

They removed my cast, which smelled like sour funk.  My little finger is still really swollen, and I could see the ends of the two pins sticking out of my hand.  I asked the doc if he could pull them out without a second surgery and he said no.  I asked him why he couldn't just use tweezers.  He said it would take pliers.  I showed him the blister between my index and middle fingers and told him that I could've lost my fingers when they swelled inside the cast with no place to go.  He laughed at me.  I was serious.  I asked him if my next cast could leave those two fingers free.  He said it could but that the cast would rub against my middle finger and bother me.  I told him my livelihood was at stake if I couldn't use my computer and that I didn't care.

I asked him if I could wash my hands with soap and water before I got my new cast.  He said sure.  He was standing in the hall when I was trying to get soap out of the dispenser and it wouldn't come, so I got a little rough and the cover popped off.  Loudly.  He looked at me and made some comment about my being accident prone.  I finally got soap and water and it felt so good and clean.  I have my new cast - I chose Carolina blue, and I can actually hold a pen.  And my typing's much faster!  So it's all good.  Maybe I can even paint.  I've been jonesin' for a little creativity.

Last but not least, I had another strange dream last night.  A continuation of the one from the night before.  It picked up when I headed to the wedding reception and it was winding down.  I decided to get something to eat, and lo and behold, there was a picked-over suckling pig.  There he was, complete with the apple in his mouth.  And slathered in barbeque sauce.  I wondered if that was why I couldn't find FF, and I felt, for a moment, like Charlotte, except a day late and a dollar short with my web.  Just as well, because we all know how it ended for her.

P.S.  Never do a Google image search for "roast suckling pig."  It'll make you want to join PETA and become a vegan.  Or at least, keep kosher...

Enough is Enough

The dog love and accompanying laziness have gone too far.  Since my surgery last week. I've spent way too much time suggled up with my new pooch on the sofa.  Thanks to the evil Xfinity On-Demand, I've watched all the archives of Restaurant Impossible, Wife Swap, Chopped, Kitchen Nightmares, Hot in Cleveland and Smash.  Ugh.  I feel like Enzo in The Art of Racing in the Rain, when Denny leaves him home, cooped up in the house all day, watching whatever happens to be on the TV.  Only Enzo has no choice.

Last night, I decided to go to bed at a reasonable hour.  Instead of putting Lucy in her crate in the kitchen, I took her upstairs to sleep in my bed.  Needless to say, I didn't get the best night's sleep.  Besides flailing around with my cast and trying to stay cool in the unseasonably muggy weather, I had the 30 pound bundle of love scooching up under me, snoring, and putting off more heat and humidity.  I had to get up at 5:15 to feed her and let her out.  It was still dark.

When I wake up really early, I usually remember my dreams.  And last night, I had a doozy.  Here goes:  FF was my date for a wedding.  Only, he has an aversion to weddings.  So he decided to go incognito.  As a pig.  Slathered in barbeque sauce.  He drove around in a little golf cart and all the little kids swarmed around to pet him.  Every once in a while, he'd give me a little wink.  I have to admit, I've had worse dates.  Somehow, I wound up in the church sanctuary with all the families of the brides and grooms.  It was a mass wedding, like the Moonies used to do.  I was embarrassed to leave, so I wound up listening to some sort of inspirational sermon on the joys of wedded bliss.  When it finally ended, my perseverence was rewarded with a very nice commemorative quilt - a wedding favor for me and all of my lucky pew-mates.  I hit the reception hall, but the party was winding down and Corky was no where to be found.  It figured.

I'm not even going to attempt to interpret this dream.  It's too scary.  And depressing.  But I'm going to remember it, as fuel for my newfound resolve.

It's back to the real world for me today.  The dog's going back to her crate tonight.  No more lounging around.  I'm going to hunker down and tackle all my office work.  Tax returns, accounting stuff, and assorted other unpleasant tasks.  Actually, they're not so bad when I finally settle down and get started.

After I get my work done, I'm going to get some exercise, eat a salad, drink lots of water, and change my sheets, which smell like sweat and dogs.  If there's time left over, maybe I'll blog about my progress instead of vegetating on the sofa like the lazy hound I've become... 

My Lucky Day

Yesterday, I just happened to be in the right place at the right time.  Which was Lowe's, when they were marking down their flowering bulbs.  I couldn't believe the prices.  50 cents each for the beautiful hyacinths, $1 for a flat of eight tulips, $2 for a pot of six hyacinths.  It reminded me of last year, when the Boston ferns were marked down to $2.50.  I filled up my car.  Since the Good House had no garden to speak of, I was happy to make my mark on the barren flower beds.  I love ferns.  I can't wait to see the little fiddleheads popping out.

Same for my bulbs.  They're lovely right now - instant gratification - but I'll get to enjoy them every spring.  For now, they're on my patio table, and when I walk out my back door, I'm surrounded by their heady fragrance.

I have enough to share.  I'm gonna take some to my BFF - Angela, and to FF's mom.  Besides the smell, I absolutely love the color of the blue ones.  Which makes me want to paint.  What a great subject for a still life.

I wish I could use my right hand.  It's getting better, but it's still a major inconvenience.  I've become a hermit.  Since I can't put on makeup or fix my hair, I'm feeling very icky.  I don't want to see anyone I know.  Ever.  I'm thinking of checking out Second Life.  Or Plenty of Fish.  Just kidding about both of these.  But I think either one would make me feel like less of a loser.  It's all relative, after all.

Woe is me.

I had surgery on my little finger yesterday.  My right hand is in a cast, so I'm having to function with my left hand.  I am extremely right-hand dominant, so this is a major hindrance.

My surgery went well, except for my argument with the anesthesiologist, who wanted to give me general anesthesia instead of the bier block I'd requested.  We compromised with propofol (Jackson Juice), which I had for my colonoscopy.  Wikipedia says it's a hypnotic, sometimes called Milk of Amnesia because of its milky appearance.  It also says it can cause euphoria, and in rare cases, priapism.  I was pretty euphoric when I woke up in the recovery room.  When I saw the anesthesiologist, I excitedly proclaimed, "There's my little flower!"  My surgeon immediately materialized - he thought I was hallucinating.  I explained that I was Anglicizing Dr. LeFleur's name.  Surely, I wasn't the first patient to do that.  The Flower wasn't amused, judging from his forced smile.

There's lots more to tell, but typing this is excrutiatingly slow, so it will have to wait.  More later... 

Writer's Block

I have it.  Because I have nothing to tell.  I've spent the entire weekend on the sofa, nursing my wounds.  Every time the Lortab wears off, my hand starts throbbing like a mo-fo.  And I have absolutely no pain threshold.  I finally removed the clunky removable splint.  For good.  Well, except for during my trip to Lowe's.  I had to start the ignition with my left hand, but luckily, I could still change gears with my right hand.

I felt self conscious going out in public, but luckily, my bangs are long enough to cover up the damage from my face plant.  I look kinda like Two Face from Batman.  And most of my right hand is a lovely blue/purple/green hombre and my little finger looks like a plump sausage.  Ugh.  I'm dreading surgery Thursday.  And then again in six weeks, to remove the pins.  I wonder what would happen if I just skipped the surgery.  I might just ask about that.  It's just my little finger, after all.  And right now, I can still type without too much pain.  Without the splint.  When I have a cast, I'll really be helpless.  I am soooo right-hand dominant.

While I was at Lowe's, I bought a For Rent sign to put in the yard at my other house.   And some pansies and cilantro and lots of seeds for The Daddler to plant.  He seemed pleasantly surprised.  I'm thinking of tilling up some of our yard beyond the fence.  Our property line is 20 feet beyond the fence, and that's the only place we'll be able to get enough sun to grow veggies. 

Well, I'm sure this isn't the least bit interesting, so I'm gonna head back to the sofa.  It's probably time to do another load of clothes.  Play Words With Friends.  And snuggle up with my sweet Lucy Dog.

My Latest Mishap

I broke my hand.  And my pinkie.  Specifically, my fifth metacarpal and the proximal phalanx.  Funny, it's called a boxer's fracture.  And even though I look like I came out on the wrong end of a prize fight, it was just another episode of my terrible clumsiness.  Here goes...

Thursday afternoon, I decided to take Lucy with me on a run.  I'd walked with her, but hadn't taken her runnning yet.  I couldn't find one of my running shoes, so I decided to wear those stupid shape-up shoes, or whatever they're called.  The ones which are supposed to make your butt firm.  The soles are rounded, which makes you use more muscles to maintain your balance, hence, firming your nether regions.  I should've known better, since I'm deficient in the balance department to start with.  But it hasn't benefitted my gluts, as far as I can tell.

So, we headed out on my usual route around the neighborhood.  Lucy's pretty good about staying with me, unless she sees a squirrel.  Even though she's small, she's strong and can really pull hard on the leash.  But it wasn't her fault.  It was the shoes.  I was happily running along, listening to Whole Lotta Love on my MP3, and enjoying the incredibly beautiful day.  It was so warm that I wore shorts and a sleeveless top.  Which contributed to the severity of my abrasions.  That, and the fact that the section of sidewalk I encountered was the kind with pea gravel embedded in it.  For no apparent reason, I tripped and fell.  It was a total face-plant.  My second one in recent history.  The other one was from falling off my bike on the Green Line.

It's weird how it feels when I fall.  All of a sudden, I'm in slow motion.  First I'm trying to keep from falling.  Then, as my knee hits the pavement, I'm thinking of protecting my face and head.  I felt my hip hit next, and then my shoulder, and last, my face.  My cheek and brow bones, specifically.  Thankfully, I have a prominent chin, because otherwise, I would've lost my teeth long ago.  My worst nightmare.  In fact, in my Green Line accident, my chin took the brunt of the fall.  My helmet protected the rest of my face, judging by the scrapes on it.  I'm thinking I should wear a helmet and mouthguard whenever I do anything remotely athletic.  I have started wearing a hardhat when I go in my attic.

Finally, I finished falling.  I lay there for a minute, stunned.  Lucy was still on her leash, which was on my wrist.  I slowly got back to my feet and assessed the damage.  My knee was bloody.  My hip hurt.  My teeth were ok.  My cheek felt pretty messed up.  I looked at my hand, and it just had a couple scrapes.  I looked around to see if anyone was watching, but I didn't see anyone.  I started walking back home.  I even ran a little.  I was glad I hadn't sprained any of my lower extremities.  When I walked in the front door, I told The Daddler not to be alarmed, because I'd fallen.  I didn't want to scare him, and I was pretty sure I was scary looking.  He checked me out, said I was ok, and issued the following edict:  "He ain't goin' with you no more."  He always refers to her as "he" or "him."  I explained that it wasn't Lucy's fault, but he said he knew how he does, because he walks with him every day.  She does go nuts when she sees a squirrel, but she can't help that.  And there wasn't a squirrel around when I took my little spill.  Hey, if there had been, would it have been my "scape-squirrel?"  I kinda like that.  I wonder if scape-goat refers to the animal which came along just in time to take Isaac's place on the chopping block.  Seems like it was a ram.  TTTGI.  Too Tired To Google It.

Speaking of being too tired, I really am.  Too tired to blog any more.  I'll tell the rest of the gory story tomorrow.  For now, I'll just tell you that I'm scheduled for surgery Thursday.  Gotta get some pins put in.  Ugh.

All for now.  Good night.