The below was supposed to be my post on Friday but I procrastinated and then Mother Nature threw a wackadoodle of a storm and lightning blew out a transformer and we lost power for 20hours and it was a million degrees inside the house and I had a migraine and my phone died so that didn't happen... I know this is so 'but the dog ate my homework' but for once the damn dog had nothing to do with this delay... anyway, last week's burt below I had surgery six weeks ago on stupid Broken Ankle. The best part about the surgery was the nerve block they put into my leg which made it numb for almost 24 hours. I could pretend that I was just being pampered by Nurse Shrek for no reason. Well, if I ignored the 30 minute round trips to the bathroom to pee with Nurse Shrek as witness holding my drugged self up, I could. The worst thing I that remember wasn't the needles or the cutting or the new very expensive jewelry they attached with power tools to my ankle bones. Nope. The worst part was when I woke up from the surgery and told the nurse I needed to pee and she said that she'd help me with that and started unplugging me from the various wires attached to my chest but then got distracted by a fellow nurse who took her into a corner of the cold room and started whiper-fighting with her. Which would have been fine if she came back. But she didn't. The two of them whisper-fought for about 45 min while I lay there, numb everywhere but my bladder, slowly getting more and more uncomfortable. I asked another nurse if she could help me out and she told me she would let my nurse know, which she did. But my nurse just nodded and kept whisper-fighting with her co-worker and ignored my floating back teeth. Finally I sat my groggy self up and started pulling tubes and wires off me as I looked around to see where the bathroom might be. Not that I could see anything because Husband had taken my glasses everything past my nose was a blurry mess. And not that I had a plan once I was not hooked up to anything because not only did I have the nerve block in my leg, which meant my leg wasn't going to do a thing I told it to, but I was totally not allowed to put any weight on the stupid Broken Ankle to get my stupid self to a bathroom. Good thing my ineffective attempts to free myself from the wires set off an alarm and Nurse decided her whisper-fight could wait. Why am I babbling about this six weeks later? Well, this morning, while shifting things I haven't dealt with since Broken Ankle happened seven weeks ago from one pile to another, I found this lovely card the surgery team sent me. A lovely gesture which would be all the more meaningful if I knew who any of these people were!
Honestly, a little note next to each would have been helpful - like, Kim (the only one you remember because she gave you the first drug and drew 'Cut this one' on your leg). Or ??? (the one who stabbed you with the wonderful needle of no pain) Or ??? (the nurse who whisper-fought while you needed to pee.) Because then I could send each of them a personal thank you back, just like my mother taught me. And the one who gave me the nerve block would get a large bottle of booze and a monthly subscription to the chocolate of the month club. Because obviously she was my favorite. You can just guess what whisper-fight would get. And what finger I'd use to sign the card... FIVE. MORE. DAYS. (Of course, because of the power outage and the git who forgot to flick the switch and turn our section back on, it's now TWO. MORE. DAYS!!! I, of course, am not counting today because TWO. DAYS. is MUCH better than THREE. DAYS. And in TWO. DAYS. I get to see my withered ,hairy, smelly mess of a leg maybe be allowed to put some weight on it and begin to walk again. TWO. DAYS!!!)
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ONE: While I didn’t sell loads at the festival this past weekend, I was so dang pleased with the interactions I had with the many friends that stopped by and visited. I HAVE FRIENDS HERE!!! And that is a great thing because making friends as a grown up is hard. AND because the fact that they went out of their way on a busy Saturday and stopped by to visit is because they like me (I hope) and not because they think that if they are “friends” with me, I might one day get a record deal and take them with me on my journey to fame. Cause that ain't happening. TWO: I work with kids and kids are funny. But sometimes, some days are rough. Then sometimes this happens and it makes the rough “I want you to go away!” times worth it. THREE: This lady is here. And this lady makes me happy – even when she turns me into a bitchy sixteen-year-old shit. FOUR: This is her suitcase. I can’t tell you how giggly I got when I saw this relic whipping slowly around the baggage claim carousel. I mean, I remember this from our trips back and forth to Kenya. I’m pretty sure Brother and I played hide and seek in it a time or two – back when either one of us would actually fit IN it. FIVE: She brought me my grandmother. This picture hung on the wall of the guest room at my Grandmother’s house. This was painted by a family friend - who also happens to be a famous impressionist painter. This one hung on the wall at the foot of the bed and an larger, even more austere one hung at the head of the bed. Both of characters Grandmother had played at one point or another in her acting career.
When I was “grown up” and brought home the boyfriend for Christmas and insisted on sleeping in the guest room together because I was “grown up” (and rude), Mom convinced Grandmother to let us sleep in there. The next morning I asked her how she could ever sleep in there with her mother staring down at her from the head of the bed and from the foot of the bed. “I just close my eyes.” She said, smiling because without a fight, she had won. SIX: Every night after I go to bed, Joe the Boxer sneaks up for a long hug from Husband. I caught them once when I came back with a question and now I sneak in for a peak every night. Last night, probably because Mom was here, Joe the Boxer needed his hug early. There ain't much cuter than a 60+ pound dog needing some love from a grumpy Scotsman to put a smile on my face. And his. Happy things! I like to be early to things. It gives me great pains to be late. I sweat, my breathing speeds up, I imagine all the faces turning to look at mine as I enter a room, each one more disappointed than the last. I so hate to be late. Husband likes to say that if I have an appointment at 3pm, I will leave the house at 10am. He’s exaggerating of course – but not by much. On Monday, I showed up for my first day with a new family at 7:10am. I waited in my car until 7:20am, got out, locked up the car and walked to the door, knocking at 7:25am – a respectable 5 minutes early. Or so I thought. The mom opened the door in her bathrobe, totally surprised to see me. The dad, in his pajamas looked equally confused. Not because I was 5 minutes early but because I was a full 5 minutes and FOUR DAYS EARLY! Yup. Husband is never going to let me live this one down. And speaking of Husband, I know I rag on him all the time. He’s weird about food and apparently can’t have anything but the damn beige bedding we’ve had for-freaking-ever and his path to logic is not always a straight one. BUT he’s a wicked talented guy and not just with music. (Or in the bedroom, he’d have me say.) The dude can make things and make them look good. That damn OCD is good for the fine details, that's for sure. Anyway, on our anniversary three years ago, we bought a new mattress. It wasn’t a planned purchase. No, we wanted to go to Trader Joe’s and the only parking spots available were in front of the mattress store that shares the parking lot. So, we did the fake out park. You know, walk in, pretend to look, say we’ll think about it and then walk into Trader Joe’s. But we failed so miserably that we ended up buying a king sized mattress. We suck at the fake out park. Worse than that, the mattress turned out to be horrible. Not so bad we felt we needed to do something about it until long after the 100-day test had passed. We did manage to get the box springs replaced once before the warranty expired but that only seemed to work until the deadline was come and gone. It’s like there was a timer on the dang thing and as soon as the warranty expired, it sagged and poked and was generally an evil torture device designed to make us angry all the time. And while we’re heavier than we should be, we’re not ‘break the mattress’ fat. We needed a new mattress but I didn’t want to go through that drama when I was still hurting from the first failure. I mean I’m still wearing the same damn bras because I can’t be bothered trying and failing with a new one. Husband said we didn’t need a new mattress that it was the box springs that sucked so he set about fixing the problem. Unlike me, he wasn’t going to just complain or purchase a new mattress just to be disappointed, nope. Husband was going to build a bed. And not like buy the parts off the Internet and build a bed. Nope, Husband bought plywood, cut plywood, glued plywood to make it extra thick, cut, drilled whatever else and put together this beauty of a bed that is wicked comfortable. Like, slept like a baby kangaroo in a pouch cozy. Like, when I roll over or my leg circus comes to town, he can’t feel me dancing on my side comfortable. Like, there’s no mountain in the middle with large valleys on each side that I have to climb to kiss him goodnight snug. Like, Husband was right. Again.
It’s getting to be a habit with him. Damn it. One of the most frustrating things with the three dog circus that is our life right now – even more annoying than finding Tigger the Dog shoulder deep in a chipmunk hole - is feeding time.
Feeding time sucks worse than – crap, I don’t know what it sucks worse than, it is that awful. It’s fraught with shouting and pulling and yelly ultimatums and general melee. We’ve got the dogs set up in three different corners of the dinning room. A room, I might add, that we’ve only used twice to eat in ourselves. And despite the three corners, the dogs act as if we’ve never fed them and that we're timing them to see who eats the fastest. Well, two of them do. Pepper the Wannabe Cat barks like she’s defending the free world from attack as she rushes for hers. Tigger the Dog Chewbacca whines and then proceeds to inhale her food like we’re going to yank it away from her. Meanwhile, Joseph acts as he wasn’t emaciated three months ago, not knowing where his next meal was coming from at all and he eats like a picky toddler, one freaking piece of dog food at a time. Which means when Tigger the Dog has gulped down hers, she starts stalking Joseph, waiting for that moment his ADD kicks in and he walks away from his still full bowl. And Pepper the Wannabe Cat sneaks up on Joseph's bowl under the guise of stretching. All training is thrown out the window- theirs and ours - and it’s a cluster fuck of chaos. I hate it more than I hate the annual visit to the gynecologist. And I HATE that. But today was wonderful. Not because none of the above happened. Nope, it was shitty as usual. But today was wonderful because, I kicked Tigger the Dog and Pepper the Wannabe Cat out the door as soon as they were done eating and sat with Joseph trying to keep him focused on eating. And while I was doing that, I sat down in our dinning room we've only used twice and I looked out the window. And out that window, I saw Mama Owl and Papa Owl trade spots in their new nest just across the street. And then I watched Papa come out and sit in the doorway of said nest and watch the world go by. So what if watching Joseph eating is more maddening that a toddler eating peas one at a time? Who cares that Tigger the Dog was outside attempting to catch chipmunks by digging under the HVAC unit? So what if Pepper the Wannabe Cat was teasing Tigger the Dog into fighting and the neighbors are likely to call Animal Services soon? I got to see Owls. AND that means Owl babies are coming! It's the little things, folks. Little fuzzy things! Husband has OCD. It manifests itself in his not being able to eat in other people’s homes and having to have certain things in set places. And to apparently have to have the same bedspread - from that high end store known for fabric quality, Ikea - for as long as we’ve been together. It’s beige and boring with a white-stripped grid pattern and I have grown to hate it. Not because it's offensive but because it's not. Every birthday, Christmas, anniversary, hallmark holiday, random Wednesday, I’ve asked for a new spread. But Husband can’t have bright bedspreads in a “place of calm” and so we’ve got beige and boring. Before Husband, I had bright bedspreads with flowers and shapes and large blocks of garish colors. I miss them. My bedroom was a mix of colors and styles - much like the inside of my brain or my thought process. There was nothing calm about it. I didn't sleep well but that's beside the point. But then miracle of miracle, he told me yesterday he is actually looking into getting new bedding. I KNOW!!! I about squealed when he mentioned it. I didn’t because I didn’t want to scare him off but inside, inside I was doing the wiggly dance of joy. I was picturing colors and patterns and maybe a paisley swirl or two. I was imagining going to sleep our new bedroom and all the crazy psychedelic dreams I was going to have... And then, last night, he told me he’d found a possible replacement for beige and boring. I started the party in my head. And then he showed me this! And I started laughing.
And laughing. And laughing. Because those are the same f***ing sheets. Sure, they're grey and the lines are bigger. Sure, the quality is likely to be better than Ikea’s but seriously?!? That is the same sheet. SAME!!! “It’s nothing like it...” he kept saying, as I’m laughing and gasping for air. “It’s nothing like it...” as the tears were streaming down my face and my colorful dreams were dying. What was I thinking? Husband suddenly changing the sheets from beige and boring to vibrant - like in what world would that happen? The kind of world where I am sane and never worry about anything? A world where I never ever second and third guess a decision? A world where the presidential candidates and politicians suddenly wake up and realize if they don't play nicely with others, we're going to be in a war with everyone and not just ourselves? Yeah, we don’t live in that world. We live in a world where we've had the same beige and boring bedding for twelve years. But it's the kind of world where our color and patterns and crazy comes from the people in it. Where our lives are the farthest thing from boring because suddenly we're parents to three dogs who apparently can't just lie quietly in the corner until I'm ready to play with them but MUST play right now. A world where that man I married is constantly surprising me - and not always in a good way. Some days, I'd prefer colorful bedding... But then I'd have nothing to say. |
AuthorMy name is ej. I'm a girl. I say that because with the short hair and the short initials, folks aren't always sure. More brilliant insights to who I am in About me Archives
April 2019
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