New People at Water Aerobics

Tuesday, January 31, 2023

Today I am grateful for new people at water aerobics.  We have been having an onslaught of new people at the pool lately and I love it.  That means someone is working hard to get new members and that means our YMCA will function better and for longer.  And that makes me happy.

Does it get crowded?  You bet.  I don’t care.  There is room for everyone if we all pay attention to our own spaces and don’t float all over the place like packing peanuts in a puddle. 

That’s where I come in.  I have made it my role to welcome every new person and give them the why’s and wherefores of the class.  I always introduce myself and try to grab their names, too, but boy, I have a hard time remembering them all.

Today we had five new people.  FIVE!  I was paddling around like a panicky toddler, trying to cover everyone, making sure they had the correct size noodles/weights.  Then I gave each a quick tutorial on how deep to be, how to pick a spot on the wall to their side to find their way back to where they belong after we’ve moved all over, and to keep their heels down as much as possible so they don’t get leg cramps.  Newbies often get leg cramps and then they want to quit.  But it can be avoided by keeping those heels down more.

I go on to share how they, like me, might have to monitor and adjust how high they kick if they have back problems.  I tell them to not scrunch their shoulders up towards their ears when they use the weights in the water because it can injure the bursa.  I show them how to hold the weights to not irritate carpal tunnel or arthritis in the hands. 

I hope the YMCA powers that be take notice and start ordering us more weights, because I really can’t justify a new person using a weight that is too large and difficult to move in the water.  They’ll hurt themselves.  And then they won’t come back.  Today I gave my own weights up to a newbie.  Please buy more weights!  I swear, if I won the lottery, I’d make a donation of them.  I also swear that most of us who come to water aerobics would not mind one bit if you did some fund raising for the pool to get new equipment.  There, that’s my commercial for the day.

Anyway, I got the last weight today, but only one, and because I didn’t have two to balance myself out, I had to keep switching it from hand to hand, like a manic, not-very-coordinated-juggling-manatee.  It’s okay.  I don’t mind at all, because I want the new people to feel welcome and supported, like I did when I started water aerobics a billion years ago.

Trying to help them without being pushy is a challenge.  Sometimes I can sense people don’t really like being singled out, so I have to back off a little.  And I do.  Haha!  I know. . .ME!  Back off.  Haha.  Good one. Go figure on that one.

I don’t always get it all in at their first visit.  Especially when there are five new people at water aerobics on one day.  And I’m thrilled when I see them again, and again, and again, because it’s fun. . .and I stand a way better chance of remembering their names!  BING!  Heartprint!

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A Brain

Saturday, January 28, 2023

Today I am grateful for a brain.  But I think I left mine in a jar by the door like Eleanor Rigby did her face.  Geeze.  Covid Brain is real! 

I’m going to stop you all before I get started, because I know some of you are going to come at me with how easy it is to do automatic withdrawal payment crap for monthly bills and just know from the git-go, that I do not like that system. 

We do not have enough disposable income to be certain things will be covered, so save your fingers.  Anyway, I’m too nervous about finances and too much of a control freak, so thanks, but no thanks.  I need to do it myself every month.  And yeah, I still reconcile our checkbook, too, so I’m the old dog.  No new tricks for me.

Because we got covid on January first it was bill paying time.  I am the one who always handles this, so I got out my budget book, looked at what gets paid the first of the month, entered the bills in the ledger of our checkbook, subtracted them from the balance, then crossed them off and wrote the date paid next to the item.  Like I always do.  All I had to do was go on line to the bank and pay them there.  No checks involved.  Easy peasy.  Hah!  As if.

A couple of weeks later I got an email from Lowes reminding me that I hadn’t made a payment.  What?  I know I did.  I looked at the budget book and it was crossed off.  I looked in the checkbook and it was written in.  I looked at the online banking account.  Wait.  What?  It wasn’t there.  Geeze.  I made the payment immediately and called later to waive the $30 late fee, which they did.  Double geeze.

Then I got an email a few days later from the people who collect our homeowners association fees.  Same damned thing!  Wrote it in the checkbook, crossed it off in the budget book, but crickets, nada, zip, in the online banking record.  What the hell?  I swear to you these are not the kinds of mistakes I make.  Ever.  Okay, rarely!  Very rarely.

The same day I had to square myself with the gal at the homeowner’s office by giving her info to make a one-time payment through her, I decide to drive Himself to a doctor’s appointment so we can meet up with our friend after. 

We go to his place and park where he tells us to, right outside his patio door.  Himself goes in first while I futz around with something on my phone.  I went in a few seconds later. 

We’re sitting there chatting away for about an hour, petting the dogs and catching up on old times before we decide to go out for a late lunch/early dinner.  Our friend says, “Hey, Mary.  Why are your car lights on?” 

I had no clue.  Figured I must have leaned oddly with the keys in my pocket, where I “always” put them and they clicked on.  Nope.  They weren’t in my pocket.  Or my coat pocket.  Or my purse.  Or in the couch cushion.  Or up my ass!  Or up the poodle’s asses.

Himself, trusting soul that he is (thank God) always brings his set of keys with him, even though I’m using mine when I drive.  Once before I locked mine in the car.  ONCE.  And now he doesn’t trust me.  Smart man.

Since there was no place else to look, I went out to the car.  Yes, the keys were in there.  No, the doors weren’t locked.  Yes, the car was RUNNING!  Running the entire hour we were visiting!  Talk about burning up gas money!  What the serious hell is wrong with me?  That’s a rhetorical question, by the way.  I don’t need a reply on that, but thanks for creating one in your own mind.

The good news is that we were parked in a geezer neighborhood, so even though I saw a few people walking around out there, they probably didn’t even hear that my car was running anyway.  Further good news is they didn’t think it was theirs and mindlessly (like I am these days) hop in and drive off, thinking it must be their car and they forgot to turn it off. 

Having a regular brain is a wonderful thing, but I told Himself he needs to check everything important I do and I will do the same for him until this fog lifts.  Covid Brain is no joke!  And would someone please go out and turn off my car.  BING!  Heartprint!

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Old Friends

Friday, January 27, 2023

Today I am grateful for old friends.  A great couple, David and Sylvia, lived next door to us when we first moved to Pennsylvania 37 years ago.  We had lunch with David yesterday.

At his wife’s funeral I spoke about how I’ll never forget meeting her.  I was standing at my mailbox, looking like the wrath-of-God, dirt and dust all over me, crappy clothes, bad hair, with boxes piled floor to ceiling in our new country house.

She sailed to the end of our parallel driveways, wearing her preppy sweater with a white shirt and collar, designer sunglasses and perfect hair, slammed to a stop and said, “Hi!  I’m Sylvia!  Welcome!  Do you want to go with me running errands?”

I didn’t go with her that time, but we sure did log a lot of hours in various cars throughout the years.  She loved looking at houses and I swear I’ve driven past every cool house in two counties with her at the helm.

They sold their house and moved before we went to Indonesia, when we sold our house, but we always kept in touch, visiting them in almost every one of their homes, a few in Cape Cod, and several in Florida.  Sylvia loved moving to a new place and doing a remodel.  Yikes.  Not me, but I loved watching her do it.

When we moved into our current home, 19 years ago, Sylvia had a great idea.  I had just been let go from a job when the company was sold, the move trying to downsize enough to get our crap from a four-bedroom, huge house, to a much smaller townhouse, was challenging. . .and exhausting.

“Get plane tickets,” Sylvia said. “Move every thing in, then lock the door, stay at a hotel near the airport, visit us for a week and when you go back it will be fun to unpack.”  She was right.  She was always right and I quote her a lot. It rained our first two days there and I pretty much slept through them.  Only a good friend would be okay with that.

I love having wise friends who also make me laugh.  As couples we were blessed that the guys hit it off as well as we did, so we spent a lot of time together.  Don’t you love those next-door neighbor friends you can yell over to and say, “We’re cooking hot dogs and burgers.  Do you want to come over?”  And they do!

Yesterday Himself had an appointment near where they were supposed to move together, but only he did.  Sylvia’s was the only Covid-Funeral I attended.  I miss her every day.

But it was good to catch up with David.  Our general consensus is that we are all getting old.  No kidding?  I hadn’t realized.  Haha.  But it’s okay, because we are still all mobile enough to get together and laugh over good times with an old friend.  BING! Heartprint!

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Monday, January 23, 2023

Today I am grateful for an exorcism.  Aside from the old head-spinning-puking-green-shit movie, I never really knew how that whole thing worked.  Now I do.

When I wrote about having a poltergeist that hid our stuff, Himself happened into the room right after I had posted.  I asked him if he wanted me to read the blog story to him, like I often do.  He loved it. 

Then he said, “I can’t figure out where those damned shadow puppets and Kit-Kats are! It’s making me crazy.”  Only that is making him crazy?  Interesting.

I swear on all things chocolate, he went upstairs to play a game on his computer and within five minutes of me reading the lost-items piece, pranced down the steps with the bin of shadow puppets.  FYI-They were right where I said I thought they might be and he had “looked” there six times. 

Himself looked. It’s a different kind of looking. But apparently after me waxing poetic about them disappearing, they magically appeared. 

I should start writing about shit he can’t find in the refrigerator, too.  Himself standing there with the door open, staring at the ceiling, whining, “where’s the. . .?” Maybe all of it will jump out at him like in Beauty and the Beast! 

Then, and I swear to this, too, not five minutes after the puppets appear, he goes into the kitchen and comes back with the Kit-Kats.  What the serious hell?  I know you’re gonna ask, but no, I didn’t immediately have one.  Still haven’t.  Just not in the mood.  The moment has passed, for now.  But the whole plot twist is leaving me curious.

“Did you deliberately not find that stuff so I’d have something to write about?” I ask. He swears he didn’t.  He swears a lot, so who knows?

But I am wondering if my words are way more powerful than I thought.  Maybe if I write it, it will happen.  Wow!  Great idea.  Okay.  Good to know. 

I’m gonna try another angle on that one.  Here goes. . . “I’ll be so excited when we get two million dollars!”  I was going to ask for five, but it seemed too unrealistic and greedy. Haha.  Oh, and I don’t even care if it takes another poltergeist and exorcism to bring it forth.  Go!  BING!  Heartprint.

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Friday, January 20, 2023

Today I am grateful for a poltergeist, but I wish it would take up residency someplace else.  Unfortunately, we are now in crisis, because several things have disappeared over the holidays and are not reappearing.

Like the four shadow puppets we removed to decorate and have torn the house apart trying to find. And, worse than that, the Kit-Kat candy bars Himself put in my stocking at Christmas.  I can live without the puppets.

I usually shove the puppets under our bedroom dressers for the duration, but this time I have it in my head that I put them in a box and Himself said, “Let me put that box. . .”  But neither of us remember where.  And boy, we’ve searched!  And they are not tiny.

Then, after the decorations came down, because I can’t be trusted and don’t need candy bars screaming at me all day, every day, I told him that he needed to put those Kit-Kat candy bars out of my sight, with his own candy stash.

Even though I no longer go to Weight Watchers or whatever they call themselves now, I still hang onto some of the tricks.  That’s why we keep salty snacks out of the kitchen and in the laundry room.  That’s why I still scoop out a roll when I slap a hamburger on it, since I only need the shell to hold the toppings.  And it’s why I ask Himself to disappear my favorite candy.  Temporarily. I hope.

Look, I always know it’s there.  A foody person, like me, carries an entire inventory of on-site treats in their mind at all times.  It’s a burden.  And a gift.  Himself will say, “Oh, I forgot I had that.” And I laugh.  Forgot?  Ask me.  Usually, I can tell you where every left-over piece of candy from three Halloween’s ago is buried, even if it’s under a couch cushion.  Except it seems my “file” is a bit questionable lately.

The other day I really, really wanted one of those Kit-Kats.  I went into the favorite cabinet of Himself, chocked full of gummy bears, thin mints, Hershey’s Kisses, Dove chocolates, Good ‘n Plenty, and other important staple food items for a diabetic.  They weren’t there. I tore the shit out of that cabinet, like a crack addict in a ghetto alley, but I still didn’t find them.  I had to have a substitute with my coffee.  I was not happy about it. 

When Himself got home I asked him where he hid the Kit-Kats?  He doesn’t remember.  What the hell?  He can’t find them.  He’s looked in all of his squirreled-away spots and they are not there.  And he’s been laughing about how funny that is, “Ha, ha, for the life of me I can’t remember where I put those Kit-Kat’s,” he says several times a day.  NOT FUNNY!  I might have to stand him up against the wall with a flashlight pointed at his eyeballs. . .or make him clean out the entire cabinet. Or take a backhoe to the house.  Or get a Kit-Kat sniffing dog.

I’m pretty sure those damned missing shadow puppets took them and are chomping away while we sleep.  Bastards!  I would like to find them, and I guess I can see how he might have forgotten where he put them, but how can you not remember where you put my Kit-Kats?!!! That’s just wrong. 

It’s time for that poltergeist to step up with our missing stuff or get the Hell out. But if that sucker shows up with Kit-Kat breath there will be hell to pay!  BING!  Heartprint!

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Comfort Food

Friday, January 13, 2023

Today I am grateful for comfort food.  In our Covid Comedy, we have been off our game with eating.  To Himself that means he hasn’t been eating much at all. 

Me, not so much.  Is it feed a fever, starve a cold?  Feed a cold, starve a fever?  Or feed everything, including Covid.  The man starves it all.  I feed it all.  Okay, in fairness, I wasn’t eating as much, but not by choice. . . by exhaustion.  It was either too much work to go grab something real or by the time I got it to my pie hole I was too tired to eat it before it was skanky and cold.  I pushed through.  Trust me.

Salty, spicy food helped to lessen the sucking-on-rebar taste in my mouth.  So sometimes for dinner I’d have a bowl of left-over-from-Christmas-Chex-Mix and a Gatorade.  Hey, some folks like cereal for dinner so this was just my twist on that.

Himself ate one slice of toast and declared he was “full.”  Geeze.  I want to get some of that.  I want to order the “Oh, I can’t eat that, I’m full,” gene that applies even to a person’s all-time favorite food.  Sign me up!  We’ll patent that and make a bloody fortune.

I was shocked when Himself jumped at the idea of me adding a roasting chicken to our last grocery order.  Shocked.  Everyone in our family recognizes his “chicken face” because he doesn’t much care for chicken. Or any food other than liverwurst, gummy bears and chocolate pudding.  I could add a few more, but what’s the point?  He’s picky.  But doesn’t complain so I let him live.

He does like a slice of roasted chicken, as long as there are also mashed potatoes with Le Seur mini peas that he can dump on top of them, jellied cranberry sauce and Pillsbury crescent rolls.  “Don’t get those damned generic crescent rolls because they are not the same.”

Yesterday I made “the meal.”  The first real meal in a week.  I love stuffing so I made that, too.  If I hadn’t been smart enough to use the food processor to chop the celery and onions, I’d be dead.  Or still sleeping on the kitchen floor.

I used to be able to knock out a meal like this with little effort.  Yesterday I was peeling shirts off and putting others on as I was sweating through everything I had on.  And that was before the oven was on.  I was a Cirque Du Soleil floor show with T-shirts instead of ribbons.  Geeze.

I know the picture is loaded with food that is bad for you, except the broccoli, which I ate and Himself didn’t touch.  This is pretty much a testament to carbs, which we all know are the evil step-child of the food chain. 

But I don’t care.  It was delicious.  And it’s going to be delicious again today.  And maybe tomorrow.  And if that isn’t the definition of comfort food, I don’t know what is.  For me, anyway.  Himself won’t touch a leftover. BING!  Heartprint!

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On the Mend in the Covid Comedy

Monday, January 9, 2023

Today I am grateful that we are on the mend in the Covid Comedy.  Himself, like Rip Van Winkle, has finally woken up from his covid naps and I, while a few days behind him in recovery am also feeling better.  Both of us still feel like the Energy-Bunny-Road- Kill sometimes, but if we rest a little, we now rally.  For a little while anyway.

It hasn’t been as awful as I expected.  But I do wonder if we might have gotten that new and improved Covid strain, because it seems it hit us a little harder than it has others who are thoroughly vaxed.  Maybe we’re just special.

Anyway, I’m hoping that Himself will now take responsibility for his own food/liquid intake and I can stop being a screaming bitch from hell to get him to take two sips of anything.  It’s been a lot of fun.

Me:  You need to drink something.

Himself:  I’m not thirsty.

Me:  That doesn’t matter.  Drink anyway.

Himself:  I don’t want to drink anything.

Me:  You have to drink or you won’t feel better.

Himself:  Who says?

Me:  Everyone.

Himself:  Name them.

I rattle off a million names of experts, friends, and pundits on TV.

Himself: What do they know?

Me:  Science.  You’re a scientist.  Are you saying science is now bullshit?

Himself:  No, but. . .

Me:  You HAVE to drink.  I’m going to get you a Gatorade and you will drink the whole thing today.

Himself:  I hate that shit.

Me:  Then drink water.

Himself:  I don’t want water.

Me:  Then drink damned soda.

Himself:  It hurts my throat.

Me:  Then drink Gatorade!

Himself:  Okay.  Will you shut up if I do?

Me:  Do you know me?

I get the aforementioned Gatorade, write his name on it and he settles in with the laptop he brought down from upstairs, so he can play a game on it.  It doesn’t run on battery anymore and now doesn’t work at all.  After five minutes of bitching, I realize he forgot to turn on the switch at the wall, so I get up and do that for him because he’s all tucked in.  For the next couple of hours this is how it went.

Me:  Take a sip.

Himself:  I’m working on it.

Me:  Don’t “work” on it.  Just do it.

Himself:  I am.  I said I’M WORKING ON IT!

Me:  I don’t see you drinking a thing.

Himself:  I’ve been drinking.

Me:  When.  The whole bottle is still there!

Himself:  Now.  I’m going to drink now.

He pours an inch in the glass and sips it like a toddler trying lemonade for the first time.  Geeze.  Just drink it.  Seriously, what is the big deal with drinking?  Doesn’t want water, soda or Gatorade. . .or even booze, although he did mention that Gatorade might be better with some whisky in it.

Every fifteen minutes I’m on him to take another sip.  We were having soooo much fun.

Me:  You aren’t sipping.

Himself:  It tastes like horse piss.

Me:  If you don’t start drinking, I’m going to go turn the switch off at the wall and kill your computer. 

Himself:  I just sipped.

Me:  I didn’t see you.

Himself:  You have to watch closer.

From that moment on, every time he took a sip, he held the glass up like a middle finger, making sure that I knew he was drinking that stupid Gatorade.  Do I love being the fluids cop?  Nope!  Not even a little. But the doctor was adamant about getting enough hydration, so I put on the hat.  Good thing I wasn’t armed. Is he being a pain-in-my-ass?  Yup! Status quo!

To me it looks like he has lost about 6 pounds.  Swell.  I bet I know where they went.  I am so glad we are finally on the mend.  I’m not sure how much more togetherness I can take in this Covid Comedy! BING!  Heartprint!

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Covid Comedy, Part 2

Friday, January 6, 2023

Today I am grateful for our Covid Comedy, Part 2.  First let me say that I am so very grateful that we had the good sense to get vaccinated and boosted and boosted, and boosted again, because this is no joke!  So, if you haven’t hopped on board, pull your head out of your ass and get your vaccinations!

I’m sure for some people, Covid feels like a cold.  Lucky them. Yesterday I felt like I had been hit by a large truck, its wheels stopped on my head, pinning my skull to the pavement like roadkill.  Then the driver jumped out and poked both of his thumbs into my eye sockets like one of the three Stooges.

That same guy must have creeped into my bedroom last night because today he’s pushing those thumbs on my throat.  Soon he’ll be out of body parts to annoy.  Or maybe we have to knock off watching the crime dramas on Netflix.

Today Himself feels a little better, although his shower felt like an aerobic activity and he had to rest between sets.  Yesterday, when I dragged him with me to get my prescription because I felt we both needed some new air, he slept in the car the entire time and when we got home, he slept for another three hours.  Wow.  Even for Mr. Sleeping-is-my-Superpower, that was a lot.  It’s probably why he feels better today.

I started the Paxlovid and because I have a stronger dose than him, the metallic tase in my mouth reminds me of sucking on the back, rear, quarter panel of a rusty Buick.  1978.  Don’t ask me how I know.  Those were crazy times.

Don’t worry.  In the words of my mother, “This, too, shall pass!”  And it will.  I’m a few days behind Himself, but we bickered this morning over his resistance to drinking liquids, so I think we’re getting a little back to normal.  He acts like a small glass of Gatorade is poison.  Geeze.  Toddler, much?

Our kids have been contacting us a lot.  One day the oldest asked, “Are there people checking up on you?”  How sweet.  And I laughed.  Because the most amazing thing about being part of this Covid-glitch is that we are showered with the best friends in the universe.

I swear there are 200 people standing in line, waiting to tear sheets and boil water.  The offers for food, help, fetchers and carriers, are hourly.  “I’m going to be out running errands and I can get you. . .”  It’s been amazing.  I swear if I didn’t put the kibosh on it, some of them would band together and have a food truck parked in our driveway.  I might have to consider that for when I can taste again.  LOL

We really, really don’t need anything, but believe me I will call on some of you if we do.  I have soup in the freezer that will last as long as the horded toilet paper holds out.  Himself still has liverwurst, but I know who to send if he runs out.  There is bread in the freezer along with homemade TV dinners and other crap I didn’t even know was there.  Thank you so much for the outpouring of support.  We’re good.

While I’m sitting here, waxing not-so-poetic, feeling like I’m sucking on rebar with this nasty metallic taste, side effect of the Proxlovid, in this Covid Comedy, Part 2, I’m reminded of a line that Clarence says to George Bailey in the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, “No man is a failure who has friends.”  I must be an enormous success! Love to you all!  BING!  Heartprint!

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Covid Comedy

Wednesday, January 4, 2023

Today I am grateful for a Covid Comedy.  Yes, the vial and dreaded, annoying, never-seems-to-go-away virus has hit our happy home.  Himself tested positive on Sunday.  Happy New Year.  Better pee and grab a beverage. I’m wordy today.

Our doctor is wonderful and happened to be on line when I messaged her so he had a virtual appointment the very next day and the day after that started on Paxlovid.  Wow. What a game changer. 

Later, on Monday his throat was so sore that he could barely swallow water.  I was so worried that I didn’t even feel like picking on him, so you know it was bad.  He’s better now, so he’s free game and he knows it.

I figured that although I had tested negative when he tested positive, I was still on thin ice and could get it at any time.  I didn’t isolate him to the upstairs, or make him sleep on the couch, because frankly, I wanted to keep an eye on him.  I figure that since we’re practically joined at the hip, what real difference would it make at this point.

But because I was like a mama bear, I figured I better forage and gather, in case we were both locked in for weeks without comfort food like Sunkist orange soda for him and the makings for chili for me.  Staples.  Plus things like dish soap and dental floss and about $200 of necessities.  Geeze.  Prices!

We’ve also been going through trash can hell in our development.  We got a new company and they will give you a trash and recycling bin, but each is 96 gallons.  We don’t generate that much trash in a month, but team player that I am, I said I’d try.  Anyone want a plastic mobile home you could rope to the back of your car?  We cleaned and reorganized the entire garage to make room.  Fugetaboutit. 

We just couldn’t make it work.  They’ll have to pick these bins up and I immediately ordered a smaller one from Lowes curb side pick-up, that they would let us use if the lid was attached.  It is.  Yeah, me.

Because of the extra water, general illness and odd/no eating with a bad sore throat, Himself was using a little more laundry than usual.  No worries.  I have a washer and dryer.  I threw a load in and stuck it in the dryer before I even left the house, that way it would be ready to fold when I returned.

My master plan had both the groceries and trash can getting picked up at around the same time, in the same location.  See how efficient I am?  After settling Himself in with his laptop, water, blanket, paper towels, trash can, and the remote control I headed off to pick up the stuff.  In the pouring rain.

The gal at Lowes slipped the trash can in the car with no problem.  Except inside it has two things I didn’t order and wasn’t charged for and because I didn’t notice that until I got home and messaged them but am not sure it was directed correctly or even sent, they might be mine now.  That was sort of like word-Hell, wasn’t it?  You should listen to me in person.  Anyway, I’ll work on that later.  Maybe.

I swung through to get the groceries, mentioning to the great gal there that I didn’t get a lot of things I ordered, nor did they offer substitutions like I ask them to.  She said the new shoppers are lazy (swell) and sometimes don’t even look.  She asked if I wanted her to go get the missing stuff.  Usually I’d say “no, don’t bother,”  but since we were in the early stages of we-don’t-know-what-is-coming-covid-hell, I said, yes.  What a doll.  I tipped her.

Himself usually brings in the groceries, but today it would fall on me.  You don’t realize how much someone else does until they are not there to do it.  I’m sure my suddenly single friends will be able to relate to that.  And it’s tedious and boring to not have anyone to bitch with.

In the pouring rain, with fireworks-sciatica screaming down my leg, I dragged a few bags at a time into the house.  I still had the soda and trash can to put in the garage.  Hey, I’m a smart person. . .or so I thought. . .I’ll put the 12 packs of soda on top of the wheely trash can and BAM I’d be done.  In the rain.

I set the first case on the trash can.  It flips over, the case crashes to the ground, barely missing my sore leg and pops open.  Cans of Sunkist orange soda roll down the wet driveway with the momentum of a projectile push.  I say, “Oh my.  Goodness gracious. Look what just happened.  Soda cans all over the street. Tra la!”

Still stupidly thinking I’m smart, I grab the now empty carton to go pick them up.  I put one in, then two, the blinding rain clouding my mood as they fall straight through.  Okay.  Nice.  That’s the kind of day it’s going to be. 

I had one more bag of groceries in the back of the car, emptied it, grabbed the bag and went dripping and cursing into the street to collect slimy, rolling soda cans, each bend sending a jolt of pain through my back like a railroad spike being driven in by Paul Bunyun.  Cans slipping and rolling away from me, I was like some sort of deranged Bo Peep trying to pick up steaming sheep shit from an unruly, fast moving herd!

I set the bag of wet cans on the floor just inside the door of our newly cleaned garage and shoved the trash can to its new home.  When I picked up the bag of soda to bring it in the house, I heard. . .hissssssss.  Sonofabitch!

There was an orange puddle on the garage floor, but standing there I couldn’t find the leaking culprit and with the sciatica electrical charges distracting me, I decided I needed to sit on the front porch chair to look.

Moving cans one at a time, looking for signs of leakage, I moved one, then another, then another.  And got sprayed in the face, right between the eyeballs with the bastard.  A shooting orange soda geyser sprayed all over my face, hair and the sweatshirt I had just washed.  So there’s me, bawling, pissed off, throwing a can of soda with a jet-stream into the front bushes.  It’s still there.  It can stay there until Spring as far as I’m concerned. So can the other cases, which are still in the car!

I’m finally in the house, put away only the perishables because if I have to do one more thing on my feet you’ll be reading about a crazy woman pitching groceries out her door into the rain.  So, I sit, check in with a half sleeping Himself and then get up to get the load of laundry from the dryer to fold.

What the serious hell?  I open the dryer door and wafts of white fuzzies come flying out like dandelions gone to seed.  There is fuzz on everything.  The lint trap is exploding with it.  So is my brain.  “Oh me, oh my.  What new hell is this, I calmly asked.”

Apparently, Himself, in his covid stupor put something fluffy and white in something that wasn’t supposed to be there.  He’s really good about NOT doing stuff like this, so I never check pockets unless they are mine.  Well yesterday that bit me in my sunny disposition.

I had to shake everything before folding it.  The clouds of shit were everywhere but I was too exhausted to care.  The living room rug looked like I had been feeding chickens.  Himself vacuumed it up today, because he’s a way smarter person than me and is finally learning how to read the room.

Some days are just like that.  When I stop bawling about them, I realize they are fodder for my stories.  And what story doesn’t need a good BoPeep and Farmer in the Dell moment as part of their own personal Covid Comedy?  Oh, and I tested negative again today. But I’m still a little tired. I wonder why? Hah! BING!  Heartprint!

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Ridiculous Invention

Sunday, January 1, 2023

Today I am grateful for another ridiculous invention.  I’ve been sitting tight on writing about this one because the visuals were still springing into my pea brain and I was jotting them down.  The neurosis has subsided, so to usher in this new year, I’m ready.

Himself and I were watching TV one night a while back and saw a commercial for a Hug Sleep Pod, for $88, in sizes small, medium, and large.  No extra X’s there at all.  I guess they figure we X’s have enough problems.  Also, if you use a pillow between your knees get a bigger one.  But you can’t order it now, because there is a “waitlist” and they are not available.  What?  There was a rush on them? Everyone is buying these too-small torture turniquets?

What the serious hell?  I swear, when the ad was over, the room went silent, we had a moment staring at each other in a non-romantic way, then burst out laughing.

Let me explain the concept of this contraption.  It’s like a long, stretchy pillow case that you slide your entire body into.  It’s supposed to make you feel cozy and secure like babies do when you swaddle them.  I guess.  But we have issues. A lot of issues!

When it takes twelve grunts and as many curse words to get into jammies, get the lids off meds, set up the CPAP and deal with the now necessary lotions and potions to even get ready for bed, how in the world could we add “slipping” into this thing?

I stopped wearing pantyhose after I threw out my back trying to tug them on.  Now, I’m supposed to pour myself into this hug-pod?  Looks like a permanent whiplash to me!  And even imagining Himself, who bitches at his socks as though they were evil, trying to wedge into this contraption, is beyond hilarious.

We each get up to pee a couple of times a night.  I can see Himself. . . or rather hear him, because he would surely be cursing a blue streak. . .forgetting he was trussed up like a Peking Duck in the window of a restaurant in Chinatown, getting out of bed, trying to take a step and face planting right on the floor like a sack of hug-pod-shit.

I’d have to hop over in my own hug-pod, try to reach his feet and shake him out of that thing like I’m emptying a bag of stale bread down the garbage disposal.  By then he would have peed.  I would have peed.  The pods would be used to mop up the rug before landing in the trash.

Maybe we would get up at the same time and try to hop to the bathroom in unison.  Can you picture it?  Two people who can barely stay upright walking, hopping and crashing into things like bumper cars.  Now there’s a real two-legged-potato-sack-race-marriage-encounter-exercise.

Or maybe I’d be smart.  Ha-ha!  Good one, right?  I have a straight shot to the bathroom from my side of the bed.  I could slither to the floor, desperate to pee, and inch-crawl-my-way-out of my hug-pod like a snake shedding its skin.  The only problem is getting up from the floor.  Not gonna happen in this lifetime.

Okay, those are the getting up issues, but even in bed how does that thang work?  We roll over a lot.  Half the time I’m pissed off at my night shirt when it twists around me like a corkscrew and I have literally wrenched a shoulder muscle trying to get untangled.  We need flailing legs and grabbing arms to maneuver a rotation.

In those suckers we’d be like the hotdogs that turn on the wheely grill in the minimart, except we’d be the ones left to die during a power failure, stuck like burnt Velcro instead of easily sliding and turning.  Get the jaws-of-life! Save us!

Why would anyone think this is a cool thing for a grown up?  I must be missing something.  I confess, I have wondered what fun I could have if Himself wore one.  But cooler heads prevail, and the potential medical bills stop me from purchasing this ridiculous invention.  Have a great 2023!  BING!  Heartprint.

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