“Probably at least four more weeks, wimpy Human…”
So I picked this bug up on the 15th from the Mayo’s ER. That was about three weeks ago. Not all that long ago, but yes, God is (as usual) right: I am a wimp. Videlicet: I am damn tired of being sick!
The last time I enjoyed a comparable bug, it took four months to get over it. This would suggest we have another three months or so to listen to me whine…assuming a bolt of lightning doesn’t shut me up before then.
Maybe that’s what the recent blast from the clouds was all about? A divine comment, on the order of “Please shut up!”
Ruby the Corgi is no more pleased with the whiny Human than is God Herself. Most offensive: the dog walks have come to an abrupt halt. We’ve managed two strolls with the dog over the past three weeks, one of which ended when I couldn’t get enough air into my chest to keep going. My enthusiasm for being dragged through Upper Richistan, it must be allowed, has fallen to exactly nil.
Worse yet, the Human keeps climbing into the bed and parking there. Not wanting to be rousted out of a snooze by a dog campaigning to get onto the bed, the critter insists on lifting the Dog up there, too…willy nilly. In the Dog’s case, the sentiment is more nil than will.
This predicament elicits the gratifyingly terrifying Llama Drama from the Dog. She perches on the edge of the bed’s footboard and leans precariously over, peering down into the void as though she were contemplating plunging from the top of the Andes’ highest peak. This is part of an elaborate dance whose ultimate purpose is to extract a doggy treat.
The Human, alarmed lest the Dog decided to throw itself onto the tile floor — thereby creating an elaborate veterinary bill, to say nothing of two or three hours of frenzy — now has to get up and gently lift the Dog off the bed. Result? The ever-effective Doggy Treat Dance, in which the Dog does a joyful whirling dervish thing, up the hallway and out to the kitchen.
No, she does not want to go out. (Are you kidding? It’s dark out there!) She wants a doggy treat, and she will not give up until she gets one.
Very effective. The Human goes back to bed. The Dog, munching, retires to her nest beneath the toilet.
I’ve lost my beloved two-cup Pyrex measuring cup. Where it could be, I cannot imagine. One of the less charming functions of old age is the habit of setting things down and then forgetting where you put it. Hours may go by, days may go by, yea verily even weeks may go by, and the beloved object is GONE.
Eventually, you may find it…but…not until you have replaced it.
Goodie. Just what I feel like doing when I’m at Death’s Door: stumbling from Goodwill to St. Vincent de Paul to the Mormons’ second-hand store searching for a piece of real Pyrex.
It couldn’t have gone far. Either I set it down carelessly and can’t remember where or the cleaning lady put it “away,” in which case I’ll never find it. Another possibility: I could have dropped it in the trash. But fortunately, I haven’t taken the trash out to the alley in days. So…tomorrow I’ll have the pleasure of fishing through the two trashcans in the garage, one piece at a time. The likelihood that it’s in the garbage is almost nil…but…I can’t afford to take that chance.
Ohhh gawd, i am soooo sick! The last thing I feel like doing is driving from pillar to post trying to replace that thing in a thrift shop. Let’s hope it resurfaces soon, like a dim message in the inky Magic Eight-Ball of my life.