I spent last Sunday morning enjoying the wonderful spectacle of The London Marathon and was filled with admiration for all the thousands of people prepared to put themselves through the pain barrier in order to raise money for worthy causes.
Imagine my fury, therefore, when I spotted a number of so-called athletes completing the distance whilst comfortably seated in chairs with wheels attached.
These sluggards and stay-a-beds should be brought to book by the organisers and should never be allowed to compete again in my view. No wonder they’re starting to call our once-proud nation “Broken Britain”
Dear Whitechapel Whelk
I’m not a bigoted man but I’d strongly advise the president of The United States to change the name of his country retreat from Camp David to something a bit more manly.
How on earth does he expect despotic world leaders to…
Thor and Embla slowly
Holding hands in the
Wrapped up in their
They languished ‘neath
He bent his head
Cupping her face.
to his broad chest,
Embla cried to her god Do not leave,
Odin, help me!
Embla begged. Do not tear
Has claimed my
With a nod of
To carry them
Woman and God
Ask and Embla were the first mortals created by the gods according to Norse mythology. While I’m sure Embla was faithful to Ask, surely she could’ve been forgiven a tryst with Thor….or maybe not. Hels was the destination of the dead.
Interesting, is it not, the similarities in Norse and Christian mythologies? Ask and Embla (Adam and Eve), Helheim (Hell).
Now this is an original take on the zombie apocalypse.
The world has been decimated by the KDH virus. It kills most people, but for some, usually the young and strong, it Reboots them, bringing them back stronger, more powerful, less bothered by emotions.
17-year-old Wren is a soldier for HARC (Human Advancement and Repopulation Corporation) in the Republic of Texas. 178 minutes after she was shot in the chest three times, she came back as a Reboot, not fully human, but not dead, either. The Reboots’ value is measured by the number of minutes it takes them to revive. Depending on how long they are dead, the less human they are when they return. As a soldier, fewer emotions and faster healing are optimal. This makes Wren a legend. She is a machine. They are known by their numbers and Wren 178 is the deadliest.
I was shocked and a little disappointed that no one attended my colonoscopy party this morning. Studly Doright reminded me that I didn’t actually put a date, time, or location on my invitation, though, so I suppose I only have myself to blame.
With no one but Studly by my side I checked into a local surgical center at the crack of dawn for the procedure that was scheduled to begin at 5:45 a.m. Apparently half of the 55 and older population of Tallahassee and surrounding counties were having procedures at the same time and place, for the waiting area filled quickly.
Studly made me refrain from asking if they were there to celebrate with me. Sometimes he can be such a fuddy duddy.
My name was called right on time and along with Studly I was escorted to a tiny curtained cubicle. Apparently privacy isn’t a concern in this center for we could hear every word of conversation from both sides, including the woman who kept asking loudly if she could use, and I quote, “the shitter.”
That’s why, when the nurse asked me if Studly was my husband, I answered in an exaggerated whisper, “Oh, he’s not my husband. He’s my lover.”
Instantly there was silence all around us. The nurse took down the rest of my information warily. I behaved, though, knowing that soon she’d be inserting a needle for my I.V.
My veins are incredibly small. Normally I remember to caution nurses that baby-sized needles work best on me. Unfortunately after two nights of little sleep and paltry nourishment I forgot to mention that little tidbit that might’ve saved me ten minutes of agony as she poked and prodded my right arm in search of a vein.
Finally a savior in the form of Nurse “K” floated in, declared I needed a smaller needle and quickly had me ready to roll. They wheeled me into a surgical suite where I listened to the nurses gossip as they awaited the doctor’s arrival.
Part of me wanted to tell them I found their babble terribly unprofessional while another part of me knew they’d soon be controlling and monitoring my vital functions. I kept my mouth shut.
Once the doctor came in drugs were administered and I was out. I vaguely remember some pressure and movement, but other than that I knew nothing until around noon, even though Studly took me to eat around 8:30 a.m. because I’d told him I was ravenous. Apparently I had French toast and bacon. I sure hope it was good.
I’ve slept on and off throughout the day. My stomach is tender, and I don’t know how to phrase this delicately, but I’ve farted like a constipated rhinoceros all afternoon.
Apparently the doctor removed a small polyp to be sent away for analysis. He even sent me home with a photo of it. Should I frame it? Display it with the photos of the grandkids? I’d have bid polyp adieu if I’d been conscious. It had better behave itself out in the lab.
I’m tired now, having been awake for more than ten consecutive minutes. Please don’t feel guilty about missing the shindig. Chances are I wouldn’t have known you were here.
We humans celebrate the milestones in our lives and in the lives of those closest to us: first steps, birthdays, first dates, etc. As we age those milestones become ever so much more important to honor.
Since I live far away from most of my family and friends I consider my blog followers to fall under this umbrella of camaraderie.
Therefore, I invite you all to celebrate an upcoming milestone with me:
To get this party started there’ll be plenty of clear liquids and balloons, Popsicles and party hats. I’ve booked a four-piece heavy metal band, The Raging Duodenum to play well into the night. They aren’t all that great, but they’ll play loudly enough to cover the sounds emanating from my intestines.
We’ll play games, too, like “Spin the Bottle of Magnesium Citrate” and “Pin the Tail.”
Once the festivities are over I’ll send my guests home with a complimentary tube of Preparation H and the softest baby wipes on the market. It’s going to be the social event of the season.
Prepping has begun! Let the festivities commence! R.S.V.P. ASAP. It’ll be a blast.
Suicide is different. If my husband died by suicide next week, people would wonder why I didn’t see it coming. They’d puzzle over why I hadn’t known that he was depressed and gotten him to a doctor. They’d question why I’d left him alone, why I’d decided to go to meetings all afternoon, saying goodbye to him buried under the covers of a messy bed.
They would blame me.
I remember taking a young friend to a teenage boy’s funeral. His parents stood next to his open casket and shook people’s hands. I didn’t know them but I shook their hands anyway and told them I was sorry. In the back of my mind, I thought, ‘how could you have let this happen?’ And then just as fast, I thought ‘anything can happen.’
Anything can happen.
If planes can fly into skyscrapers and no one, not air traffic controllers nor…
I went swimming this morning in Tallahassee. The skies were a bright blue with a few fluffy clouds to keep it from being too perfect. Another day in paradise, right?
My friends Barbara and Irena came about fifteen minutes after I’d begun my imaginative water ballet in the deep end of the pool at Trousdale Aquatic Center. When they’re present we chat about wine and books as we paddle from one side of the pool to the other. When they’re absent I pretend I’m a mermaid, so for a quarter of an hour I was in another world altogether.
We had a swell time today and even made plans for wine and cake on Friday. After an hour of frolicking I bid the ladies adieu and headed to the showers. It didn’t take long for me to get squeaky clean, and soon I was ready to go in search of food.
A lady I don’t know came into the locker room as I was leaving. “Did you hear? Shirley’s car was broken into.”
Now I do not know Shirley, but my sympathy was instant and sincere. Like an idiot I asked, “Here? In the parking lot?”
“Yes,” she responded. “They smashed her window and took her purse.”
My heart sank. I’d left my purse under the seat of my car. I hurried out to the parking lot, but didn’t have to walk far in order to see that my driver’s side window had been broken.
Glass covered the seat and floorboard of my Mazda. I cussed. Like a salty old sailor. Then I went to see if the police were already on their way. Four other cars had also been broken into and purses taken from every one. The police officers were efficient, but not very reassuring.
Apparently a group of enterprising thieves in our area targets cars in the parking lots of swimming pools and fitness centers and movie theaters knowing that their owners will be busy for quite awhile. They sure had a nice payday on this one.
It took me the better part of an hour to clear the glass out of my seat so I could drive without poking holes in my buttocks. Even then I pricked my hand on a sliver embedded in my steering wheel.
I spent the remainder of my day canceling credit cards, calling the department of state to notify them that my passport had been stolen, and the IRS to report that our measly little refund check was in the hands of ne’er-do-wells.
Thank goodness I didn’t have my social security card in my wallet. That was the one bright spot of the day. Probably the thing that bummed me the most was that they stole the beautiful bag that I purchased on my trip to Guatemala.
So I want a do-over. I want to go to bed like Bill Murray in “Groundhog Day” and wake up to the sound of Sonny and Cher singing I Got You Babe. It could happen. Right?