I glanced at my Fitbit. I’d walked exactly 555 steps. Five is my lucky number.
I thought, “Wow! Something wonderful is about to happen!”
That’s when the cat puked.
Sitting on the Deck in the Company of Cats
Sunday morning wake up call, a pair of paws pat my face
Up, hurry up, we need a treat and then they’re off in heated race.
Pull on favorite Sunday wear, faded sundress and flip flops,
Splash some water on my face, run a brush through my mop.
Stumblebum into the kitchen, set coffee on to brew,
Putter bleary-eyed to the place where the felines sit and mew.
By their urgency one would think they’d not eaten in days,
Their respective weights dispel that lie in unambiguous ways.
Coffee’s perked, a cup is poured, I grab my current book,
And slip outside to honeysuckle’s welcome in my sheltered nook.
Ripples slide across the lake, while a tiny lizard scampers,
My cats examine its every move in hopes that they can batter.
And I sit and sip my coffee with a splash of Irish cream,
As breezes rustle through the pines and invite sweet daydreams.
Peace, people.
Feeling Surly
Normally I’m a Pollyanna sort, but the events of this past week have me feeling more like Maleficent. Let me count the ways:
My car window was smashed in while I was swimming at a local park.
My favorite handbag, the one I bargained for entirely in Spanish on my visit to a mercado in La Antigua de Guatemala, was stolen.
My credit cards were used in questionable locations. At least the thieves are interesting.
My passport is gone, along with my driver’s license, insurance, and prescription cards, etc.
I’ve made more phone calls in the past four days to take care of this stuff than I’ve had to make in the last four years. I could have built and furnished a three story treehouse in the time I’ve spent on hold.
I had day surgery which, while not related to the robbery, sure didn’t make me feel like a princess.
I have enough intestinal gas to power a small fleet of cars.
My completed “buy ten massages, get one free” card was in my stolen handbag. This might piss me off more than all the other losses combined. I NEED that massage.
I just dropped a 32 oz. diet Dr. Pepper in the driver’s side floor of Studly Doright’s pickup truck. He’s already angry at me for the loss of my purse, so I need to go and clean up my mess.
I know Pollyanna is still in here somewhere, but I might need to exorcise the villain first.
Peace, people!
Letterz to The Editor
Crazy funny.
Dear Whitechapel Whelk
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”
Marvin Pistorius
The Azores.
**************************
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…
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Thor and Embla
Thor and Embla slowly
Walking
Holding hands in the
Gloaming
Wrapped up in their
Forbidden love
They languished ‘neath
Yggdrasil.
He bent his head
Tenderly
Cupping her face.
Tearfully
She clung
to his broad chest,
Embla cried to her god
Do not leave,
She sobbed.
Odin, help me!
Embla begged.
Do not tear
Us apart!
Mighty Thor
Has claimed my
Mortal
Heart.
With a nod of
All-father’s
Shaggy head
Sleipnir was
Summoned
To carry them
Woman and God
Into Helheim’s
Cold halls.
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).
When One Cat Cannot Find the Other
What a commotion she makes when her sister goes missing
Even though when they’re paired there’s often much hissing
Rooower! Rooower! Scout calls as she wanders
Come out! Right now! Where are you? She ponders.
When finally lured from her best hiding place
Patches stretches long, with disdain on her face.
Dear sister, Patches yawns, I was here all along
Why did you disturb me with your strident song?
But Scout is oblivious having now claimed
The comfortable spot on which Patches had lain.
Reboot (Reboot #1)
This sounds like something I’d like! Thanks to yourdaughtersbookshelf.wordpress.com.
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.
Wren’s job is…
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The Remainder of the Day or Get Along Little Polyp
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.
Peace, people!
Lost Girl
On this cold, snow laced night party crowds skirt ’round a long-limbed girl.
Who is she? Standing on the sidelines, looking lost, unfound. Nobody claims her,
No one takes her hand. But there are no tears on her plain featured face. Perhaps
Smudged traces of those she’s wiped away in a weaker state. Those private times,
Few and distant. If she could find the courage and a quarter the lost girl would
Call home. Maybe this time they would welcome her voice. Maybe this time they’d
Honor her choice to be herself, not what a piece of paper and a doctor declared.
Milestones
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:
The Colonoscopy!
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.
Peace, people!
Praying for Eyebrowz 