Tag: blogging

Accidental Makeover

I had places to go; things to do; people to see. I needed placemats, blue ones, for Christmas dinner, and I had just a little over an hour to find and buy them before heading to a casual luncheon with my friends from water aerobics.

Having already looked in likely places, I headed to the mall. Dillards, to be exact. I went in through the parking garage entrance, up the escalator, and smack dab into the middle of the cosmetics department.

Had I gone up one more floor on the escalator or taken the elevator and pushed two, I’d have learned in short order that Dillards had no suitable placemats. I could’ve then turned around and headed to Macy’s.

But, no. I was in cosmetics and remembered I was almost out of foundation. Might as well get it while I’m here, I thought.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, but mostly ladies, is how I ended up getting a full-blown makeover that took a good ten minutes to take off when I got ready for bed this evening.

I kind of looked glamorous for a few short hours, but I prefer my no-hassle “dab and go” routine. No matter the occasion, I’m ready in fifteen minutes or less.

But I didn’t say that to the adorable young woman who carefully primed and brushed and blended and tsked. No, I nodded and smiled and plopped down my hard-earned money for the products she was selling because she treated me like a queen.

There’s a lesson in there: Always take the elevator.

Stitchless

Today I had the stitches removed from my knee. I’d waited patiently since my surgery two weeks ago, wearing compression stockings and keeping the little threads bracketing my kneecap dry.

The waiting is always the hardest, isn’t it? Waiting for Santa. Waiting to get your drivers license. Your first car. Maybe your first drink. All the other firsts.

But today the waiting was for the doctor. I waited, appropriately enough, in the waiting room. Then I was moved to the “SUBWAITING ROOM.” I’m not making this up. I waited for a good ten minutes to see a sub, but none was forthcoming. Not even a periscope came into view. False advertising, I say.

Eventually the doctor arrived. He’s quite a nice young man. Earnest and capable. Definitely worth the wait. And my stitches were extracted by a competent young assistant, rendering me stitchless.

Still, I’d have given a lot to see a sub.

Peace, people.

What Goes BOOM-BOOM in the Middle of the Night?

Studly Doright and I met our daughter and her family at an airport in Orlando yesterday. They’re spending today with us at a hotel in Cocoa Beach before boarding a cruise ship from Port Canaveral. I’ve tried to get myself included as a chaperone for the trip, but so far have had no luck. It didn’t help that I came down with a case of food poisoning last night and puked in the parking lot of the hotel. Now no one wants to take me along. Not even Studly.

There was some excitement around 2:43 this morning when an incredibly loud double sonic boom rattled the windows of our room. Grandson Garrett and I rushed out to the balcony to see if we could get a glimpse of the rocket as it broke away from the earth’s atmosphere. For one weird moment we stared in rapt attention at an extra tall flag pole, thinking it was the tail of the rocket’s trajectory. Sick as I was it made me giggle when we realized that the pole was stationary.

Then I returned to the bathroom where I continued to retch. Good times.

I think I feel better this morning. At least I can now identify a flag pole.

Peace, people!

The Mark of a Good Donut…

…Is the distance a person will drive in order to buy one.

Studly Doright and I drove about an hour to have donuts at Johnson’s Donuts in Perry, Florida, this morning, but that was nothing. A couple from Gainesville, a two hour drive, came in just because someone told them that Johnson’s donuts were better than Krispy Kreme. They ordered one of everything. We didn’t stick around to see what they thought, but they sure had big smiles on their faces.

Studly and I had donut holes, hot donut holes. Well worth the drive.

Peace, people!

We’re Still Here

Happy birthday, Mom. We’re still here, living our lives as best we can. Hoping you’d be proud.

We’re still here, missing you. Remembering the Christmases you made special. The way you always overstressed just so everything would be perfect. And it seemed to somehow work.

And we’re still here, still wishing you were, too. No matter how many years you’ve been gone it still feels like yesterday. Like you might walk in the house any minute wearing that mile-wide smile of yours.

Like you might dance to whatever song came on the radio, not caring how goofy you looked. And we’re still here. Wishing you were, too.

Cost of Doing Business

I’m an author. I write and sell books for fun and profit. And while I may never get rich from my endeavors, I’m doing okay. Really. It surprises me, too.

But some days I’m floored by the way things work. You see, I went to buy some cards—birthday and Christmas greetings for friends and relatives, and when I averaged the cost of a card it came to just slightly more than the cost of my books on kindle. And not a great deal less than the paperback versions.

Maybe I’m in the wrong business. But then again, I’m just not witty enough or sentimental enough to make a living creating Happy Birthday cards. I guess I’ll keep plugging along.

Peace, people.

Dates That Won’t Work

A cryptic message found on a piece of scrap paper in the bottom of a junk drawer.

Dates That Won’t Work:

January 18

January 26

February 12

March 11

I pondered. Dates that won’t work for what? It’s a puzzle. Maybe next time I’ll elaborate.

Right. Like that’s gonna happen.

Peace, people!

In Spite of Me

My knee seems to be healing nicely from arthroscopic surgery, no thanks to me. Last night Studly Doright commented on just how well I was doing.

“You’re hardly whining at all,” he said.

I thanked him, then said, “I just can’t believe how little pain I’m having.” And followed that statement up with an abrupt movement, a quick bend of the knee, that had me in tears.

So all night I worried that I’d undone all the good the surgeon had done. I iced the knee with a vengeance (like regular icing, only with a great deal of scowling), and kept it elevated.

This morning I’m fairly certain no real harm was done, but I feel chastened and now have no plans to move my knee ever again. Ever.

Peace, people.

Knee Jerk Reaction

My right knee seems to be doing well following the arthroscopic procedure I had on Wednesday. I can’t take the dressings off for another thirty hours or so, but the pain is minimal.

The white compression knee-high hosiery is so not chic, but will be my constant fashion accessory until the follow up appointment on the 14th of December. I will wear it faithfully for I fear blood clots like some people fear spiders and snakes. And I don’t know why. I think maybe a distant relative died due to one (a blood clot, not a snake; although, that might’ve happened, as well), and the fear infected me in my youth.

I attempted to write yesterday, but the knee literally got in the way, sitting there like a smug, fat lump just beyond the edge of my computer. So I gave up and watched Hallmark Christmas movies, then dozed to images of square-jawed, flannel wearing men selling Christmas trees. Today, I’ll give it another go.

Peace, people!

Aging Like a Fine Whine

My right knee no longer likes me. Even during water aerobics, the gentlest of workouts, that knee doth protest way too much. And I amplify its complaints with my own whining. “Ow!” “Ouch!” “?$&@/!”

So, on the 30th of this month, at some time still to be determined, I’m having a little procedure aimed at relieving some of that pain. Now, Studly Doright is fond of telling people how I made him walk to such a procedure many years ago. And it’s true.

I was a new teacher—afraid to take a day off lest I miss the day I was to be observed by my principal. And in my mind, Studly was having a minor procedure. It was day surgery after all. I just needed to be there to pick him up. Silly me.

I’d forgotten that his pickup truck was a manual transmission and that his knee was in such bad shape that he couldn’t bend it to work the clutch. And he never mentioned a thing, knowing how worried I was about the observation. So he walked, on a bad knee, about two miles to the surgical center.

When I arrived to pick him up, the nurses berated me. “Where have you been? He’s been so sick.”

Still clueless, I said, “At work.” Duh.

It is a testament to his love for me that he only mentions this horrible story once a year. If the situation were reversed, I’d likely harp on it every night.

Of course, as the date for my procedure draws near I am a becoming a little nervous. We live about 20 miles from the outpatient surgical center. Perhaps I should begin walking now. Whining all the way.

Peace, people.

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