I am finally switching the blog to WordPress! So welcome to the new followers, and I'm so sorry, but your Blogger follow will cease to have meaning after July 1. However, I hope you will come with me to WordPress, where the commenting is easier and hopefully there are fewer glitches from the administrative end. Can I get an amen?
I will be posting on both blogs until July 1, and then I'll be switching over solely to WordPress. Here is the link to the new address - http://www.adayinthewife.com/. Please make a note of it.
I've been pretty busy for the past week - not only did all of the batshit crazy house projects happen, but I also managed to stalk (and perhaps frighten) an author last weekend at my writer thingy. Photos were taken, but by a guy named Jim from Tulsa, Oklahoma, and I'm going to wait and see if he comes through with the digital pics he took. BECAUSE WHY WOULDN'T A GUY FROM TULSA I'VE KNOWN FOR LESS THAN 24 HOURS HONOR HIS PROMISE TO SEND THE PICS HE TOOK OF ME WITH ANOTHER WOMAN? You have nothing if you don't have faith, people.
Another man I've frightened in the past few weeks is my neighbor, John. He's a great guy, a bachelor, living in the house he grew up in, but I do suspect he is one of the Feral Cat Club in the neighborhood, where I seem to be the only non-member. When we first moved into Current House, John made the fatal mistake of giving George the Superpet a Milkbone every time he drove out of the driveway, which runs right next to our backyard fence. Now, if George hears John's car starting, he begs to be let outside, at which time he barks as though he is going to rip out John's kidney, but I know what George is really saying is "Where is my Goddamned Milkbone?" because George is a now complete Milkbone junkie, thanks to John. If you're going to start handing out the crack, you can't cut your homies off, because those crackheads will cut. you.
John looks a little bit like Bad Santa. He drives a sensible SUV, but he has a bottle green convertible Corvette that he takes out on the weekends. He has a boat. He likes whiskey. John love of his boat and Corvette is in direct proportion to his dislike of taking care of his yard. Including the poison sumac patch he was indirectly cultivating, where I believe the particularly festering neighborhood feral cats would crawl to die.
Neighborhood pack of feral cats waiting for daily 4 p.m. feeding across the street. Honestly, you can't make this stuff up.
If you'll recall, I had boob issues a few weeks back. Web MD diagnosed me with a rare form of ductal cancer, and my Book Club started a Casserole Chain for me and my High School Friend Paige The OB-GYN couldn't diagnose me over the phone because I had accidentally torn the top of my nipple off, so I went in to my doctor.
DR: "So what seems to be the problem? You have a sore on your...uh.."
(She is checking chart to be sure this is why I'm there.)
ME: "My nipple. It stuck to my bra, and I accidentally tore it off, but now I think it's poison ivy."
DR: (not following my logic) "Why do you think that?"
ME: "Because I got poison ivy the day after I tore my nipple off. And now I'm on Prednisone and that's why I'm blowing up like Jerry Lewis."
DR: "Okay. Let's take a look at it."
And then it's one of those awkward moments when you're laying on a table all National Georgraphic with your arm up over your head like you're in an oil painting.
This is how I do ALL of my breast exams.
And your doctor is feeling you up, in a purely clinical way, and making small talk with you, like "Is baseball season still going for you guys?" and I'm all, "It must be because you just stole second!" and then I ask about her kids, because really, enough about me. Then she looks really closely at my nipple, sits me up, high fives me, and says, "Congratulations, you are the first patient I've ever seen with poison ivy on their nipple!" This is why I love my doctor. Let's turn a festering sore into a victory.
She gives me cream and asks about my yard. We determine that George the Superpet is getting oil on his coat from the poison sumac, which is then getting on my hands, and because I'm so allergic to poison ivy/oak/sumac, if it touches my skin it immediately gets into my bloodstream and BAM! Itchy sores everywhere. My doctor tells me we should offer to cut the patch down for John, because as long as it's up, my yard is booby trapped. Seriously. She says that. So I have to say, "LITERALLY" and she doesn't even laugh, she just looks down and says, "I can't believe I just gave you that opening." Me either, Doc. It's like you don't know me at all.
The last time I had it - big patch on my chest, and all under my chin and second and third chins, and pretty much everywhere else, which is why my doctor made me wear a tube top dress and NOTHING ELSE. You're welcome, neighbors.
I see John in the yard and I say hi. He walks over and we chat, and I say something along the lines of "Do you care if we have The Son chop down your Poison Sumac garden?" and he says something like "Oh my gosh, it has poison sumac in it?" and I say something along the lines of "Yeah, George rubs on it and gets the oil on him, and then gives it to me. I've got it on my chest and arms right now". He pauses and looks at me, and says, "I'll take it down today." I protest, because I know he wants to get to his boat, but he won't relent, and spends his day taking the stuff down.
It wasn't until later that day, as John is slaving away in the sun, that I realize I told him George gets the oil on HIM, and that I now have it all over my chest, and I know he has a visual of me rubbing my nakedness all over my oiled up Standard Poodle.
And then I wonder why the neighbors don't talk to us.