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October is scary

Who invented October, is what I would like to know. I would like to know so that I can surprise him (you know it’s a him) at his house and hit him in the face with a banana cream pie. My very least favorite pie. And, now, my very least favorite month.

I used to love October. What with all its freshy, freshness and that whole candy thing shining like a beacon at the end of the month. Fall has always been such an inspirational season. Back to school organization, crisp apples, even crisper days. A person can breath better in the fall. Well, apparently I was simply being lulled into a false sense of security. My new motto? October sucks. Tell your friends.

There have been several small crises (I had to look up the plural of crisis – who knew?) and a couple of major ones that, granted, could have been worse, but were still very unsettling. Highlights? Baby boy in a car accident (he’s sore and shaken, but miraculously unbroken), surgery on my Dad (recovering nicely – his nurse, my mom, may not survive), surgery on my friend’s Dad (doing much better), flood at the shop (what’s the saying? don’t cry over spilled, rusty, toxic water), cancelled vacation (still sad about this one), absentee husband (some nonsense about overtime) and, as ever, dealing with teenage shenanigans (I can’t blame October for that one).

Only thirty more hours.

And I still have that candy thing to look forward to…

Optimism, thy name is Jelly Belly.

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It’s hot

Unless you have been living under a rock, like those guys in the Geico commercial – not my favorite by the way, I like the one with the little pig who cries “Weeeeee” all the way home – you will have noticed that it’s hot. Is hot, has been hot, will continue to be hot for the foreseeable future. So hot in fact, that everyone, including myself, has become a giant cranky-pants monster. Apparently heat cooks the kindness right out of you. So hot, that we decided to cancel our annual 4th of July party. Even though ninety percent of our guest list responded positively, including some friends that have been unable to attend since we started this ill-conceived party nonsense – we altruistically decided to call it off. I will share with you our well-thought out reasons, as were stated in the cancellation email I sent:

Hello my friends,
 
It is with sincere regret that I write to inform you that we have decided to postpone the 4th of July party. To quote Cole Porter, a wise man if ever there was one, it’s just too darned hot. We are concerned about your comfort and health.
 
Initially, we concocted several ideas to keep you cool. These included, but were not limited to, sprinklers, squirt guns and lettuce misters – all of which we determined would be appropriate for a 10 year old girl’s pajama party, and not so much for an adult soiree.
 
Our ancient air conditioner barely keeps the five of us cool – to say nothing of the family pooch. It runs non-stop, yet has the cooling capabilities of two natives with palm fronds. Don’t worry about us, we’ll muddle through. It’s you I’m worried about. Even if I could bribe a sweaty repair man (with a suspicious bulge in his back pocket where wallets are traditionally kept) to exorcise said conditioner, there would not be enough room for all of you in the cottage we bought from the seven dwarves. Again, I worry for my friends.
 
I hope this change in plans doesn’t cause you any undue unhappiness. If you take umbrage and would like to vent to me personally, you can find me languishing on the porch, like a boneless chicken, fanning myself with Icelandic travel brochures.
 
We have set our sights on Labor Day for the new and improved party. At least we’ve got a fighting chance in September. Of course we will send out a new invitation (plea) to apprise you of all the important details. If we’re still friends….Please let me know that you have received this sad missive. I would hate for you to show up expecting something from the grill, only to find that the only things being cooked are the plants and grass.

P.S. Those of you with pools have been moved to a TBD status on the friendship ledgers.

I’m not sure why we started this annual stress fest to begin with. Every year we swelter. Are fireworks really that beguiling? Who can tell, what with all the sweat in one’s eyes.
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So that happened

For the first time in my life, I went under the knife.

Not the fun under the knife where you stand in front of a target wearing a sparkly bathing suit and a swarthy man dramatically throws knives at you while the crowd gasps in relief when you don’t end up impaled.

Nope.

It was the bad kind. The kind where I reluctantly went to the emergency room hoping for a quick fix and instead ended up having a man stick a sword in me. OK, the man was a surgeon and – to use some of my newly minted medical jargon – the sword was technically a scalpel. But, I was completely unprepared for the ordeal. And it was not one little bit fun.

I won’t bore you with all the myriad details, even though I have total recall of each. What I will say is that my cavalier attitude toward surgery has done a complete 180. I used to think “How bad can it be? They knock you out for the cutting part and then they give you lovely mind-altering drugs. Sign me up.” Such blissful ignorance.

What I learned is that hospitals are depressing. And boring. And frustrating. And designed to keep you awake. In fact, I think perhaps we are overlooking a veritable gold mine when it comes to modifying criminal behavior. Send those ne’er-do-wells to the closest infirmary.

Let me whine a bit more…. As far as the mind altering drugs go – big, fat lie. I don’t know why people pay for morphine. I was expecting to spend some time in the strawberry fields with the Beatles. I stayed right where I was (see above) with nobody but the night nurse for company. And she only wanted to make sure I wasn’t sleeping. Very disappointing.

Shall I go on? Did you know that when they do laparoscopic surgery they inflate your abdomen (with a bellows, I believe) until it is roughly the size of New Zealand and then seal up all the escape routes so you can double as the Hindenburg for the next few days? It’s very pretty.

Anyway. I got better. And my doctor and nurses were lovely. I think mostly because they knew they could go home as soon as their shifts ended. And, all in all, I came to appreciate how ridiculously healthy I usually am. I am determined not to take feeling good for granted. Also, as I was walking around the gray, cheerless hallways in the middle of the night, I realized that there are so many people who are really, really sick and who will probably not get better. So I am truly thankful for how blessed I am.

One more thing. I learned that while my family is comprised of very caring individuals, my unlicensed and, in one case, underaged children are not above using my car to joyride around while I lay prone in a hospital bed completely unaware. The girls tried to rationalize their complete disregard for the law by saying that they only wanted to visit me and bolster my spirit. Complete hogwash. The last time I checked, the mall was not on the way to the hospital. Considering the fact that we live about four blocks from the hospital, nothing is on the way.

We all survived.

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Who Thinks of This Stuff…

Who is the hands down genius head that thought up Pandora Radio?

I like music in a sort of second hand way. If it happens to be playing somewhere nearby, I’ll tap my foot and bob my head with the best of them (with a few, okay, with several exceptions that I will not go into here because I don’t want to bash any musical genres in print…but you know who you are). However, I don’t usually seek out music and I’ll tell you why.

Firstly, music on the radio is repetitive. Really repetitive. Really, really repetitive. Really, really, really repetitive. Same music. Over and over and over.

Secondly, someone else is doing the picking for me. I don’t like handing over that kind of control. I (not unlike most people) want what I want, when I want it, thank you very much.

And thirdly, like any mother I’ve ever met, I mostly just want it to be quiet.

So, you can imagine the happy dance that ensued when a savvy friend turned me on to Pandora. That’s www.pandora.com for those of you who are still wandering aimlessly in the dark morass that is FM radio.

I can’t explain adequately. You have to experience it for yourself. And yes, I realize that I am probably light years behind the rest of the world, but I don’t care. Let me be happy with my Adele/Weepies based station now that I have it. And look out iTunes…I’m coming in for a landing!

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These are the days my friends…

Let me begin by saying that it has been so long since I last posted here (how long has it been….), well, its been so long that I forgot my access information to log on.

Now, generally I am the type of person that has no problem recalling these dandelion fluff-seeds of trivia. I have a ridiculous amount of user identities and passwords and binary codes to crack before I can access my top secret quote-of-the-day or terrorist-proof easy recipe sites and they come zooming to the forefront of my brain with the greatest of ease. Usually. Apparently that is all in the past.

Anyway, that is not what I wanted to talk about. However, now it is the only thing that I can think about. Does this mean I’m on the downward slippery slope of forgetfulness? What next? Do I start forgetting the name of my dentist, or that I have a dentist or maybe I just forget to brush my teeth. Dentist, schmentist.

Maybe I have a heretofore unheard of brain condition that only affects my ability to recall passcodes, but if left untreated will mutate into an unsightly skin condition. I smell doom. And Neutrogena.

Maybe I just need to write this stuff down somewhere.

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