About Me

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Four years into widowhood, after one year of incredible happiness and nearly 14 years of single blessedness. Have given up perfect manicures and pretty hands in order to resume playing the soprano recorder and to see if I can figure out how to play bluegrass banjo. Singing in the shower. Still really, *really* love to knit!

Tuesday, December 04, 2012

So, how tired was I yesterday morning?

As I prepared to step out of the elevator in my office building, I realized that my shirt was all bunched up at the neck. I pulled it away from my body, glanced down, and saw the printed, tag-less label. At which point I also noticed that the back of my neck was a little chilly. I had put my shirt on backward. And it was a V-neck.

This is what I get for dressing in the dark. I had been feeling so good about grabbing the purple shirt and the purple earrings and the black socks (tangentially: why have five of my new brown socks, which I wear with the orange shirts, gone missing?) and the purple flowered headband, and both pairs of clogs to bring to work so I could wear them on alternate days. All of this using only the light from the hall bathroom, as Beloved had had a rougher night than usual, and I wanted him to get every scrap of sleep possible before he had to leave for a sonogram.

Thankfully, I learned decades ago that one does not perish from embarrassment. I nipped into the ladies’ room and gave my shirt a 180. And that was the worst thing that happened all day.

After work, I took our duplicate DVD’s to Entertainmart (and their rejects to Half Price Books), bringing home a whopping $16.75. Sometimes virtue really is rewarded!

Squishy came over and mowed the back yard and alley, then ripped up the last of the tomatoes and peppers and hauled them to the curb for us. Beloved schlepped miscellaneous electronics and a box of his mother’s stuff out to the truck. I don’t care if it didn’t make it to the thrift store and internet provider; I just wanted it out of the house. I came home to a pristine coffee table. If you told me fifteen years ago, when I was up to my ears in the children and their father, that I would someday wax rhapsodic over a clean coffee table, I’d have questioned your sanity (mine was seriously in question at that point).

Tonight I have presidency meeting, and another of the sons is coming over to help with Christmas lights. Turns out that I married a man who, until his wife passed away three years ago, was legendary for hanging 8000+ lights on the house and yard. (Kids: think of Max over by the old meetinghouse in Arlington.) As we were delivering the hope chest on Sunday night, he directed my attention to a blinged-out domicile not far from ours and said with some pride that our house used to look like that, maybe more so.

Oy to the veh!

Beloved had asked me to check to see whether the eye surgery clinic his oncologist and PCP and eye doctor want him to use for his chemo-induced cataracts (sigh), is one of our providers. All three of the doctors are in the system. This is a firm that fixes other providers’ LASIK surgeries that go wrong.

Finally! Thankfully! I have work, real work, to do, just in time to go eat my lunch. I sent out a will type for food email earlier this morning, with no responses.

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