About Me

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Five 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!

Thursday, May 10, 2018

Bleagh.

From yesterday's post on FB:

Another day in which a ridiculous amount of stuff got done in 3.5 hours at work, followed by multiple appointments in the afternoon, followed by a light breakfast-for-dinner at IHOP while waiting for rush hour to end, followed by a leisurely and mostly stress-free drive to the one yarn shop in BigD that's open late on Wednesday to pick up Chiaogoo circs in the size I'm currently using but in different lengths, followed by picking up dinner for Middlest, followed by great conversation, followed by jammies and bringing in the laundry that I hung to dry in the garage [Tuesday] night, followed by a stomach that wants me to get dressed again and go out for steak and a baked sweet potato.

Me: if you'll accept the ginger cookies and buttermilk that I'm sending down now, instead, and you and Bladder let me sleep all night, and you don't grumble about a healthy breakfast and sensible snacks at work tomorrow, we can go to Saltgrass on the way home tomorrow night and have steak and sweet for dinner tomorrow and leftovers for Friday night.

Stomach: I can't promise that Bladder is going to cooperate, but I trust you, and I'll do my best.

***

Here's how that played out:

Stomach: Feeling a little sore. Have we eaten? Please send down food.

Me: OK [eats a little something]

Stomach: Hey, I'm still achy. Please send down more food.

Me: Are you sure? We just ate.

Stomach: Really? I can't tell. Please send down more food.

Me: OK [eats something else]

Stomach: Why are you ignoring me? I hurt. I need some love. Or at least some food.

Me: I. Just. Fed. You.

Stomach: No, you didn't.

Me: Let's take a stroll to the loo, and then a brisk walk around the gallery. Maybe that will help.

Stomach: That didn't help. Feed me, Seymour!

Me: It's half an hour until lunch. I'll feed you then. Although I'm not sure where you'll put it.

Stomach: No! [stamps foot] I want it now!!!!!

Me: Calm down, Veruca. I don't know why I put up with you. [goes downstairs to the deli and orders a chicken salad sandwich, which is light enough to not sit like an anvil in my midsection and maybe, just maybe, sufficient to satisfy Stomach]

Stomach: That was good. Thank you.

Me: You're welcome. Can I get back to work now?

Stomach: Why didn't you get me any cookies? We love her chocolate chip cookies!

Me: Yes, we do, but you don't need cookies.

Stomach: But I want cookies! [stamps foot again]

Me: No cookies. Put on your big girl panties. I have work to do.

Stomach: Ugh. I'm so full. Why did you eat so much? It's not Thanksgiving or anything.

Me: [typety typety type]

Bladder: [quietly] I need to go potty.

Stomach: You're such a drama queen!

Me: [sighs]

Obviously, there was no field trip to Saltgrass after work tonight.

Pretty sure that this is just pre-op anxiety. Maybe Stomach is worried that my doctor can't tell the difference between a stomach and a uterus, and that both are going to get cleaned out next week. I just know that I've had three days now of intermittent bellyache (no nausea, just low-level pain}, and it's wearing me out.

Life is, nevertheless, good. I came home tonight, put on my jammies, set the alarm for when it's time to take my meds, and now I'm going back to bed.

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