Life should not be a journey to the grave, with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming
WOW! What a Ride!
COFFEE CUP CURE
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I've been noticing a trace of, oh goodness, whatdidyacallit, that business where your wrists hurt from typing too much. Can't for the life of me think of the name. It'll come to me about the time I post this and walk away.
Anyway, it isn't like I do that much typing, but I do an awful lot with the mouse. The puzzle was that it isn't the mouse wrist that's been hurting. I couldn't figure it out. Why would my left wrist hurt after a session at the computer?
Yesterday, I "got a clue".
My office is in the basement, lovely cool in the summer, usually a bit chilly in cold weather. I have Reynaud's, a circulatory ailment that makes your hands and feet cold. When I'm not using both hands at the desk, I put my left hand between my thighs, twisting the wrist so I can sit on the hand and keep it warm! No wonder the wrist gets sore!
The cure was pretty darned simple: I hold a cup of coffee in my left hand. Cup's warm, and I don't dare twist my wrist to sit on the mug!
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DIDN'T WANNA TELL YA
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RC has a coffee date this morning, with a lady he emailed, saying he didn't see any future relationship happening for them. She wants to talk about it, and he said okay. Not sure why. To be nice?
Anyway, I had these two shopping bags, "hidden" next to the dining room table. (I knew he wouldn't notice them, even though they're right there where he has to walk by them eighty times a day.) I just didn't want to tell him what was in them.
I mean, it isn't like I have no clothes.
I went a little nuts at Value Village, a local thrift shop, yesterday. I went in because I like to wander around in there, and I had a couple of things I hoped they'd have--a daytimer-type notebook for Bruce, and the kind of letter baskets I use for standing my craft magazines in, deep ones. Didn't find the baskets, did find the daytimer. $3.99, and it's better than the one I just spent $15.00 on for myself! (I'm going to copy some of the pages from it today.)
Then I got to thinking about Singtime Frolics, and the likelihood that it would be pretty cold out there, wandering around between cabins or out in the wood. Even the Great Room tends to be chilly, heated by only a big fig in the corner fireplace. I lost my big, black, chenille cardigan about two weeks ago. Just cannot imagine where it got to, and I loved that sweater. I thought maybe I could find a replacement.
Oooh. (Picture that as a scrunchy face, not a delighted-with-myself expression.) I found two just like it, except one was a denim blue, and the other an extremely dark moss green. And a striped poorboy turtle neck that looks great with both of them. And a black turtleneck. And a khaki green sweatshirt with that thing on the front for your both hands. Six sweaters to replace one?
I did not want to tell RC. We have three houses either empty, or going to be soon. That's a big income crunch, and I spend $30 on sweaters?!
It took me until he said, "I'm leaving now!" and gave me a kiss, to work up the nerve.
The only thing that bothered him at all was that I'd waited until he was on the verge of walking out the door to show him my new clothes. Yay!
One of today's projects is to get rid of six articles of clothing. Already know one will be the jeans I wore yesterday. They don't look good on me. And a black v-neck shirt that has a hole under the arm. Oh, and there's a cardigan or two I never wear...This is going to be easy.
On another note entirely, that spider bite on Mom's head turned out to be shingles. Poor baby! I know how bad that hurts. The doctor has her on some good pain meds, and she isn't thinking too clearly because of them, but they don't entirely eliminate her discomfort.
I called yesterday, and she was out building a planter bed so she could set out some hosta plants she'd bought. I understood she was afraid they'd die on her, but I read her the riot act, and told her put them in the ground, and build the bed some other time and transplant them. They'll be okay. And she has overnight guests coming. She said, "I have to go down and..." and I said, "No. Mom, you do not have to go down and do anything, except lie down, or at least sit in your chair. She's a relative. She can make her own bed. She can empty the desiccant into the appointed receptacle." And I told her, "If I'd been Dad, I'd have been on the phone, telling Clois not to come at all. You are sick."
She told me her whole body felt prickly, and I reminded her that shingles is the chicken pox virus, and that it lives in the nerves, and stress is what brings on an attack. She didn't need to be stressing her body more, and she sure as heck didn't need for the shingles to spread to interior regions like her esophagus. That got her to sit up and take notice. She was sitting in her chair when I hung up, and promised she'd get her coffee and a book, and stay there.
Poor Mom. Inactivity is harder on her than on just about anybody I ever met. She's another CovertOps, if you know what I mean!
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You can email the author at waterspriteflying@deardiary.net
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