A Tail of One Kitty

As am I, lucky is the being that gets to live in this house.  Just around the end of the holidays there was going to be a change in the household though.
Maggie, the 15(ish) year old Cardigan corgi was getting ready for her trip the Rainbow Bridge. She was my little sister in diabetes and in the absence of Mark, I was always more than glad to get down on the floor with her to test her blood and give her her shots.
Getting back up again was another story but Maggie was my pal. And I miss her.
Just around that time, a wee black cat started coming around. It was small, had beautiful eyes and the sweetest little face, a nubbin of a tail and a pretty bad limp. It was also blacker than black but looked like it would feel like velvet if one were to pet it.
We started to refer to it as Bob, in reference to its tail, and Mark began leaving dry food for it up on a table on the front porch so that little dogs could not get to it. In truth, had they really wanted, they could've jumped onto a chair and then onto the table but it was winter so it just had to be out of their line of sight.
Soon, Mark began to put out some wet food by the chicken coop in the back (since kitty was taking shelter in one of the storage buildings in the alley) and it would show up pretty zippy-quick once the food was out. It had a healthy appetite even if it looked kinda beat-up and so Mark and Suzie decided that we should rescue this wee feral cat. At the very least, do the responsible thing and get her fixed. I can't count how many animals they have rescued over the years.
Mark went and got a trap.
First catch, our own cat, Charlie. He is normally very chill, and is in fact, the bridge between the felines and canines in the house. He is also the reason that Zeus, the little piebald dachshund, stands up on his hind legs and boxes like a cat - but Charlie did walk around in a bit of a WTF huff for a couple of hours. Fortunately, he's not one to hold grudges.
Next catch - a neighborhood cat we call, Slim. Again, not the black cat we were hoping to trap - although they were all black cats.
Third try was the charm! Mark took it to our vet, turns out it was, in fact, a she, maybe seven months old, and they had a look at her leg and appointments were made for her to be spayed in a couple of days and then after a bit see if they could do something with that poor little leg that had been broken and then healed all wrong.
Mark brought her back and let her go in the upstairs room that was, at that moment, mostly empty of furniture. She was going to have to hang in there for a couple of days until her appointment to be spayed.
She is so, so dark that Mark would go to check on her and she was usually hiding under one of the couple of pieces of furniture in the room but she could get lost just being in the shadow.
We found out very quickly, when Mark tried to catch her to put her in the carry-case to go to the vet, that young as she was, she clearly understood the concept of centrifugal force and even with just the three working legs she could run around the wall, up to the ceiling and as long as she kept going around as fast as she was able, she could stay up there. 
Miraculously, and somewhat aided by the lack of furniture, Mark was able to grab her and put her in the case. Not without some blood being spilled. Mark's. Little girl had serious claws.
When Mark brought her home, she was put in their son's room (he's a grown man and doesn't live here anymore but as a wise Montanan he does come home for Christmas and if he can, some time in the summer) so she could sleep off the anesthesia as the other room was now being redecorated.
Mark went to check on her and after a while, he ran out and said, "She's gone. I have turned that room upside down and she has disappeared."
Well, that's just impossible. All the windows were shut, only one door, Mark had moved and looked under and/or behind every piece of furniture in that room.
After a bit, Mark & I were downstairs in the kitchen and thought we heard a couple of faint thumps somewhere around us. We looked at each other and realized she had moved the cover of the heat register on the floor upstairs  and post-spaying, was now wandering through the heating ducts like some sort of kitty Houdini.
Mark was able to lure her out with food. He then spent the next day on his stomach duct taping all of the heat registers down.
Bob was then let to wander about and check everything out. She spent a couple of days in the basement and would wander up in the evening to peep around the corner to watch the nice man who gives her food as he cooked people food. Ultimately, it was harder getting down there to feed her and perhaps equally decisive, Mick, the largest of the three black cats wasn't having it. The basement and Mark's office are really his main hangs and he had no interest in making any changes.
Once we got her back upstairs, I think she approved of how the new room was coming along, took up residence and soon we just began referring to it as "Bob's room".
There was still the matter of the leg - not sure how Mark got her this time but off she went to have her leg operated on and she was returned to her room and the door was kept closed for a few hours again, while the anesthesia wore off and she was then again allowed to wander about with her new pink cast. It did make her much easier to find.
For a while, it became her habit to perhaps spend the day in Drew's room and then at about 7pm return to her room and sit in the middle of the doorway, pink cast sticking straight out into the hallway.
I would often come and sit on the bench in the hall and just talk to her. Only a handful of feet separated us and as long as I didn't try to make any moves, she was fine with that.
Poor Zeus, he loves everything and everyone and wants to be her BFF more than anything but he must be patient. And he is trying ever so hard. So far, Charlie is the only living soul who has been able to get close to her.
It was time to get her cast changed - I watched Mark steady himself and wearing long sleeves and gloves, went in to get her into the carry-case. He came out several minutes later, empty handed, looking as though he'd accidentally gotten caught up in some sporting event. Think, rugby, not golf.
I asked if he needed some help and so we, two people in our 60's, steeled ourselves and went back into her room to do battle with like, a three-pound kitten. Who basically can fly.
The fact that there was now furniture in the room and decorating had been done, made this rather more difficult than the almost impossible task it had been before. After watching her fly around the walls, she finally went under the desk - boxed in on three sides, Mark was able to grab her and I was in the exactly right spot with the case when Mark spun around so in she went, the door closed and our lives stopped flashing before our eyes.
A few days later poor little Bob had some intestinal distress but I believe Mark went and got another trap to get her over to the vet. Happily, the problem was sorted out quickly and back she came.
Finally, the day came when Mark was going to take Bob in to have her cast removed, hopefully for the last time (it was) but this was going to mean one last catch and release.
Forward we go, step by step, we try the "here, I'll flush her out from under the couch to your end" - nope. When she was making her next loop around the room I was going to try to catch her in the case but as she came by - she jumped right over me and did a lap around the room on the wall. She hit the ground, Mark went for a tackle - D'oh! She then made that one tactical error and hid under the desk again.
Mark grabbed her, same deal, I was right there with the case, in she goes and in the split second before we could close the door (and because this ain't her first time at this rodeo) she shoots right back out but what she doesn't know is how good and fast Mark was at softball so he caught her and again right back in the case and the door was locked. All of this, from the time Mark got her from under the desk to getting her into the case for the second time, happened in probably less than 5 seconds.
If we have to do this again (and we will), I'm definitely going to film it.
I Googled bobtail cats and there is really such a thing as an American bobtail cat. In the description there is a notation that they are quite smart and can escape from a room with no door and windows, plus a couple of other attributes and there's no doubt that that's our girl. We'd wondered if she'd lost her tail when she broke her foot but it looks like she was actually born with this tail.
And so, she is getting the hang of having four legs and is pretty much the princess of the house. She likes to hide and just watch what's going on. She spends most of her day hiding behind a piece of furniture under the east window of the dining room, which affords her two (duct taped) heat registers (one at each end) upon which to sit, some good positioning for watching what everyone else is doing but is a small enough space that only she can be there.
She is braver every day and now eats on the old Roeper stove in the pantry like the other two cats. She comes closer and closer to check out what's up and still likes to come into the kitchen to watch Mark cook.
She has not allowed any of her people to touch or pet her yet - although she's fine with Mark opening her cans of food inches from her head. I can get within a couple of feet and just talk to her in calm tones. Zeus is trying so very hard to be patient - he can get reasonably close to her. Not as close as he'd like though. My dog, Peggy (a doxie/beagle mix) is interested but a bit more aloof. Mick has been appearing in different parts of the house to try to show her who is boss and Mark says now he's just grumpy. "Oh, so he's reached the stage of 'acceptance'" I said. And then there's Charlie, the only one to have gotten her trust, or as much as she's willing to give just now.
She likes to look out the windows, initially Suzie thought that maybe she was sad at having to be inside, I'm pretty sure she was thinking "there but for the grace of the giant cat head go I".
There have been warm days, doors have been wide open, she can go be feral again, but she's no dummy. She's warm and dry, always has food and there is a ton of love from all creatures great and small to give to her as soon (or if) she feels ready to accept it. Much like Zeus, we are all waiting patiently for the day that she might let us pet her - but maybe she needs to still stay away for now to maintain her "feral" cred.

Please meet our little Bob:

Emojicons

NOW I feel old. For most of my life, I’ve more often than not been the person to whom others came when they had questions about pop culture - “celebrities”, music, lexicon and the like.  I may have to use a cane these days, my balance and gait over the years have deteriorated from Igor to Joe Cocker, but were I to be questioned as to my ability to “Whip & Nay Nay” I can answer in the affirmative with a “Watch me!”. 

All that aside, I’m afraid the emoji/emoticon movement has left the train station without me.  I cast no aspersions on those who use these symbols – it’s like organized religion, camping, yoga pants and kale – I enjoy that they exist because they bring joy, comfort and/or grace into the lives of many people of whom I am fond  - but please don’t try to involve me.  

I like words. And punctuation (not the kind which when put together are supposed to form some sort of a message – like using a “p” that is apparently meant to be someone sticking their tongue out at you – but it’s sideways -  so I initially thought it was “I’ve fallen and I can’t get up”).

I understand that hieroglyphs were quite helpful to the Egyptians between 3500 BCE – 400 CE but even they dropped this writing system (“Mike, Come here – what do you think that hieroglyph is? Camel? Is it camel? ).  I saw a comment on someone’s post recently that was completely in emojis. I have no idea what most of these little signs mean individually, let alone strung together. There are so many of them. They’re tiny and quite open to interpretation – what does that face mean? Elation? Ennui? Gas? 

I’m also not big on the abbreviations, the LOLs or ROTFLMAO, etc. If someone has posted something that I find particularly funny then I like to give them the respect due and indicate, verbally, that it has made me laugh in an audible fashion, at the very least. 

I do like “WTF” however, I use the F-word enough as it is so it’s nice to have another option. Anyway, I feel that “WTF!” conveys more immediate shock and incredulity than spelling it out for some reason.

Suddenly, a couple of weeks ago, a pause over an innocent “Like” made a number of very colourful images pop up. A sort of smiley face acid flashback:

For those of you with whom I Facebook, and for the avoidance of confusion, I include herewith a translation of what I mean if I ever use one of these deals:

Like: I will continue to use this, as before, for almost everything: I like you, I like your update, video, article, cause; I support you in your efforts, I did not mean that I “liked” the fact that the person died but the obituary is lovely, and, Oh honey, you posted this thing 17 hours ago and no one has “liked” it yet? Here ya go.

Heart: Still gonna use < + 3.

1st Face: The meds are beginning to work

2nd Face: Are. You. Shitting. Me?

3rd Face: The meds are wearing off

4th Face: THIS is why we can’t have nice things…

So, while I myself will continue to communicate with words – you crazy emojiphiles, off ya go, have at it!  

For the longest time I could not imagine a scenario in which I would want to send someone a cartoon image of a pile of poo.  It's all become crystal clear now though given this current election cycle...

Two Whips And A Horn

A couple of weeks ago, Dee's elder son had a traffic violation for which he needed to appear in court.  Dee went to support Alex & I went to support them both.  Fortunately I have had very little experience being in court but I suppose that this being a hot morning in the South that it caused visions of Atticus Finch & chifferobes to dance through my head.

Everyone else appeared normally dressed and then Alex's lawyer arrived.  He was in a pink & white seersucker suit and white bucks, wearing a diamond earring and carrying his white boater and briefcase.  I wondered if perhaps there was to be a "Music Man" flash mob later of which we were unaware (although I'm a realist and somehow knew the chances of that were quite small indeed). It wasn't the seersucker suit per se, I have a friend in Montana that can rock the seersucker/white buck/white boater like nobody's business but it's always been the blue & white and he may even have the tan & white but I didn't think that the pink & white had ever been made in adult sizes since the last time I can ever remember seeing it, it was the pattern of the matching bathrobes from Best & Company my younger siblings & I wore in the summer of 1965.  I should also mention that the lawyer bore more than a passing resemblance to Mr. Haney from "Green Acres".

But in the end, what matters is years of doing business and making contacts - the details were sorted out quickly and fairly and off we went.

Meantime, a few days later, back at the farm, Dee solved the mystery of the missing guinea hens. A couple of the guinea chicks had started disappearing but there was no dog nor hound nor cat nor coyote nor fox, (fine - I'll stop saying "nor") that could get in or out of that coop. Dee went in one morning and found the culprit - a very large black snake (about 9 ft. it turned out) that now just had 2 large bumps in it (of now ex-guinea hens) hindering its ability to escape.  

As I've mentioned, Dee loves all animals and despite the fact that this serial killer had already murdered a handful or so of her new guinea hens, she put the snake in a sack (it was too full to put up much of a fight - but still - it was pretty huge) and let it go somewhere else on the farm. Knowing absolutely nothing about nature but being a natural cynic, I wondered if it mightn't just slither right back up the hill. Do snakes have a sense of direction? A memory? Did it emerge from its food coma thinking, "Hey, I think there's a great new restaurant with tender guinea fowl somewhere in this neighbourhood"?

Last Saturday, with trips and other conflicts, Dee & I suddenly realized that we were the only two to take the hounds out for exercise. Normally, D & I ride in one golf cart with a couple (to several) others helping us on horseback (as the riders are able to go more quickly after any hound/hounds that take a mind to run off from the rest of the group). And so, armed with naught but 2 golf carts, 2 whips and a horn, the two of us decided we would take the hounds for their walkout and just to up the difficulty factor and only for their second outing, we added PUPPIES!

I suppose if anyone had been driving down the county road that day and didn't know what was going on it probably looked like a couple of ladies of a certain age being "little rascals on our Little Rascals" and having a crazed motorized wheelchair rodeo of some sort.  Anyway, we were well pleased with ourselves when we returned with the same amount of hounds with which we left.  Extra points were awarded (by us to us - 'cause why not?) for the facility in which we got them in and out of the trailer and into the kennel as well. Huzzah!

I then went down to my house to start to make lasagna for dinner that night and realized that I had meant to grab a Pyrex pan from Dee's house so back up I went in the golf cart now accompanied by my Mexican Canine-American housemate, Carmella, the chihuahua.  On the way back down I was doing pretty well driving with one hand, balancing the pan and the tiny dog while opening the throttle to give the cart a bit more gas and then saw something black laying across the drive and thought, "Well, look at that big old black stic..SNAKE!!" 

I am happy to report that no chihuahuas, snakes or Pyrex dishes were harmed in the stunt driving that was required at just that moment.  I totally think it was the serial killer snake though. Ever notice the reptilian onomatopoeia of the word recidivist? MmmHmm...

On a less homicidal note, Dee & I think that "Two Whips and a Horn" would be a great name for a B&B and/or Pub catering to the Hunt crowd.

Alas, it might also be a good name for an S&M Club so the marketing would really be everything...

Jesus is coming for you - and he has back-up dancers!

I was a hostage of the Catholic Church for my first 17 years.  Our father was a Protestant - although not Protestant enough to ever be able to answer the question of which sub-denomination - just standard issue Protestant, I guess.  Our mother was Catholic so our parents' marriage was considered "mixed" and they had to sign over any and all children to the Catholic Church.  It was the law.

In 8th grade, I declared myself to be an Atheist.  Mother, naturally, had a fit and so, in my Libra way - I compromised (hedging my bets anyway - just in case) and met her halfway with Agnostic.  At the end of that year, which concluded our middle school years, there was a graduation ceremony. Founded in 1881, the Convent is New York's oldest private school for girls (mummy & her sister had attended Sacred Heart as well), we were big on ceremony and tradition. 

The graduation was held in the courtyard. Originally, this landmark building, the Otto Kahn mansion, had been the largest single family dwelling in New York city.  The acoustics are quite good - The Philharmonic, Enrico Caruso and George Gershwin had performed there when Mr. Kahn and his family lived in the building and Lady Gaga (an alum) filmed A Very GaGa Thanksgiving in that courtyard and other spaces in the buildings.

Medals for excellence were awarded in many different areas ('cause you can't have tradition and ceremony without medals of honour).  Suddenly, the Head of Middle School announced, "And the award for Religion goes to Pam Adams".  Well, I was certainly shocked as hell and Mother started laughing - which of course could be heard by all 40 or so of the other, non-hysterical parents.  Damn those acoustics.

I have no problem with religion, per se.  I am, in truth, honestly happy for those who are genuinely comforted by their faith. I myself use Valium. I feel rather confident in thinking that there is no organized, recognized religion (none of this Charlie Manson, Devil worship, Taliban, fringe group, whatever bullshit) whose deity commands them to go out and kill, maim, rape and pillage in his/her name. In fact, that "not killing" one is pretty much #1 on the hit parade we call the 10 Commandments. And yet, religion has been the cause of an ass-load (technical military term) of wars.

Of course another commandment is the taking of His name in vain, etc.  Jesus wept, man - Catholics are the worst at this one.

I also don't think that it should be fear of eternal damnation that compels people to act with respect, empathy and kindness towards each other.

Though clearly no religious scholar - there are a few things that I have learned either first hand and/or remember from school, church, Jesus Christ Superstar and Godspell that really are just good common sense and manners. The world wouldn't be in quite the clusterfuck it is currently if we all practiced what we preached.

First, and I really cannot stress this any more often than I already do - the Religious Right is neither.  It is truly appalling and the hypocrisy is wrong - shockingly wrong. Sure, they talk the talk - but walk the walk? Well, according to what I recall of the teachings of the Bible - really not so much. Spewing hatred and then hiding behind a religion goes against the tenets of most religions as well as the basic laws of civility.

If you believe the brochure - we are all created equal, in His image, God doesn't make mistakes (but really, ego much on that one?) and so on.  Apparently the Religious Right and their ilk did not get this memo because unless we look like them and think like them, we are not their equal and never will be.

Treat people the same way you would like to be treated.   Well, Jesus H. Christ, again if we are any different than they - we are the ones who are wrong (but clearly have a much tighter grip on reality) and also damned to hell (which given what counts as a "good Christian" these days is sounding better all the time).  Although it wouldn't hurt anyone to hold a door open for someone, let someone into the line of traffic, simply say, "please" and "thank you".

Then there's The Westboro Baptist Church who picket the funerals of anyone either known or presumed to be gay or the funerals of veterans who have fought so that we all might have the right to freedom of speech.  No matter how hateful. Their choice of words (as well as their inability to spell, punctuate, or just form an intelligent thought) speaks volumes.  Very Christian indeed.

Judge not lest ye be judged - let he who is without sin cast the first stone - the whole glass house deal.  Okay, I guess that I am technically breaking this one myself even as I type - but they started it.

In this last week, the Supreme Court came down with some historic decisions - the invalidation of parts of the Voting Rights Act of 1965, striking down the Defense of Marriage Act of 1996 and lifting Prop 8 in California. Judge Antonin Scalia proved himself to be both racist (declaring the Voting Rights Act a perpetuation of racial entitlement) and homophobic (voting for DOMA to be upheld).

I cannot say how very much I hope that one of these days one of those "Rapture" thingies actually does happen. I know that I'm not going anywhere and neither are my friends but it's a good way to round up some of the loonies.

But you, Justice Scalia? You and all of the others who are more concerned with limiting peoples' civil rights and furthering inequality than upholding the founding principle of the United States AND Christianity - that all men are created equal. And by "men" we mean all of mankind (yes, including women) and by "all" we don't just mean white, heterosexual and Christian.  Jesus tap-dancing Christ - I don't know what the fu...Wait, what's that?  Oh look! It's Jesus, Bojangles, Sammy Davis, Jr., Gregory Hines, Alvin Ailey, Michael Bennett & Jerome Robbins (in the front row anyway).  Oh, honey - be afraid, be very afraid - Jesus is coming for you and he has back-up dancers!  

And-a 5, 6, 7, 8...

Who Let The Cows Out - Moo, Moo, Moo, Moo-Moo?

Just kidding - I'm pretty sure they are supposed to be there. I don't really have much interaction with the Bovine Brethren but from what I have been able to glean, they really aren't given to "wilding". In fact, I have become so accustomed to being the only house up on a hill that if I happen to see shadows moving, I wonder just what the hell is going on? It's always cows - who are rather more ninja-like than one might imagine.


The cows are moved around the farm from field to field (and they are scattered all about as it is - I don't know how they keep track) because...well, I'm sure there is a good reason - the grass is always greener in the other pasture? One can never really take the New York out of the New Yorker.


Generally cows only moo-ve into my perview when we are exercising the hounds. The hounds are just curious and want to sniff around and say "hi" and the cows, for the most part, would prefer that they not do that. One time, about 8 or so cows came running down to one of the gates we were about to open and cross as if to say "Yeah, no - we don't want to share any of this field today". When it became apparent to the cows that the hounds, horses and people were indeed going to be coming into their pasture - they literally looked at each other and in their very best Monty Python re-enactment, did the "Run Away! Run Away!" battle scene from Holy Grail.


Recently, Dee had to travel on business and so I was to lead the next three walkouts. I am getting a bit more confident and am often now able to make a sound come out of the horn that doesn't sound like a desperate cry for help from a living thing.


The first walkout, I had forgotten to ask where the horn was and couldn't find it in any of the usual places (it was, in fact, hung where it should be, I had just never noticed it there before) and had also forgotten to ask about "treats" so this session was done hornless & treatless (Dee doesn't always give them treats while we're out - but I figured since I was the substitute teacher that some canine graft & corruption in the form of small bone-shaped biscuits would've been helpful). 

We came to the last field and pond and since there were quite a few cows already at the pond, decided it might be best to just lead the hounds away from that pond. I then looked down the hill to see an ass-load (agricultural unit of measurement) of cows being led into the field. Jesus tap-dancing Christ! A quick consult with the riders and we decided that I would call the hounds behind me but rather than give the command to "go", I would just move slowly down the hill diagonally away from the incoming crowd with most of the riders keeping between the cows and hounds. It worked! The hounds followed my cart and moving as a unit everyone got to the bottom of the hill without any confusion or tears. 

I was well pleased with that maneuver (probably not as impressive to the veterans but I enjoyed it).


The second walkout was pretty stress free (but crazy hot) until the end. We got all of the hounds into the trailer to take them back up to the kennel except for Ice-T (I am not changing any of the animals' names until or unless I am advised they have lawyers on retainer). Normally behaved like a gentleman, Ice-T decided to channel his inner rapper and run back into the field. Dee truly loves every one of her creatures, great & small, from the horses down to the bees so I had NO intention of telling her we had lost one of her hounds, I yelled to the poor, exhausted, blazing hot riders "No one leaves until we get T back here!"

Oh dear, it's just occurred to me that technically I may have been holding a half dozen or so people hostage at that point. 

Well, what does one do when faced with a short, round woman of a certain age who is brandishing a whip and is covered in sweat, dust and pond scum, and currently has Bette Davis eyes - and not the good kind of which Kim Carnes sang either. I'm thinking more "Whatever Happened to Baby Jane" eyes or "Hush, Hush Sweet Charlotte" peepers. Well, we finally got T back but by that point we could only get him into the cab of the truck. Have you ever tried to drive a truck with a trailer full of hounds behind you and a foxhound sitting on your lap?  Well, I have.


By the third walkout, the temperature had been steadily climbing every day and that alone could've caused the spontaneous combustion of any living thing but just as I pulled on the front door, not only was I hit by the heat but also by a smell that I could only think was one large dead thing (something in the Woolly Mammoth size range) OR a large amount of smaller dead things. Turns out it's fertilizer time. New York, in the height of summer, with the sanitation people on strike, isn't even in the same class of stink. 

Fortunately, with the exception of a continual wish for a gas mask, that walkout went well. Dee was returning that afternoon leaving me no time in which to find alternate living arrangements had it not.

Tomorrow we ride (I cart) at dawn (well, not dawn so much as 90 minutes earlier than usual) 'cause that heat isn't going anywhere anytime soon.  

Onward & sideways!

I'm Sorry, I Was Not Aware There Would Be Backing Up...

I had a very sheltered upbringing - on the Upper East Side of New York. I was very fortunate to have been afforded a most excellent education at The Convent of the Sacred Heart on 91st Street & Fifth Avenue. It was an unusual time to be growing up anyway - the times they were indeed a-changing.

The academic program was, and still is, of the highest order and though I don't know if such a thing even exists anymore, I vaguely remember a very tepid sort of Home Economics class (or club, maybe?) I just know that I didn't have to take it. The reason this course was not emphasized was that it was just presumed that a young lady of the Sacred Heart would have staff.

Another elective that was not offered (although I don't believe it was offered at either Spence or Nightingale - two other private girls schools in the immediate area) was driving. As New Yorkers, we mostly walked and/or were driven. Getting one's driving license just wasn't the milestone for us that it was for, you know, everyone else in the world. Or America at least. 

The first driving license I had was in the mid-1980's when I first lived on Anguilla (the northern most of the Leeward Islands). There we drove in "American" cars (steering wheel on the left) BUT as Anguilla is a British dependent territory (British West Indies) we drove on the left side of the road.


This is helpful nowhere.

The first American driving license was issued to me in the early 1990's in Montana when I was splitting my year between Missoula and Anguilla. I then spent the next decade driving on the right hand side of the road for half of the year and the left hand side for the other half.

Because of the impediments that came with driving on Anguilla - goats leaping into the middle of the road from out of nowhere, pot-holes that could swallow a small car and confused tourists trying to negotiate the roundabouts AND remember that they need to stay on the left hand side of the road, I have always been a very vigilant driver but because so many others are not, I am also a very anxious driver.

To be honest, it is not always the other driver, most of my life is anxiety driven.

I don't like driving on highways, don't like driving fast, not a fan of the windy road, get claustrophobic if I am surrounded by a lot of traffic, am now quite night-blind and still, to this day, when I am in a new place, I have to remember to drive on the right-hand side of the road until I get used to it.

Arkansas, it turns out, appears to be mostly winding two lane highways. I am now quite confident in making my way from home to our small town and its environs but it will still be a while before I can do the drive to Fayetteville. A) There is construction going on and those flashing lights and stripedy barrels only serve to confuse me (on top of the anxiety), 2) There is a LOT of traffic and C, D, E & F) I don't know where anything is.

Anyway, my friend Alex (also not his real name and coincidentally my friend Dee's older son (still not her name either)) is having some transportation issues just now and needs a lift to and from work. For the most part Dee takes him in the morning and I collect him in the afternoon. A couple of weeks ago I got a call asking if I might go for Alex in the truck as he had something large to bring home.

Holy crap - the White Rhino! The first time I'd seen Dee in over 30 years - she pulled up to the airport in this giant white truck, opened her door, slid out and then disappeared from sight for a few seconds before she came around the front of the truck. It's taken a while and I am now reasonably proficient at getting in and out of the passenger side with a modicum of dignity and a minimum of swearing but it is one big-ass truck.

I went up to Dee's house to swap my golf cart for the White Rhino and it had already been considerately parked in a manner that allowed me to just get in and drive. No having to reverse out and negotiate the parking area - just climb in and off I go. Well, the whole thing scared the crap out of me but it was time to suck it up and in the words of the philosopher, Nike, "Just do it!"

I would just briefly like to mention, as an aside, that if it is normal for your vehicle to have lights on that usually signify that something might be wrong, a heads-up could probably be helpful in the elimination of visions of the vehicle exploding before the completion of the task. There are almost no vehicles from this century on the compound so almost everything has its own eccentricities - as do many of the best people...

I pulled into the drive of Alex's job and he directed me to follow him around this building so he could load-in his stuff. Once the task was completed he said, "OK, just turn the truck around and I'll meet you over there" gesturing vaguely in the direction in which we had come.


Umm - what's that now? Just turn the truck around? Like, go backwards and then forward again? Well, it had never crossed my mind that I would have to turn this mother around - but then again, I reckoned that anything short of an actual building that might be behind me would not win in a confrontation with The White Rhino and so I wrestled that gear shift to R and then back over to D and we were outta there. 

Once I knew we were on our way back to the farm and that we would be in Drive for the rest of the trip I was able to enjoy the powerful feeling of driving a big old truck. I totally get it. Sitting eleventy feet above the ground and thinking: 

"I am The White Rhino - bow to me!"

My Kingdom for an Anchovy!

When I moved here, I was aware that the farm is in a pretty rural area.  This is one of the many things that I love.  My view is stunning in every direction and generally peace and quiet abide.  On a clear night, in the absence of ambient light, you can see almost every star ever discovered and practically read by the light of the full moon. When the moon is new however, finding your car can be a challenge as you walk, Harpo Marx-like, knees bent, taking tiny steps with hands gesturing frantically in front of you wishing you had bat sonar. 

The area in which I live is considered Northwestern Arkansas, abbreviated as NWA.  I cannot say how long it will be before images of Dr. Dre & Ice Cube stop popping into my mind every time I hear "NWA".

We are about 5 miles from town (pop. 2346) and about 30 miles from Town (where the University is located).  We have a lovely little downtown.  There is a traffic thingy that looks meant to be in the spirit of a roundabout but is really a rather confusing polygon of some sort.  There was some stunt driving involved during my first attempt at circumnavigating this 5th circle of Hell and I believe that poor Dee may have seen a lot of her life flashing before her eyes but admirably kept her calm and we tried it again.

We have a McDonald's, a Sonic & a Pizza Hut. About 100 feet from the Pizza Hut there is another little pizza place that is called, That Little Pizza Place.  Needless to say, this can lead to conversations of the "Who's on first?" variety.  

We have a Walmart (this is Arkansas, it's the law) and although I had really been a Target girl in the past, I am becoming quite fond of our Walmart.  Hey, on Mothers' Day morning I was able to get a wifi router and get connected again to the rest of America.  I just wish Pepperidge Farm double chocolate Milano cookies would stop falling into my basket.

Then we have our grocery store.  It is a chain store and I'd been to the one in "Town" before as it's on the way to/from the airport and that one is really nice. Ours is well, a bit less so. The people who work there are lovely, it's not that, it is the fact that either Mr. Magoo or Jackson Pollock is responsible for the layout of the store. There seems to be a little bit of everything on every aisle so the shopping experience is a cross between Concentration:

"Wait, I saw some of these things on another aisle.  Um three aisles over?" 

"No, I'm sorry, it was two aisles over.  And the board goes back." 

& Jeopardy: "I'll take Things Only I Know on Which Aisle They Reside for $400, Alex". 

If you pay close attention though there are little gems to be found.  There is a significant Mexican population here so there are bottles of Coke & Fanta from Mexico made with REAL sugar not the HFCS crap.  It means nothing to me, I've been on diet soda since 1963 but for someone who does enjoy "the real thing" - it is here.

Three different types of Panko bread crumbs - on three separate aisles. Who knew?

We're ass-deep (technical retail terminology) in Vidalia onions just now which seem to have elbowed the plain old regular yellow onions into obscurity.  I'm sure they'll be back though.

Early on, I decided to make a Caesar salad.  It's probably my favourite salad and as long as I have the required ingredients - I make a pretty good one.  Romaine lettuce - check, garlic, lemons, cracked black pepper, check, check, check.  Olive oil, Fresh eggs, Parmesan cheese & Worcestershire - got 'em.  Anchovies?  Anchovies?  Well, on the aisle that one might normally find anchovies, I found the usual suspects: tuna, clams (smoked & not), oysters (also smoked & not), sardines - a few different varieties.  Anchovy paste - sure, but nary a tin of anchovy fillets to be found.

I returned a couple of days later on a search and destroy mission.  I would be the Jacques Cousteau of supermarkets.  I would find those damn anchovies.

And so, with my shopping cart, temporarily christened "Calypso" and "The Best of Little Feat" playing on my iPod I began systematically going up and down every single aisle until finally, good news!  I spy a group of anchovy tins (a school of anchovy tins?) on the shelf.  And look, only $1 each?! Hey wait, what's the catch? Oh, well there ya go - they expired last December!

And this, ladies & gentlemen, is why I can't have nice things. What I will do is purchase plenty, plenty tins of anchovies the next time I find them. 

As God is my witness, I will never go without anchovies again!

Where Could I Be? Believe It Or Not, It's Me!

Okay, you know that thing where when you smack something so hard that as soon as you look at the affected area, a bruise has already formed?  Well, this morning, the golf cart grabbed my beautiful hunting whip, literally whipping it out of the cart with the knob end whacking me on the shin.  Just exactly above my work boots.  Huzzah.  Fortunately my whip, made by a local artist/equestrian, is fine.  Given the location of the bruise, I am able to wear an ice pack but still continue to wander about - although I feel rather like Lindsay Lohan under house arrest.

Oh, well now I've jumped way too far ahead...

I went to a small, private women's liberal arts college on the east coast that folded in 1977 leaving us with no alumnae association.  We all scattered to the wind as happens during several decades. Once I had the internet, I tried looking for a couple of my friends - the ones whose married names I knew. Whose weddings I'd been to.  This was still during dial-up days when you would put your words into the search box and then you'd go, say, make a meal and then come back to see if anything came up.  The first one I found was my friend, PK. Funny, smart, loving, lovely, beautiful PK.  Her obituary from just 3 years or so prior - breast cancer.  I wept for 2 weeks and then stopped looking anymore for a while.  

A few years ago, I heard via my old colleagues on Anguilla that someone was looking for me and I gave them permission to give out my personal info.  

In the meantime, I  tried putting some names into the facebook search box again and finally a couple of them came up!  One was for the friend who was looking for me and another confirmed that the info I had recently come across for another bff had been correct - she did live in Arkansas. Dee (not her real name - forgot to ask her if I can use her name in my blog) asked me if I travelled and would I come & visit?  Well, I hadn't gotten on a plane in almost a decade because A) I hate it and 2) for much of that time, I was too large to fit into those seats but I said "Sure" and along with another friend (and roommate of almost 5 years from NYC days) we agreed to meet at Dee's farm to celebrate the Royal Wedding of Wills & Kate  - AND as it turned out the capture of Osama Bin Laden as well. We'd also spent the NY black-out of 1977 together.

None of us had seen each other in over 30 years but within 30 minutes it felt as though it had only been 30 days - not a whole lifetime!  

Over the next few visits, Dee & I had discussed me moving down here in a sort of hypothetical scenario but since my housemates in Montana were putting their house on the market and I was going to have to pack up all of my stuff anyway, it seemed to be a sign that it might just be time for a new adventure.  Dee's friend and tenant had an extra bedroom in his house and he was willing to share with me so I thought, "why not?".  After all, isn't it what almost every little girl and her bff decide around 9 or 10 years old, "Hey, if neither of us is married when we are old (generally deemed at that point to be 35) then we should live in the same town and grow old together".  Sort of Golden Girls in The Ozarks. My friend Nici, has been a great inspiration in having faith in leaps of faith.  So here I am.

Foxhunting is a big deal here and Dee is Master of the Foxhounds.  Holy crap, this is no job for sissies.  There is a ton of work involved in running the farm and over the years, she has learned a great deal about veterinary medicine as well and I am just generally in total awe of her.  If they were to make a movie of Dee's life - Barbara Stanwyck would've been the best choice to play her - except for the fact that she is way, way older than Dee and also, quite dead.

I am trying my best to learn things so that I can maybe be useful and give her a hand whenever she needs it.

In the off-season, the hounds are "walked out" (or exercised) twice a week (generally the same days as the hunts in season).  Today I was asked to lead the walkout (just the 3rd time I've done it).  We (the golf cart - usually with with Dee & me in it and generally anywhere from 2-4 people on horseback) travel about part of the farm from pond to pond and also keep the hounds used to hearing and responding to the commands that Dee gives them during the hunt. The hounds are told to "Come behind!" (the golf cart now but Dee on her horse during the hunt) and then with the command "Ok Boys!" they are off like a shot.  It's very cool.

The cutting of wheat is just beginning so in most of the fields the grass/wheat is getting really tall. The hounds would go running off and then come running back looking at me like, "Where are we going? We can't see! The grass is TOO HIGH!" When it was time to get them behind the cart - I had to stand on the golf cart so they could see me and I could crack my whip to get their attention.

About three-quarters through the course, the end of my hunting whip got caught in the golf cart wheel and was snapped off the seat next to me and the rounded knob-like handle whacked me in the shin for good measure.  Hurt like a mofo but am happy I didn't harm the whip.  Fortunately, it is made of ash, a hard wood.  Unfortunately for my shin, my whip is made of ash, a hard wood.

As always, when something doesn't necessarily go my way, I try my best to find something optimistic in the situation (I don't know why - I have pharmaceuticals).  Anyway, at least my legs are no longer winter white which would make this bruise (about 6 inches long at the moment, still early days) MUCH more apparent and dramatic.  Also, I believe that I have clothing in black, blue, purple, green and yellow so that I might colour coordinate my outfits over the next few weeks as this bruise waxes and wanes.

I do so love a good colour theme...

Smoke More Pot, Play More Music.

The older one gets, the longer the general cocktail party patter becomes about one's health or lack thereof. 

I would like to take this moment to address my young and able-bodied friends and family - I am SO not shitting you when I tell you to not take even one moment of your youth for granted.  That "perky" might be used to describe any of your body parts whatsoever is a time period that goes by SO fast that it is startling in hindsight.  And to have a body that works pretty much the way it was meant to, is a gift. 

Don't fuck it up.

My knees were already on their way out by the time I was 20 from playing sports and by 21, I had ruptured a disc in my back and now, at this point, my body is pretty much just straight up giving me the finger. 

About 35 years ago, I was high and listening to my beloved Supertramp, specifically the bass-line to "Even in the Quietest Moments", in headphones.  Really loud.  I realized at that time that I had totally forgotten about the stupid sciatica pain while I was concentrating on the music.  So, for me - I find it a useful tool and have used marijuana and music (listening or playing) for both stress and pain management since that time. 

I am fortunate to live in a state where medicinal marijuana is legal.  Unfortunately they are now trying to make it as difficult as possible - but that is a story for another time.  Fortunately (I guess) my brokenness does qualify me for a "green card" so I still use this method, lo these many years later.

Obviously there are pills involved as well.  I'm not insane (legally). 

As I now travel the maze of medical personnel, I am having to remember to do or say things to avoid the looks of grave concern on their faces.  It's mostly my blood pressure.  It really is okay - unless I am in a doctor's office.  I now make a record of my blood pressure for a few days before the appointment to hand in. Medical homework.

I was having a discussion with a friend today and said that I had done an experiment the night before my last doc appointment. Earlier that evening I had come home from the adorable preschool presentation of one of my tiniest bffs, so I got stoned (Bob Dylan said we must) and played my guitar for a half an hour or so and then took my blood pressure.  It was extra low. 

"What do you take from this?", my friend asked.

"Mostly that I should smoke more pot and play more music", I replied.

Easter: Now With Zombies!

Dear Vatican Department of Marketing & PR:

I am writing to you as an RC (Recovering Catholic - although let's be honest - who amongst us actually recovers fully?).  Jesus-tap-dancing-Christ, the guilt alone - oy!

I've mentioned in the past that I feel about religion the same way I feel about camping - I am glad that these activities exist for the many who find them enjoyable - please just leave me the hell out of it.

You pretty much lost me when I found out that the end of The Lord's Prayer was not, in fact  "And lead us not into Penn Station" but rather "And lead us not into temptation".  I still think I was right...

The Goddess only knows that during these times when religion has almost become a dirty word; a shield, behind which people try to hide to justify the most heinous of behaviours, that you guys have one extra big-ass PR problem on your hands.

It seems to me that you are missing a golden marketing opportunity to drum up membership and maintain loyalty amongst today's younger parishioners  - Yo! You two with the pointy hats over there, stop the winking and giggling.  You're not helping yourselves in the slightest, you know.  You people need to step into the, I don't know, 17th or 18th Century at very least. 

First of all - stop fixing that which isn't broken - why the hell would you strip some perfectly good Saints of their sainthood?  The ones that people had heard of and knew what they did? Like St. Christopher and St. Patrick - now travellers and Ireland are screwed. Great. Not really the way to win friends and influence people, IMHO.

You de-commissioned (or whatever) Limbo.  Mr. Harry Belafonte had always made it sound so fun.  Perhaps that was the problem - it was just sort of "Hell Lite", really.

Now that we have hit Holy Week and are sliding into the home base that is Easter - in order to attract the coveted 18-34 demographic - you should really be playing up the abundant gore factor of this otherwise pastel coloured holiday. 

It's all the rage now, vampires, zombies and the like.  You already have the whole crown of thorns and crucifiction bits plus you are also trying to sell the "See, he died on this one day and then three days later - Voilà! Apparently, he was rather less dead than originally thought and he rose again" theory.  Looking at this from a purely, uh, logical point of view: dead one day + not dead three days later = the undead or zombie. 

Also, if one guy rises from the dead three days later - who is to say that it didn't happen to others?  Certainly not all the time but clearly the mortuary sciences in general and embalming in particular were still a bit "hit and miss" back then but not to worry - you can totally use this to your advantage.

So, you can still keep the pastel coloured outfits avec chapeaux, the chicks (both real & marshmallow) & bunnies (both real & chocolate) - but in order to catch the attention of the preferred demographic you need to take advantage of the elephant (who coincidentally also used to be dead a few days ago and then now isn't) in the middle of the room and use it as your new catchphrase: 

Easter: Now With Zombies!

You're welcome.

Jesus Has Two Daddies

Hark, the herald angels shout!
One goddamn string of lights is out!

Well, 'tis the season - at night, other than the Great Wall of China, the only other thing that can be seen from outer space is: our house (although it is a very, very, very fine house). 

My housemates, of 20 years, John & Tony, LOVE to decorate the house at Christmas.  Tony is sent up on to the roof, generally in October to put all of the outside house lights in place (before weather makes that a suicide mission).  The outside trees and bushes can then be done at leisure.

Right after Thanksgiving and once poor Tony (the only one still agile enough) brings all of the boxes of ornaments up from the basement - they fill up the guest bedroom in its entirety.  Christmas, especially for gay men (I don't mean to call out any one group, but if you can name another who is, in a preternaturally large percentage, associated with good taste and creativity then please do keep me posted) as Christmas allows for the very tasteful to dip their toes in, dare I say it, the Sea of Gaudy. 

As long as taste and elegance have been restored by Epiphany.

In fact, it is a widely held belief, amongst a very large group of our friends, that any house, any where, that has Christmas decorations up after the 6th of January, must sadly be the home of people who drink way too much to care.  Although strands of just white lights are always in good taste.  In a car of any size, with any combination and permutation of our friends, the ones we see all the time and the ones we see once every few years, if we pass a house with Christmas stuff happening outside of the allotted time period, all conversation stops, and just like a Greek chorus, we cast our eyes downwards, and whisper, out of the sides of our mouths, "Alcoholics".

Anyway, this year is rather low-key and we have just the one tree.  Perfectly shaped and decorated, precisely as John's mother taught him - small ornaments at the top and then growing in size with the very largest baubles at the bottom.  It truly is magnificent and I have seen more than one straight man clutch his pearls and mutter "stunning" under his breath.  This year is a "bubble lights" year which Tony & I adore (and John does not).

Last year had been a non-bubble light year and so we hung the movie star ornaments on the main tree as well (they have often had their own tree in other years).  Ours, I can absolutely guarantee you, is the only household, in the world, in which it is possible for the following exchange to have actually happened last year:

Me: Uh-oh
John: What?
Me: I believe Myrna Loy just fell off the tree.

And sure enough she had.  This year, the movie stars are adorning the oleander.

For the first ten years that we lived here - I was always away at work, hearing Christmas carols played on the steel drum.  Really never did get used to that.  Anyway, at some point, John had decided to go through my boxes of Christmas ornaments which I had packed up when mummy died and never looked at again.  Lo and behold, he found the little wooden crèche that had belonged to my mother's mother and perhaps went even further back to Ireland.  The house here had been always been manger-free until then but for some reason John brought it out. 

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Now, this is "Crèche Fucking Central".  The boys have collected either whole manger scenes or parts thereof in their travels over the last 20 years.  I was quite moved, the first year I was living here on a full-time basis, to see the crèche of my childhood that had always been on our mantle at home.  Upon closer inspection however, I found that a pink Cadillac and a turkey, that is way larger than scale, had apparently also made their way to Bethlehem.  Part of the reason for the turkey being so large is that once you lift up the turkey, there is a couple illustrating one of the many, many positions of the kama-sutra.  Oh, holy night, indeed!

Now, there is one Nativity that is all gold (which would be OTT at any other time of year, but is perfectly perfect just now).  There was another that was basically just three large wisemen, so we always thought of that one as them packing for their road trip to Bethlehem.  Sadly, Tony took out two of those wisemen last year when he fell down the steps and cracked a couple of his ribs.  A couple of other manger scenes are also scattered about the house.

Santa Claus? I cannot even begin to guess the number but there is not a place to cast one's eye in the kitchen in which there is nary a Santa.  But then again, the kitchen is black & white with red accents so it was just made for Santamania.

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We are having a very small sit-down tomorrow night and I must remember to point out two things to our guests - one would be to not let the dessert I have made get anywhere near the candles.  The bourbon content is high.

And the other, is to point out our favourite of all of the nativity scenes.  It is a wee, small one and was brought back from one of John & Tony's many trips to Italy but sadly, the Blessed Mother had been decapitated on the trip home.  No worries though, we hooked Joseph up with one of the wisemen and voilà -

Jesus has two daddies!

Merries & Ho's to one and all!

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Why Can't I Think Of Something That Stupid?

Whoever said, "There's a sucker born every minute" (and to those, who even as you are reading this are thinking, "P.T. Barnum, ya stupid git" or words to that effect and to whom I must counter, "Nuh-uh, s'not - Google it") now, where was I?  Oh yes, an illiteracy of idiots, a confederacy of dunces - well, let's just say they abound.

The vastness of the very vapid first became apparent to me in the mid-70's when the "Pet Rock" became such a sensation.   I could see how it might've had limited appeal in say, New York City.  Although let's be realistic, if, for reasons I still cannot fathom, we wanted to add a rock to the family, we would've had to go either all the way (three blocks) to Central Park or "to the country" to pick one out. We could however go and view them at The Met (four blocks), or on our very exciting forays (in taxi cabs through the park) to The West Side and The Museum of Natural History.  This way we could visit them without all the responsibility and emotional attachment that might come with having a pet one.

I have, of course, now found, over several decades of not living in New York, that rocks are every-fucking-where!  Not a day has passed since then that I haven't kicked, trod upon, tripped over, driven over or had ricochet off my windscreen, gravel, pebbles and rocks.  This is Montana - we grow rocks here.

And yet - quite successful were those rocks in a box.  Go figure.

At the moment, I am greatly perturbed by the popularity of something called a "Snuggie".  Can there really be THAT many people who are ill-equipped to use a normal blanket?  Except for the polyester part, back in the day, my people used to have the same thing - except we turned it around, added a smart little belt and called it a robe, FFS!

But wait - there's more!

Now there is some new thing that is a one piece body suit, that looks good on absolutely not. one. single. person in the commercial.  It appears to be made of 151% fully flammable polyester and there is absolutely no way that anyone wearing this ensemble can look dignified.  Ever.  And yet, they'd have you think that it's what everyone is wearing now.  There's at least one guy in the ad who, in a smart suit, could totally pull off Captain of Industry but alas, just as with the rest of the poor people in the ad, the only vision that this one piece suit really conjurs up is Polyester Cult Member.

Why am I talking such smack about polyester? Well, A) I really only like natural fibers - mostly cotton (I have a love/hate relationship with fleece and will only wear that which is either 100% cotton or has the very smallest amount of polyester) and 2) Other than that, what can I say - it's the same thing with Mandy Patinkin.  Neither Mandy nor polyester have ever done anything to me personally, it's just that they both give me the creeps.

Let's face it, I ain't gettin' any younger and not only are the chances almost non-existent that I will ever get to retire - I may actually still have to work for another three years after I am dead - so it is clearly becoming incumbent upon me to come up with a better plan than the daily entry into the Publisher's Clearing House dealio.  I wonder if they reanimate Ed McMahon now to give the winner the giant cheque or if it is someone else?

So, pet rocks, backwards robes and an outfit that screams, "Help me, I am being held hostage in some sort of wintery Jonestown.  They're going to make us drink the hot spiced cider tonight". 

I'm reasonably smart, why can't I think of something that stupid?

Nigel Tufnel pain scale

My body came up with a way to celebrate both Veteran's Day as well as Nigel Tufnel Day.  Unfortunately, it was an executive decision in which I had not been consulted.  I so would've voted no.

Anyone who has been playing along knows that I have rather a lot of body parts that have just packed it in.  I don't mean to be whiny, just catching other people up. It started with a ruptured disc and sciatica in 1978 and it's just been downhill from there. I wondered if my doc's assistant (a lovely woman, really) was taking acting lessons on the side after calling me with the results of my x-ray's to tell me, in a rather dramatic delivery that I had "severe osteoarthritis" in my knees.  No cartilage. Nada. Zip.  Alright then, good to know. Thanks.

At the time of my heart attack, two and a half years ago - I would say that my daily pain, on the old 1-10 scale was maybe 5.  I think that because my body has been falling apart gradually rather than all at once it has allowed me to develop a fairly high threshold of pain.  I also think that like our parents' generation, we still hold a sort of "suck-it up and walk-it off" ethic.  I tried to walk off my heart attack for 20 hours before I finally thought "Yeah, this can't be good".  I just got lucky.

I was faithful about going to the physical therapy, but
unfortunately finally had to quit because they didn't listen to me.  When I explained that my knees and back no longer work all that well, I'd get, "Why don't we just do a mile on the treadmill?" We?  WE??  OK, well first, even when I had hit "Circus Fat" did I ever refer to myself in the first person plural. Please do not "we" me, lady.  I've been living in this body for almost 51 and a half years and I don't recall ever seeing you there.

Anyway, in my effort to be a good and compliant patient, I went along with it until finally I couldn't deal with the collateral damage that was being done to other parts. When I told them that we would be parting ways, the always upbeat lady said "Oh, that's too bad - we were doing so well" and all I could think was, "Yeah, well I'm beginning to feel like an only slightly more ambulatory version of James Caan to your Kathy Bates".  My daily average pain had wandered up to about 6.

Now I just go with stretching, five pound weights and dancing.  Just put on my iPod and rock out.  It's both cathartic and is flexible enough so that on the days that the same can not be said for you, you can just use the other parts that seem to be acting reasonably.

This past spring my body decided to give me a little something new to take out for a spin: bursitis in my right hip.  How craptastic.  It was pretty hideous for a couple of weeks and then faded back a bit.  It never went away completely but was behaving rather like a sibling who is waving his fingers 1/32 of an inch away from your face thus inciting the ballad of the back seat: "Make him stop touching me", "Nuh-uh, not touching, not touching".  Anyway, it never went completely away, it was no where near what it was in the beginning but it would continue to make its presence known.  I believe that I was being stalked quite frankly.  Up we go to 6.5 now being the very best for which I can hope.   Oh well, suck it up.

Just this past Monday, at some point in the mid-day, BOOM, full-on, "Hi, didja miss me? I'm baaack" in my right hip.  I am trying to maintain my sense of humour and remember that Maya Angelou said something to the effect of "Just because I have pain, doesn't mean I have to be one".

On Tuesday morning, I put in for refills of my pain meds because it can sometimes take a couple of days and I wanted to make sure I was covered for the weekend.  Today's pain is brought to you by the number 8.

Check-in at the pharmacy Tuesday on the way home from work.  Yes for my muscle relaxers, No for the hydrocodone.  Oh well, that was just a crap-shoot anyway. I still have a couple of my pills left. 

Wednesday morning, closing in on 9 territory.  I really hate when that happens.  Had to go do one thing that absolutely had to be done for work, went to check back at the Drug store. Nein.  Alright, still have another day or so.

Thursday - this is going to be my lucky day, I can just feel it in my bones.  And joints.  And tendons.  And muscles. And nerves.  No worries, I have two pills left (although three is what it takes to make even the slightest difference).  I get through the things that I absolutely, positively had to get sorted out at work and then on my way home at around 3:00pm, I was going to suck it up, put my head phones on loud, get food for the weekend, pick-up my pain meds, go home, make a nest of the 9 pillows I seem to require and spend the weekend laying on ices packs, etc. and really commit to not doing all of that ADD wandering about - just for a couple of days.

The prescription still has not come back - very frustrating because they really are usually quite good on both ends.  No pain meds on Thursday night. Ow.

Guess what happened this morning?  Did anyone guess bursitis in the other hip as well?  Alright then - gold stars on your foreheads.

Called the Pharmacy, the prescription is in, oh, wait but there is a hold on it because insurance won't pay for it until the 15th.  I only wished that this sort of thing surprised me anymore but I am, more often than not, the living embodiment of "If it wasn't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all".  The young lady (they know me well there, and really always do their best to try to sort something out) said though that she could give me some of the prescription if I wanted to just pay the regular non-insurance rate.  Hell yeah, I'll pay anything.  Seriously, I'm at 9.5 and sinking.

Now, how to get there with the least amount of sceaming and swearing? ........Nope, never mind, there is no way - just off you go.  9.5 was my resting pain rate, certain movements, going up and down the stairs and in and out of the car for example, had me letting go with some humdingers.  No one can compete with a private catholic school girl when it comes to swearing. No. One.  

I was seeing stars at this point but made it to the shop, picked-up my meds and took them immediately when I got home.  I'm down to about a 7.5 which doesn't sound all that great but believe me, I am grateful since a couple of times today certain movements made me hit 11, just for a second, but still...

The irony of hitting an 11 on 1-10 scale on 11/11/11 has not been lost to me. It does not amuse me but I accept it.

Do not attempt to adjust your regular pain scale. You are about to experience the awe and mystery which reaches from the inner mind to... The Nigel Tufnel pain scale.