The miracles of modern medicine

To the overaged Barbie dolls at water-walking yesterday:

I'm so impressed that not only do your faces show only subtle signs of plastic surgery, but that you managed to be separated after your conjoined birth. However, now that you have been separated, it is not necessary to always stay together, even when you are in a group exercise class and blocking the progress of people who are there to work out rather than chat.

I see dead people.

Wednesday night at water-walking, I saw Uncle Fester in swim trunks, accompanied by an adorable little girl in a hot pink swimsuit with a tutu attached, and I saw Stonewall Jackson getting into the lap pool.

Tuesday on my walk to file some stuff at court, I saw J.E.B. Stuart by the Health Department, and wanted to point east and tell him to get to Gettysburg before Lee did something stupid.

Yes, it's been a weird week.

Learning to fish is hard!

If you've heard me tell this story before, skip to the next paragraph. My mother is good with an awful lot of things, but she's got at most basic skills with a computer. One time, my dad was trying to get her to branch out, and used the old "Give a man a fish, you feed him for a day/Teach a man to fish, you feed him for a lifetime." bit on her. Mom said, "Just shut up and give me the damn fish." It's hilarious both because my mother rarely swears, and also because it's the perfect exasperated response.

The last six weeks, Mom and I have been giving each other fish. She's cast on and cast off my knitting, fixed dropped or extra stitches, told me how to find my gauge, etc. I've been monitoring her new work e-mail, doing attachments and switching identities, etc.

On Friday, before she left for a week in NYC with my dad and my nephew, Mom sent three e-mails with attachments herself. When she was doing the second one, trying to remember the next step without me prompting her, she said, "Learning to fish is hard." If you know my mom, you can hear her saying that. If you don't know her, just imagine a quiet, ladylike voice saying this in a tone of mingled resignation and pouting. She did it, though, sent all three e-mails with coaching but no stepping in for me.

With that in mind, this morning after my two cups of coffee, I watched the long-tail cast on video at Knitting Help about ten times, started my own cast, unraveled, re-watched the video, tried again, rinsed and repeated until I had 60 stitches on #7 needles, and then knitted an inch while I watched last week's episode of The Amazing Race.

It's just a bluegill, but I did it. :)

Around here, spring doesn't spring, it vrooooms.

Yes, the temperatures are getting warmer--it was in the high fifties today.

Yes, the daffodils are growing about an inch a day. In fact, sometimes I wonder if I could just sit and see them actually growing.

Yes, the back yard is the usual swampy mess.

The real sign of spring, though, happened today as I was thinking about taking a nap--the yobs next door got their dirt bikes out and started revving them up and then took them out for a very loud test ride.

Happy Ostara!

Don't eat the cheezy poofs!

Since last Thursday, there has been a big, poofy, bright orange cheese puff of unknown origin in my driveway. From Thursday through Saturday, it looked no different--no sign of decaying, no sign of nibbling by wild critters, nothing. Sunday morning, it had lost some of its bright orange-ness due to the snow we got overnight, but other than that, it's still the exact same piece of preservative-laden, artery-clogging, cheesefood-flavored styrofoam.

Perhaps I should start testing any snack foods I want to eat. If the critters won't touch it, then I shouldn't eat it.

Does anyone other than my mother like DST?

Ick. It's back to getting up in the dark, getting headaches because I haven't slept enough, screwing up my circadian rhythms and just generally having my life messed up because one hundred ten years ago, the practice saved on lighting. Double ick.

To add to my general grumpishness, my nails are all either flaking or broken, I sliced a chunk of skin off my right index finger yesterday, and I still haven't done my taxes. I'd go back to bed, but I haven't changed the sheets.

Hmpf.

This looks familiar...

Dear Dog,

Yes, it comes in 40 pound green and white bags. Yes, it is distributed around the house in big bowls. Yes, it is crumbly and damp and apparently tasty, at least to you. However, it is NOT dog food. This is proven every time you barf it back up.

STOP EATING THE DAMN POTTING SOIL!

Works in Progress

Mine:



Mom's:



It's so easy to tell who the novice is that there's not much point in posting these, but they made me grin.

Oh, and I'm done with my lame-ass square!

I hate knitting

It's hard, I'm bad at it, and while other people are doing lace and intarsia and inventing their own damn patterns, I can't even finish one damn square without screwing it up! Aaaargh!

Plus, my toe is infected, of course, which means that not only am I unable to finish the Goddamn Knitting, I can't take my frustrations out in the pool. I can't walk, because that involves closed-toe shoes, which are verboten unless I am actually outside, so I'm reduced to the icky old exercise bike in the basement.

Bad Mood. Ur doin' it right.

Oh, no, not again!

My right big toe was bothering me over the weekend, and it felt as if the nail was growing back. Yesterday morning, I called Dr. Happy Feet and made an appointment for the first thing today. I got all prettied up for work, assuming that Dr. HF would take a look, tell me if I was wrong or right, and if the latter, have me schedule an appointment for fixing it.

Well! That is not at all what happened. When the doc took a look at my toe (after I explained that the discoloration was nail polish I'd missed cleaning off), he said that yes, the nail was growing back. Instead of having me make an appointment, though, he promptly injected me twice with Novocaine, dug out the bit of nail regrowth, and applied Phenol. I am now home, under orders to stay off my feet and keep the right foot elevated as much as possible, while avoiding shoes and stairs for the rest of the day.

I'm also not allowed to go to the pool until maybe after my follow-up appointment next Monday.

Pfui, pfeet.