Sophie has been at the Ohio Redoubt and tonight she came back to do an intervention because the guys and I have just let everyond flop around on sofas and pillows – even Rose. Gone to pot is how she is describing us here. And we are not protesting. She will probably send us to motivational boot camp – notice she is wearing the sneakers of persuasion.

I sit here with a sore butt from mowing and a sinus headache and I just know she is going to tell me to pull myself up by my boot straps. I will let her know I am not wearing boots and she will tell me to pull myself up by my laces and I will tell you I don’t have laces. Then, as she becomes exasperated she will tell me to pull myself up by the velcro and I will reply I don’t have velcro – I have elastic fake laces and only have to shove my feet in my shoes. She will probably whack me up side the head with her sneaker. It’s one of her techniques.

Rose will probably take all this in and then add in a bemused voice, “Gee, Sophie, I think my boots are painted on.” Just joking; it’s not like Rose is a rag doll.

Oh dear. Rose, that was in bad taste and I’m sorry, really. In fact, Rose, this post never happened. You did not read it. You hallucinated; your temperature was high . . . because I ironed you. Hahahahahahahahahahaha.

Oh, God, what has gotten into me?

Well, let’s see. Alison’s back was acting up and she had a nerve block and a bolt on  the roll-a-bout sheared off and Robert collapsed onto the concrete of the vestibule, smacking his cast.  We spent over three hours in the ER last night. Summer’s been sick for three days.

But it’s a new day, right? Robert’s cat scan is at 8:45 this morning and this afternoon I am taking two people to doctors in Fort Wayne on different sides of town at about the same time. Drop one of early with a Kindle, drive the other one cross-town and then bring that one back to pick up the first drop-off. Oh, yeah, it’s around rush hour.

On top of everything else, I was idly staring at one of those new shapely little Coke bottles and got the idea that maybe I could spray paint the empties and stick them into a jack-0-latern to be ears or spikes or  whatever. People laughed at me. Oh, they of little faith.

I’m 63;  people have laughed at my ideas, but guess how many  have turned out quite well? A LOT. I feel like Rodney Dangerfield – well, I don’t feel dead yet, but  you understand. I may just drag Robert’s leg around with me and beat some people over the head with the cast.

Hmmmmph!

Robert’s leg is navy blue this time. Another x-ray; another inconclusive; another probing with very definite pain. Thursday he is scheduled for a cat scan; the doctor would prefer an MRI but since he has metal in his leg, that is not possible. At least with the cast on, the leg will be stabilized and if something has been constantly irritating it, things  should get better.

We were like the Keystone Kops in the various parts of the office. (And, yes, Der Bingle, I realize this also fits your comment on this morning’s post: No one under age 50 has a clue what Tobacco Road is and never will unless someone makes a video game about it.)

We go in, Robert on his roll-a-bout and me carrying two Kindles, his phone and my purse. Oh, yeah, an unopened  Zero Coke. Then add to that his shoe and sock after the x-ray.

On the way to the casting room, the nurse turned at the last moment and Robert tried to follow, but wound up kissing the wall. Then while he’s on the table and I’m balanced on a little chair, my cell phone rang and to answer it I needed to open my purse, which caused me to drop his phone, which slid under a chair. While bending over, I realized the Zero Coke was in the little poncho pocket of my shirt; I had been walking around like this – jeez. So I put it in his shoe.

And we must have been contagious because the tech putting the cast on was startled when HIS phone rang in his scrubs pocket. “It was supposed to be on vibrate,” he exclaimed as he fished it out. Only as he was pulling it out, it caught on something and flipped in the air; he attempted a juggling catch and failed and it went SPLAT on the tiles. He said, “Mondays.”

Yeah

Yesterday when we cleaned the garage, we attacked the corner where some afghans, blankets and jackets were tossed after dirty car rides – or other dreaded accidents. And I started washing these big items now that the washer has been repaired and no longer bangs itself to near-oblivion unless babied with half loads.

We put the wet large things over the fence to dry.

Well, I didn’t know it was going to rain last night. Now I have a fence that looks like a giant towel that soaked up a sink overflow. Fortunately this is not a boundary fence. Still, seeing it in the dim light of a rainy dawn was a bummer.

I hope the weight of water-soaked comforters does not pull the fence down. That would be bad. As it is, we must wait for  the rain to stop and the stuff to drip some until we can tote it back in the house. That will not be anytime soon since it is supposed to rain all day.

Guess I won’t be calling the repairmen while the area between the driveway and back yard resembles wash day on Tobacco Road. *

* Out of curiosity – and no desire to get moving today – I looked up Tobacco Road on Wikipedia to refresh my knowledge. It’s even more despairing than I remembered  – especially this comment:

While fleeing from Ada and Jeeter’s onslaught, Dude backs right over Grandma Lester, who then lies mashed into the dirt road, near dead. (Mashed. Mashed. Kind of gets your attention; well, I guess she didn’t pass away in the road – she was passed over. Was this chick trying to cross the road and crossed over? Ah, puns and euphemisms. )

The article is HERE, but it’s not a mood-lifter.

All three grandkids earned some money today cleaning out the garage. You do not want to know how much junk we had out there – and how much dirt. But now I can call the men to repair the garage door. And that will be one remote I will cherish.

I was doing okay and then I showered and stretched out on the sofa . . . and napped. Just like that. Making Z’s.

Tomorrow I will be taking Robert to the orthopedic doctor in Fort Wayne in another chapter of “The ankle turned and broke and turned some more.” Oh, that reminds me – time to check the washer. (My traveling pants are in it.)

When Donna swiveled me around to look in the mirror I was kind of nervous, but, to my surprise, I recognized myself – the old me. Well, I guess I’m now the “old me” but you know what I mean.

Der Bingle came out to meet me in the driveway and had the same reaction. So here I am . . . again.

Well, I got out there and pushed my mower on the little lawn. I didn’t like it, but I did it. Usually, I think, “Oh dear, I must mow the lawn.” Then I do. This week has been different – I thought I would prefer to pound my head with a hammer than mow that dratted yard. Finally this evening I did it because it was like Poe’s heart driving me crazy.

Well, it’s done and I don’t feel a whole lot of relief. I will have to do it again. Then rake those stinking leaves. I think I am chored-out.

Oh, I forgot to tell you this part: I came in after mowing and the first words out of Someone’s mouth were, “Grandma, got any jobs for me?”

Response:

NOW you want a job? Where WERE you? Didn’t you hear the motor?

She thought it was the neighbor.

I may have her lined up to help straighten out the garage so the door men can work on fixing the opening apparatus. We have to paint the door, as well – scrape, prime and paint . . . both sides. I sent her out just a while ago to finish cleaning the windows in it. She asked how she would know which ones I had already done; well, since we grilled in the garage, it was obvious. I guessed the number I had left undone was four. She just came in and said one word: SEVEN. And she repeated it. Seven, GRANDMA.

Scizzor Worx – tomorrow at nine.

Me in the chair; Donna with the coloring stuff and the scizzors.

I am going to go with the flow – or floe – however you want to picture me: riding a canoe or sitting on an ice floe. Ah, my mind is tired and I am trending toward drivel. Let me drop my hand into the cold, cold sea off my imagined floe and get more alert.

I don’t think it worked.

I have thin hair at the temple and that thin hair is also very fine hair. I think the rest of my head is well-covered but the hair is very fine so I don’t get any body in it. Being short doesn’t help because everyone can look at the top of my head.

Gee, all this hair talk has made me realize I have to pluck my chin. Sigh.

Well, I looked at that post title I just typed and I thought about the fantasy ambiguity of it: If hair could think, we could all get smarter by growing long, long hair. Well, never mind.

Yes, never mind at all.

What I was actually thinking about was hair color. I am wondering if my roots are coming in consistently white/grayish enough that we could go ahead and bleach the color out of my “old” hair and make it a shade that would be more in line with the color of the roots growing in.

But I don’t know; I think maybe I have too much faded, but not yet gray, to make that an option now. In other words, I would still have comparatively dark roots.

Well, we shall see . . . but will anyone want to see me?  Say, maybe Rose and Sophie and Woo and Foo would like to experiment with a new color. Or not.

Oh, this probably happened when I was getting the camera out of my pocket.

Little purple flowers

View from mower

View from mower closer

View up close and personal

Ah, rustoleum needed here.