I am not in a great hurry to go to sleep tonight since last night Der Bingle had to shake me awake . . . because I was yelling, “Help me! Help me!” Then when I fell back to sleep – and he had taken the precaution of leaving the light on, I dreamed I was walking all around some huge downtown area with skyscrapers, trains, harbors, library ruins, small shops, street vendors, trolleys, festivals and villains. And at some point, I lost my shoes. I think at times it was winter and slushy.

So, I am not too keen on getting a big ole Morpheus hug this evening. This could be the night for a marathon of old movies – even a movie marathon on WGN, home of the 10 minute commercial break every five minutes. I have to admit, though, I miss those Central Time Zone Late Shows in Chicago . . . back in the days of Walter Jacobson and Bill Kurtis. (That will date me) Oh, wait, they’re still doing the news together, only Walter’s hair is not black anymore.

I’ve probably jinxed myself now . . . I’ll dream of a marathon of Walter J’s commentaries.

After the whole work-up of getting to the bottom of the problem with my high calcium – to use a roller coaster of a phrase – one would think I would be chockful of stories of “the surgery”.  In fact, some even remarked, “I’ll bet this will be on the blog.”

But, no. That’s not the situation. Oh, there are stories all right and they’re scattered around me, but I haven’t fully embraced them yet. I am not in a mood to take a deep breath and let the humorous details pour out.  (However, the nurse who used the code word “privates” has popped forth in one little anecdote.)

Maybe it is the adjusting to new parathyroid levels and calcium levels; maybe it is this rash I have that itches. I’ll come around to it though – the telling about Ivor, for instance, who made me think of Igor and the wild surgery in the castle with the lightning and  . . . No, don’t let your imagination run wild when headed to a gurney ride.

After midnight, my instructions are “nothing by mouth” . . . That means a “tiny sip” of water with necessary medicine.  I’m scheduled for surgery at noon. TWELVE HOURS + the amount of  time for the neckomy and time to wake up. So Der Bingle stopped at Taco Bell  on his way home and got me a salad and nachos and tacos . . . which I shared. (Mainly I shared because I don’t want to generate bad vibes for tomorrow.)

It’s 10:15 pm until the No Eats Time Zone. Hey, I’m grabbing another taco.

I did it. Mowed the yard and pruned rose bushes and cutback some vines trying to grow up the bricks. I’ve gotten better at minding where the cord is and where the mower is – no close calls today. I also am becoming more adept at planning how to mow so the cord stays between me and my starting point – easy to do if you’re mowing a circle, but a little tricky with trees and bushes and light poles.

The hardest thing to realize when  you are using an electric mower is that you do not have to keep the motor running or be faced with a pull cord re-start. No, it is just like a light switch. Squeeze and you go, release and you stop . . . immediately. Actually, once you grasp this, it is tempting to stand there and go on/off, on/off, on/off. Childish, but tempting.

No Wubbas were harmed today although before I started mowing, I was picking up a bit by the fence and lying there where my hand was reaching was a brown spotted longish thin thing. It turned out to be one of the “legs” on the leopard Wubba. Come to think of it, maybe that was Wubba Revenge.

During the previous three days I’ve been thinking, “I want to mow this little lawn here.” Really, I wanted to go out, do it and get it done. But it rained on and off and the grass was always damp and the temperature was chilly. This morning the sun is out and the temperature getting warm and I’m thinking,”Oh, I can mow.” But my tone is not determined; it is deadpan.

What happened to my mowing mood? Ah, well, I’ll be using an electric mower and avoiding the cord should provide some entertainment. When I mow, Shane runs out and gets his Wubbas; they nestle in odd places, blend in and then, WHACK, they get mowed – to be delicate about it. Of course, that was with the gas mower and was dramatic. I think they might put up a fight with the electric and then it would conk out and I wouldn’t be able to mow anymore.

This is making me think I never wanted to mow in the first place – the cold rain just freed me up to pretend I was industrious.

Sigh. Time to get on with it.

chop chop.

Little House on the Prairie. Remember it? Wellllll, I just looked up an episode that aired in December of 1978 – I would have been 30. I missed it and apparently I missed any rerun of it. I didn’t know a good thing had happened; I do now.

Katherine was sleeping and Clara found the series on the Hallmark Channel and so we watched it together. It was an airhead plot, actually, two airhead plots woven together. I came home and looked it up and guess what? Yes, here is a viewer’s comment (about one of the plots):

The regular writing staff was either high or absent when this dreadfully lame plot was hatched.
1.0
By ceosmom, Aug 20, 2012
Too bad “Bomb” and “Stunk Up the Place” aren’t available as classifications for these reviews; either would apply to this embarassingly bad episode of LHOTP. One hour seems like four as “actresses” Lindsay and Sydney Greenbush (as Carrie Ingalls and her “fairy godsister”), one-dimensionally mumble their way through a morass of inane and ludicrous dialoge. Granted, the script is bad, but the girl’s acting is worse. No wonder the sisters playing Carrie were largely relegated to the part of “prop” throughout the series run.

Horrible writing and acting aside, the story itself is just plain dumb. Charles goes off to work for a month, leaving a testy Caroline with four children and a farm to look after. Albert and Laura, of course, can’t be bothered with Carrie, but for some reason, the writers have Caroline turning on her as well, treating her as a pest and a nuisance for most of the show (at one point, Caroline sends Carrie to the Garveys by herself, and then “berry picking at the pond” alone. Hello?! Who are you, and what have you done with Ma?). All this neglect causes Carrie to retreat inward, where she meets on several occasions her “fairy godsister”. Together they visit what appear to be rejected or leftover props from 1973’s “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory”, are chased by a giant spider, and visit heaven, where the only people they meet are two old saints and the Ingalls dog, Jack. And the special effects…I’ve seen better on “I Dream of Jeanie” and “Land of the Lost”. Don’t lose an hour of your life watching this one!

From THIS SITE

And so it goes.

We have a new refugee here; she saw me when I was out today and, out of nowhere, she jumped in the car when I opened the door in a parking lot. She hopped to the passenger seat, gave me eye and said, “Drive, just drive.” So I did.

We are not certain, but think she is mumbling something about escaping from a Rogaine research lab.

Sophie is going to counsel her and try to find out what trauma she has endured, because Rose is in the clinic with a (gasp) cut on her face. Her skin is a little thin and sewing it closed with a Humphrey Bogart effect is not an option. The doctor suggested maybe Rose needed a new face; the outcry was so loud that the medical team is going to attempt a “backing” operation. Her admirers talked of linen and silk, but I think we are going with muslin.

A couple of days ago, Cameron alerted me to a note Shane had left for me. (See here) And, well, then I left a post about all the Halloween decorations, and Pottermom left a comment and asked what about the important matters, such as Shane’s new Wubba.

I was going to take a picture of all the Wubbas Mr. Deprived Dog has – let’s just say it’s a lot . . . a whole bunch . . . enough to keep you throwing all the time if he pesters enough. So, I didn’t think Shane needed any new Wubbas; however, I knew I would be passing Petsmart on the way to have the scan at the hospital today and I somehow also knew I would fold and go look at the Wubbas.

I would then have at least tried.

But they had a new one and it was hanging there right at the end of an aisle.

IT WAS A HALLOWEEN PUMPKIN.

I should have known. We have one now.

Shane says, “Thanks, Pottermom.”

Talk Like a Pirate Day used to be something something that showed up on special Internet sites and in blurbs by radio DJ’s, but this morning I awoke to see it highlighted on a major Internet news site. Soon this may be the next Wal-Mart holiday – meaning a couple of aisles of pirate paraphernalia for decorative purposes, little dictionaries of pirate phrases and whoopee cushions that go “Arrrrggggghhhhh”.

Sigh.

Perhaps I will consider today as “Act Like Yesterday’s Shirt Day” and sit around all rumpled up on some chair . . .  Do shirts read? That could be the deciding factor.