Hands Off

Growing up I lived in the proverbial two-story house, with two cars, one dog, and a huge garden in the back yard. My parents both worked. From the outside we were your typical American family.

Except we didn't go to church which was odd when you consider we were utterly surrounded by Mormons and they tried, oh how they tried to convert us!

But this isn't a Mormon story (but I'll have to write about that sometime...).

My father was a handsome man; tall, dark, good-looking - as attested to by his many girlfriends. Ahem. He was also a crier. He cried at movies, got choked up over coffee commercials, and teary over bad news. He was a toucher...again attested to by ... well, you know.

My mother...was a rock. Her stiff German exterior was more formidable than the Berlin Wall. She wasn't an ooey, gooey kinda girl. No hugs, no kisses, no love yous. She was a tad more affectionate with GC (her favorite child) than with the rest of us, but that was to be expected. She's never been a hugger or a patter. 

My family keeps their hands to themselves. We aren't touchers.We didn't go around touching other people. It simply wasn't done...except for Dad of course...

My Beloved is a can you massage my back kinda guy. His mother was a hugger. Man, could that woman hug! Beloved's family is pretty hands on, not over the top, but touchy in a good way. I've learned a lot from them. 

While my Beloved lurves him some massage action, I draw the line at any massages coming my way. I have a firm hands off policy when it comes to that. To think of a stranger putting their hands allll over me....eeewwww! It just makes me want to run screaming for the hills. It's just disgusting.

I once had a manicure, not knowing that the manicurist massages your hands. Why? Why would you do that? It was greasy and uncomfortable and I felt kind of dirty afterwards, like I'd some how had a secret liaison with this woman I'd never met and I paid for it! EWW!

My poor adopted mother would rub my shoulders and exclaim that I was far too tense. She's attempt to steer me towards Greta, her massage therapist. She even offered to pay. I finally had to ask her to stop trying to pimp me and keep her hands to herself. 

She was a little offended, but she got over it and she keeps her paws off my shoulders and Greta never comes in to the conversation these days.

And even though I cannot stand the thought of a massage, I've worked hard to overcome the non-touching way I was brought up.

I hug.

I pat.

I occasionally give the playful punch.

I hug my kiddos and my friends. I've hugged the occasional stranger... which is always awkward and uncomfortable. I know it's got to be just me, but when did our society become so hands on? Guys hugging guys, girls hugging girls, everybody hugging everybody?

It's just weird. Plain and simple. 

When the big bosses came to town...you got it...they were huggers. These were men I'd never even laid eyes on and the first thing I know I'm hugging the guy who signs my paycheck. It was weird! I thought we were going for the good ol' firm handshake, but no! He swooped right in and hugged me. 

It was strange, but not as strange as when I had to hug the boss of my boss. He's about my height, maybe a bit taller and it was more of a shoulder bump than a hug. We both stood there afterwards feeling a little odd. I mean, we are strangers and we just hugged. Where do you go from there? 

I was so relieved when I left our dinner meeting that they were all sitting down. 

No, please don't get up! I'll show myself out! NO MORE HUGGING!

Maybe there is a support group I can join. Huggers Anonymous or something. 

Hello, my name is Annie. It's been two days since I was forced into hugging anyone...


I've worked hard to not be like my mother, but I admit that I really struggle with this hugging nonsense. Can't we all just keep our hands to ourselves? 

And the Academy Award Goes To: Annie!

Weird Hippy Girl, I've renamed her you see. Idiot wasn't very nice. Not really and I try not to be too mean or too nasty. Honest.

She, Weird Hippy Girl, formerly known as Idiot Hippy Girl, is the bane of my existence. Okay, not so much the bane as an annoyance. She's the wrench in my job, the tack in the road, the mouse stealing the cheese.

mmmmm.....cheese....

So. Weird Hippy Girl joined our gym on a temporary basis (woot!) and her thirty days is just about up. When we run a promotion such as this, we always want to sit down with the prospective member and talk about their experience with us. Usually, and trust me dahling, we are fabulous, the conversation is super positive and the prospective member becomes an actual member.

She's so happy!

She's lost weight!

She's lost inches!

She's sleeping better!

She feels less stressed!

These are moments that we love. It proves to the individual that our program works like we say it does, fast, fun, and safe!

I knew going into this meeting that it would be different. Weird Hippy Girl wasn't happy that she'd lost weight and inches. She wasn't impressed by the fact that her body fat decreased. Like she told me, "I lose weight every summer without working my a** off!"

Okkaaayyy....

As I directed her to our meeting table, smile plastered on my face, she told me she had some suggestions for us. 

Terrific...

First, she pointed out that we do not carry enough food preparation items, such as food scales. She informed me that our "diet book" (which isn't a "diet book" duh!) lacked all the calories for all the foods she'd eaten. Weird Hippy Girl was perplexed as to how to find the calorie count of a banana or white rice or a maple glazed donut. 

I made up that last one...just so you know.

I kindly shared that she could find a food scale for a very reasonable price at our local Target store. I also shared the website for an awesome health and fitness site that includes a calorie counter. Then I told her, "If all else fails, you can Google calorie counter."

I was pleasant. I was smiling. I knew that the interview was nearly over and that she had no intention of joining, but still it was my job to impress on her the importance and value of your gym in her life.

Weird Hippy Girl wants to investigate other gyms (please do!) and look for the best value for her money. I pointed out that at another gym she will have to pay a personal trainer by the hour for the type of attention we provide her as part of her membership. I described the value of a 30-minute workout verses a 90-minute workout. Of course, I also exalted all the FUN and WONDERFUL women who make up our little gym. And I reminded her that we have the most advanced workout system available all a part of the great value that is Curves.

She couldn't deny any of what I said and I was just beginning to see the end of our time together when she looked me dead in the eye and said, "I have suggestions for you as well."

Just so you know, I did suffer a tiny little stroke at that very moment. It took every fiber of my being not to thrash that woman to the floor and throw her out of my gym. 

Weird Hippy Girl explained that she is an accountant (well, good for her!) and that when you work with numbers you never manipulate them to say what you want them to say. She accused me of doing that at her weigh in. She said that I soon as I surmised that she was not happy with her results, I twisted my approach and asked her if she felt better or was sleeping better since joining the gym. 

She said I tried to manipulate her into a sale and that was underhanded.

Sigh.

I smiled my brightest smile and explained that fitness is not just about losing inches, it's about total body health.  A person who eats well and works out will experience many wonderful results. Health is a puzzle with many pieces. I explained that a woman who has a sedentary job (such as hers) limited social life (again, hers), who is dealing with high stress (bingo!) and a lousy diet usually doesn't sleep well, suffers from depression, and has an entire list of health problems.

When that woman begins to exercise and eat better, something amazing happens! She loses weight. She feels better physically, she's happier - thanks to all those endorphins, she sleeps better and she is more apt to have an uplifting and positive social life. All this from 30-minutes of exercise, three times per week. 

I sat back in my chair and noted that I had gotten through to Weird Hippy Girl. She noted that I had a strong argument and that we (myself and my co-workers) had all been very kind to her, but she still wasn't joining.

And I cried bitter, bitter tears and begged her to join....

Not really. 

Weird Hippy Girl has two days left at our little gym. With any luck, I'll never see her again. 

It almost makes me feel sorry for the folks down the street at the other gym.

Okay, not really....

I told my manager that I either deserve an Academy Award or combat pay.

I'd like to thank the Academy for this lovely, lovely award. I wouldn't be where I am now if it weren't for my dahling children, my amazing husband, and my teammates at Curves. Thank you! You like me! You really like me!

Snicker

Curvalicious!

Congrats to Muthering Heights! The $20.00 Starbucks gift card is all yours. Email me and I will happily mail it to you :)

On a side note, if I wasn't trying to be fair and randomly draw a name, I probably would have sent a gift card to India for AJ. Who doesn't love a corporate sellout wanna be heavy metal head banger. I'm just sayin!

And now for today's post!

I work at a gym for women. I like my work. I like my co-workers, the members, and helping others work towards a healthier lifestyle. I also like a lot of the products we sell.

Of the many "work" shirts I wear, there is one that's kinda fun and a little naughty. It's black and has the word Curvaliciouswritten on it. It's written in a curvy, rainbow font. That's Curvalicious. Yes, that's what I said. 

For obvious reasons, I do not wear this shirt anywhere but the gym. I suppose that makes me kinda boring or prudish or not so sure I'm worthy of being called Curvalicious

I think I just like saying that word....Curvalicious....

Yesterday all that changed because I ran errands before going to work and I forgot I was wearing my Curvalicious shirt. 

I stopped in at Starbucks for a gift card and a tall, iced, non-fat mocha no whip (170 calories in case you're wondering). The boy barista, and yes, I do mean CHILD, looked at me, grinned and said, "I like your shirt."

I laughed thinking, sure you do punk, now get my coffee and no body gets hurt. I told him it was a work shirt and handed him my debit card. 

He smiled, took my card and said - without even blinking(!), "It's kinda hot..."

Seriously...

Now let's take a good long look at this situation shall we? I'm 42-years-old and the mother of a 20-year-old and a 17-year-old. My upper lip is disappearing. I have a muffin top. I wear support hose for crying out loud!

So, I looked him in the eye and said, "I'm old enough to be your mother!"

And he said...

Wait for it...

"That's kinda hot too!"

OMW!

I admit to you that I blushed to the tips of my toes, laughed like an idiot, and told him to behave himself.

I am so a card carrying member of the Idiot Girl Club. 

He handed me my coffee, looked me in the eye and said in a very sultry, sexy voice, "Have a nice day...."

I accepted my coffee, told him not to talk to women my age that way, and laughed all the way to the car. 

So yeah, yesterday was a Curvalicious day. 

HA!

Changes!

So, you likey the new look? What about the new name? Huh? The quote? Classic and funny!

Some time ago, that man that I am married to informed me in a rather crushing way that we are MIDDLE AGE. I think I grumbled mentioned it here in a blog post somewhere.

Middle age...snort!

His logic was that at 42 and 43 we cannot expect to live beyond another 40 years.

Speak for yourself bub!

The problem is...my nest is pretty empty. My life these days revolves around caring for my FIL, feeding the animals, going to work, and trying to find things to keep myself busy so I don't dwell on the fact that MY CHILDREN ARE NOT LIVING AT HOME.

But I'm okay...really.

Along with cleaning off my desk, I've cleaned up my blog. It was bound to happen. I have no idea why, but it was. I think it may have something to do with not fitting in around... pretty much anywhere these days.

My old homeschool friends? I think they think I've lost it or am in the midst of losing it. They don't call. Of course they have oodles of children and important things to do. I don't call them either. What would we talk about?

My other girlfriends, the ones who haven't abandoned me, have lives. They work. They have new friends.  They have schedules. Planning a get together is like trying to move troops into Afghanistan - without a General you know will take care of business.

Sorry, last political reference this blog, promise...snicker...

I've got a couple of friends who don't have children, never wanted children, and look at me kinda funny when I say I miss my kid.

Is it just me or is it really, really whiny in here?

Yeah, that's what I thought too.

So, with that in mind, let's blog about new things, interesting things, anything other than an empty nest!

Yeah, change is good!

And I totally almost forgot! This is my 500th post! Egad! 500 posts? Whew! That's a lot of dribble about nothing! LOL!

Secrets

Sorry, I'm not sharing my secrets. Snicker.

I met a young women recently. A beautiful young woman. Her eyes were bright. I can't explain it really, they were just filled with a brightness that I cannot explain.

Such a pretty girl.

We chatted about this and about that. The suddenly, out of the clear blue, she told me her secret.

"I spent seven years as a meth addict. I've been clean for five."

She smiled shyly at me. My gaze swept over her polished nails, her diamond wedding ring, and her silk blouse.

This is not the face of a former meth addict.

And yet, it was.

Even now, I wonder why she shared her secret with me. She doesn't know me. Why, we'd only just met and yet she confided something personal to me and I am still awe struck.

Not too long after this conversation, I had learned another secret. One that tore my heart. A friend told me something hard, something devastating, something so vile that her family may never recover from it.

As amazing as it sounds, I was shocked into silence. I truly had no words to describe how I felt.

I think women carry a great many secrets. I think we bury them, smiling and showing the world how "normal" we are. We hide them away hoping to bury the pain and grief with them.

And yet...when we share a secret, somehow our burden is lightened. Unless you are unwise and share a secret with a LOUD MOUTH.

No, I am not a loud mouth.

YOU do not know either of these ladies and I'll never tell you their names or the countries that they reside in.

I guess I'm just feeling honoured that these two very different women, from two very different places, would share their secret with me.

And while their secrets bounce around my brain and I try to make sense of it all, I realize that now I am the carrier of secrets. It bonds us.

So, I'll lock these secrets away and pray for these ladies and I'll remember that a secret can be a heavy burden, unless you share it.

Carefully!

Fast Times at the Farm

You know, like Fast Time at Ridgemont High, only... Not.

Sure there are teenagers here, but nobody's high. It's too cold for a bikini and Girl wouldn't wear one anyway.

Nope, I guess fast time on the farm are a little bit different than some 80's teen movie. For one thing, Sean Penn hasn't shown up lately to help rebuild a feeder. Jennifer Jason Leigh did not help clean up the kitchen after the Thanksgiving feast. She's just lazy that way.

Our fast times have more to do with NORMAL life.

There's work of course. Beloved worked on Thanksgiving day and who could blame him. At $48.00 per hour - PER HOUR - it was hard to refuse those extra hours.

For my part, I did not work. Or at least I didn't work outside my little brown home. I worked on the turkey, the taters, spoon bread.

What do you mean, "What's spoon bread?"

Why it's a lovely, delicious corn souffle of course.

I've made it every year for the past nine years. My FIL loves it. I'll post the recipe later.

There was family that kept us busy. Family like this guy:



And this one:



She was here too:



As were all the usual characters.

I've had business meetings, dentist appointments, anniversaries, banquets, and the friend requests from certain young MEN who suddenly want to friend my Girl on Facebook.

Men - not boys

Men - as in over twenty years old (by a hair, that is)

Men - with facial hair

Men - who are very nice young men and who completely understand that in order to be her friend they have to be mine.

Mama bear alert!

Dingo, our bi-polar kitty, kept us busy watching him get high on catnip. It's the funniest thing I've ever seen. The frenzied, face rubbing, drooling, loving of that little catnip pouch. Followed by the blank look in his big yellow eyes as he zones out. Crazy.

Yet, one thing stands out among all this, and not that this hasn't all been fun, but my Girl wrote a book.

50,000 words

in

one

month

She joined the ranks of thousands who signed up for NaNoWriMo or National Novel Writing Month. Beginning November first, these crazy lunatics, write, write, write. They write an entire novel in thirty days.

And it isn't easy.

But my girl accomplished this task one day early and I'm so proud.

I did not.

I'm too busy for that.

Maybe...Next year...

Things I've Learned

I am in love with Ikea! Love. It.

I was an Ikea virgin until yesterday. The Giver and I drove out to the only Ikea in town. It's a bit of a drive as it's out near the airport. Which would be one reason why I had never been. I do not drive that direction unless I'm going to the airport.

But...Ikea...ahhhhhh Ikea. How do I love thee? Let me count the ways;

I love your many interchangeable duvet covers.

I love all of your practical storage ideas.

I love gazing upon oodles of lamps, rugs, and skinny sinks (had I but known you existed when we were remodeling the bathroom! sob!).

I love cheap dish towels.

I love Swedish meatballs!

Ahh Ikea! I could spend days within the warm walls of your embrace.

Sigh.

I also learned that I am a Judaism snob. See, in my book (and God's too) you have to be BORN of a JEWISH woman to be a JEW. There is a very interesting lady at the gym. She's a fairly new member. Before she knew me she told me how much she hates Christians.

Snicker.

I didn't bother to GO THERE. I mean, why should I? She is entitled to her opinion.

Last night she told me that the day had been a very difficult day for her. When I asked why, she said it was an important religious holiday for her.

Knowing how she felt about Christianity, I asked which one.

She replied, "Yom Kippur."

Only she pronounced Kippur like Kipper...you know...those little fish snacks?

Snicker....

She doesn't know me. She doesn't know of my deep love of the Jewish people. She doesn't know that I know a smattering of Hebrew. She doesn't realize the amount of time I spent with the Rabbi and family.

I said, "Oh, you mean, Yom Kippur."

Oh, yes, of course, she retorted.

I left it alone. She doesn't need to know what a snob I am. I will be kind and friendly to her as long as she is a member at the club. She doesn't need to know that I think she's a phony...she's not a Jew, brother!

היא לא אח יהודי,! (this should be posted on the other side of this blog, but blogger doesn't seem to know that!)

I also learned that my bank now charges me for checks. In the past I received them for free. This is just one more reason why I hate CHASE.

I opted to order through someone else and saved $6.00.

Take that!

Then, I learned the real reason why I've been so angry with my Mother. It's not because she refused to talk to Omi a month ago. It isn't because while Omi lay there dying she said, "That's too bad".

Nope.

It's because...drum roll...if it were me, dying, she wouldn't speak to me. She would let me die and never apologize for being a doof.

And that makes my stomach hurt.

Funny, isn't it? I said (and I do mean it) that I am fine without her. Actually, I'm better. But in my little girl soul, I want a mommy.

And I've never truly had one.

Kinda sucks.

Yes it does.

But then....

I learned that someone I barely know cares about me.

Huh?

Another woman at the gym was part of a conversation about mothers. When someone asked about mine, I replied that mine doesn't like me. This woman, who is my mother's age, looked at me with such a shocked expression that I laughed out loud.

I assured her that I'm just fine and it no longer bothers me that Mother dearest thinks I'm a troll.

Last night, the same woman came into the club and pulled me aside. She said,

"Everyone needs a mom. If you ever want to talk or need anything, I'll be your mother. I know I can't replace the real one, but I know what it feels like to be an orphan. I'm here for you."

I almost cried.

I really did.

And so I learned that even though I'm an idiot and Mother dearest hates me, that there must be something lovable about me.

These are the things I learned just yesterday! I cannot wait to see what today brings!

Ponderings of a Woman MY Age

*I was given some shimmery lotion. It's called, Falling in Love and it smells pretty good. Not too sweet, not too powdery, but light and fresh. Yet, I wonder...It leaves a shimmery, sparkly glow on my skin. I look like I've been dipped in a vat of fairy dust. Is this bad?

I mean, for a woman of MY age to look something akin to Tinker Bell? (okay, the comparison stops at the skin...)

*My sassy, short haircut is causing me to be...well...kinda sassy. I like it. I like it a lot and it's really affecting my attitude. Snicker. Is this a good thing for a woman of MY age to be so flippant. So witty. So happy?

*Is it wrong for a woman of MY age to like the quiet? It's 7:02 and Beloved has left for work, Girl is still sleeping soundly, and Boy has returned to camp. The cat is sawing logs on the piano and even the cows are at peace this morning. Is this wrong?

*A soft, warm rain is falling outside my window. I want to sit outside on my pretty patio and drink tea while wearing MY BATHROBE. What if a neighbor stopped by? Mornings are not nice to a woman of MY age.

*Beloved is having a medical test next week. It's something a woman of MY age should expect for the man she has lived with for twenty-two years. Thoughts of living without him (aside from the quite) make me sad and teary.

*There are four tiny play people on my desk. One I've had since I was a child and is an original Fisher Price little people. Two of the others are Dora the Explorer (whom I'd abhor) and the other is some cheap knock off that we purchased so that there would be a "dad" in the original Fisher Price house that I still own. My great-niece saw them while she was attending the BBQ on Sunday and wanted to know whose "toys" those were. When I confessed that they were mine she cocked her head to the side and narrowed her greenish-blue eyes and said, "Naw it not." I suppose it was difficult for her to wrap her head around a woman of MY age possessing toy people.



*Is it wrong for a woman of MY age to squeal with joy? I'm just asking.

*When I hurt my back and questioned the doctor as to why this had happened (after all, I work out, I stretch, this isn't supposed to happen) he said, "Welcome to your forties..." which translates, loosely to, "A woman of MY age should expect such things."

*What does a woman of MY age do when an attractive, YOUNG man flirts with her at the grocery store? In case you do not know the answer, I laughed and came home and told Beloved to watch it!

*Is it acceptable for a woman of MY age feel good about herself, her life, and not give a rip about what others think?

Yeah, I thought so too.

That Thing Called Karma

There's this woman. She's a bit on the intimidating kind. You know, she's tall, has piercing eyes, and is a little on the weird side. She's the type that never lets you feel at ease. You just never know where you stand. Of course, that's never stopped me from, well, being me.

We're having this great little conversation about life and the pursuit of happiness. She complimented me telling me I looked really happy. That's cool. She went on to tell me that my aura was really bright...

snicker

What do you say to that?

"Thanks, I recently had it polished?"

"Yeah, it's new. I just picked it up at Macy's"

I could have asked how she could see it, but let's face it, I really didn't want to go down that road. It's not a journey I'm willing to take and I'm not even slightly interested in all that.

I grew up in a haunted house. My mother held seances, had our star charts read, and regularly pulled out her Tarot cards. My future, she assured me, would always involve the stage, although NOT as a career.

I suppose that could explain why I'm so dramatic. Not.

Anyway, back to the weird lady and my aura.

Instead of a sarcastic and snide reply, I just chuckled and told her that I'd had a good day.

"It's all that good Karma you've stored up!" she breathed.

Karma...

I once knew a Carma...but I don't think it's the same one.

Karma...

I can let a lot of things pass me by without comment. I've learned that I do not need to attend every argument I'm invited to. But sometimes, well, sometimes it just needs to be said.

"I don't believe in Karma."

And the world came crashing to a halt.

The Earth opened up and swallowed me right then and there.

Everything went black and I awoke in the body of a yak in Siberia.

Okay, I don't know if there are yak's in Siberia, but I do know that Karma is a bunch of cr...well, it doesn't exist.

Weird lady looked at me, blinking. Her thick, bottle lensed glasses intensified her gaze and I could feel the air grow heavy with...Oh, I don't know, anger? Distress? Humidity?

"You don't believe in karma?" she said, "You don't believe that when you put good energy out into the universe it comes back to you? You really don't believe in karma!" She shook her head and I assumed it was because my comment had befuddled her.

"Not even a little bit," I laughed.

Poor, poor weird lady. She just kept looking at me as if I had grown a horn out of the center of my forehead. I don't think she'll ever look at me the same. I may have broken some astrological law or dented her aura or something. Maybe she had to go home and whip up a batch of incense.

Hopefully she doesn't own a voodoo doll of me...

Pain!

A few weeks ago I hurt my lower back. Doing nothing, I might add.

Yesterday I tweaked my shoulder. It radiates from the Rhomboid muscle and moves up over my shoulder. My elbow feels strange. I'm in so much pain that I cannot take a deep breath.

And tonight is my dinner party...

All this adds up to a visit to the chiropractor.

I've never been. I'm a chiropractor virgin. I'm uber scared about it. I hate being touched by strangers. I'm so afraid that I won't be able to relax that I'll end up hurting more.

Beloved swears by the chiropractor and everyone from my co-workers at the gym to the checkout lady at the store are urging me to go.

At this point I feel like I don't have a choice. I have to go. I can't breath or function.

Again, I wasn't doing anything when this happened. I wasn't loading hay onto the truck or unloading grain. I wasn't stacking wood or working out.

Heaven help me!

What Dreams May Come

So, I'm still hopped up on Norco and Flexeril. The combination leaves me beyond tired. Last night, because I felt better I decided to wash the dishes. We do it the old fashioned way because we do not own a dishwasher. As I stood at the sink, scrubby, bubbly away, Beloved walked in and said, "What are you doing".

"I'm washing the dishes, I feel better," I said.

He reminded me that drugs give you a false sense of better and that he and Girl would do the dishes.

I brushed his suggestion aside and kept scrubbing away. Until my nerve endings in my lower back said, "HEY! We have an injury down here!!!! Remember?" Then my right leg suggested I sit down because the nerves in my back do actually run all the way down into my legs. Funny that.

I was then forced to repeat over and over again the exact same phrase I had muttered all evening on Sunday, as I was bent over walking like a ninety-year-old woman,

"This sucks eggs!"

My Boy called to check on me and to remind me to take it easy. He was slightly miffed to find out that I'd washed most of the dishes. Boy put in his angry eyes (I could tell he had them on because his voice became hard, just like his daddy's does) and told me I need to take it easy! Beloved reminded me (again) that lower back injuries take time to heal and if I don't give it the time it needs then it will be worse in the long run.

Beloved tucked me into bed at 9:30 because I couldn't keep my eyes open due to the combination of drugs the doctor had prescribed. I dreamt of snow and work, of stacks of dishes to be washed and telling my FIL that he is a mean old man. I dreamt that I'd lost Girl somewhere and couldn't find her, then berated myself for not making sure she had a cell phone. I dreamt that my book got published and I was on the NY Times Best Seller list and my mother still didn't like me.

Be warned: Norco, Flexeril, Pumpkin Curry soup, and Irish soda bread will lead to funky dreams.

Thus here I am. The duct cleaning guys are coming this afternoon. Wendy will be here in just over a week. I have missed two days of work. I can't workout. I can't bend over, I can't sit very long, nor can I stand very long.

But I'm high on legal drugs so I guess all is right with the world.

Drugs are Good

I hurt my back.

I hurt it doing NOTHING.

I simply reached around something and boom, pain.

I couldn't stand up.

I could barely walk.

It hurt to stand.

It hurt to sit.

It hurt to lay down.

My options were limited.

A visit to the doctor. A very L O N G walk from the parking lot to the reception area. An even longer walk to the exam room. A snippy, insensitive nurse, and a strange doctor rounded out my morning.

Doctor asked me questions as I leaned on the exam table.

Questions like:

"Are you in pain?"

"Does it hurt to stand?"

"Does sit hurt to sit?"

"Where does it hurt?"

"Why don't you hop up here..."

Seriously, hop?

"Has this happened to you before?"

And my favorite:

"Welcome to the wonderful world of lower back pain..."

All the while I leaned on the table, shifting from one foot to the other.

At long last I am home, filled to the brim with drugs that make me slightly dizzy and apparently fairly amusing to my family members.

Drugs are good.

Good drugs.

Good.