MY COMPUTER HAS A MOLE

 I"Ve been watching way too much TV lately.  Lawyers, cops, aliens, . . .   you name it,  I'm watching it.  (The perks of living alone.  I get to watch what I want whenever I want.). The down side of this is that I am becoming paranoid.  My computer and TV seem to be "listening to and/or watching ME !   I think there is spy ware at play.   Good thing I don't have any national secrets to hide.

Let me explain.     Facebook seems to be the worst or best at tracking my emotions, decisions, choices, life.     If I see something on Facebook that looks interesting I may pause to check it out.  Natural curiosity if you will.  I am wary about opening up things because I know there is a little mole in my computer that is just waiting for me to show an interest in compression socks or whatever. If I pause more than 3 seconds on any given "pop-up" I am guaranteed to be bombarded with an avalanche of web sites and phone calls trying to sell me their brand of whatever.  Ads will show up on my phone, in my snail mail, in my "in box" of my e-mail. I will get phone calls trying to sell me things. Billboards on the highway will say, " We know you're shopping for _______, just call us at XXXXXX.  . The only thing I have not been subjected to is fliers being dropped from a helicopter that is circling my house. 

Apparently the mole is not very intelligent.  Not only do I receive offers for the most comfortable sheets in the world, recipes for all sorts of desserts, (I can't imagine why those are sent to me), and a vast assortment of diets and health food suggestions.  (Which is quite silly since they are sending all those great, fattening recipes.)  For some reason my computer also thinks that I need Nail Fungus cures, (I DO NOT have nail fungus but The Man did), advertisements for chair yoga, (I get at least three of these a day. I had hoped those would stop when I threw out all my chairs), lots of reference material for diabetes treatment, (I DO NOT have diabetes), weight loss and fire blanks for my kitchen.  (I swear I have NEVER set fire to my kitchen . . . )

Where in Hell do these things come from ?   There is either a hidden microphone in my couch or one of my so called friends is telling tales about me.  I guess this is the new age way of pranking.  When I was young the "fun" thing to do was to sign up someone you disliked for a years subscription of some stupid magazine like "Hemorrhoid Monthly",  Or order a pizza to be delivered to someone you wanted to annoy .  My computer is playing with me.  

If only I would get some information that would actually be useful to me.  I never get advertisements for cleaning products for my house.  Apparently my computer thinks I only sit on the couch eating snacks all day and night while soaking my fungus infected feet.  I REALLY don't know where they got that idea from. What I could use is helpful information on what is the best cure for insanity.  What is a sure fire way of winning the lottery. How can I make a Billion dollars sitting at home watching TV while eating snacks and soaking my fungus infected feet.  (REALLY . . .  I DO NOT HAVE TOE FUNGUS) 

I have searched my house for hidden cameras and microphones.  I have signed onto Facebook under a phony name, I stopped answering phone calls from unknown numbers but the "harassment" continues.  Can you imagine what it would be like if I actually bought one of the "suggested" items.  I would never hear the end of it.  

(PS . . . in case you are tracking all that I say and do I REALLY could use some help with that lottery winning information. )

THE JOKE IS ON ME

 I couldn't make this stuff up even if I tried . . .   When God has a plan then you had better just sit back and go for the ride.  When I have a plan God laughs.  

Today's plan was for me to be in the operating room right now with my heart stopped so the surgeon could fix my aortic valve.  It seemed like a good plan, It has been a long time coming with heart scans every 6 months for the past 15 years.  Each year there were small changes, nothing major but the cardiologist was watching me closely.  Then this year things were getting to a point of "poop or get off the pot".  The decision was made to have open heart surgery and take care of my poor old ticker.  A date was set for the surgery and all was getting ready for lift-off.

As with any surgery there are all the pre-op tests to be done. Last Thursday was set aside for all that. Arrive at the hospital at 7:30 and go through all the tests to be sure I was healthy enough to go through the surgery and recovery.  I passed everything with flying colors!  Meanwhile the previous weekend I had gotten a stomach virus where every thing I ate went right through me. So for the 5 days prior to the testing I had basically been eating nothing but toast, bananas and applesauce.  Fortunately for all involved my tummy settled down and I was ready to start eating normal food.  By last Thursday I was feeling back to normal.  I was ready for surgery !  Let's do this !

Then the second shoe dropped.  On Friday I woke up with a swollen cheek. (Not the butt one, the other cheek on my face). The gums in my mouth had been sore since I had a tooth pulled 3 weeks ago.  Just a little irritated, nothing to worry about.  Until my face swelled up.  Not horrifically where I looked like the Pillsbury Dough boy but swollen enough to notice.  With surgery now only 3 days away I wasn't sure what to do.  I spent the two hours from the time I woke up till about 12:30 before I decided to call my dentist who had pulled the tooth.  Naturally . . .  (God is chuckling) . . . Dr. "C"  leaves his office at noon on Fridays.  OK . . .   I can figure this out. I left a message with the answering service knowing someone would call me back eventually.   I called my regular dentist but she is leaving her practice for medical reasons so she was no longer available.  I called the dentist that I had seen a couple of months ago when we were trying to figure out if I needed a root canal, a cap or an extraction.  Her office closed at 2:00.  It was now 2:15.   (God is starting to laugh).  

By 2:30 I was pacing up and down trying to figure out my next move.  Then my phone rang !!  Hooray !!! Someone is paying attention.  It was Doctor "C's" office getting back to me.  Karen the secretary asked what was going on.  She told me the doctor would probably put me on an antibiotic.  I reminded her about my upcoming heart surgery and asked if taking an antibiotic would interfere with that.  She had to check with Dr. "C" and get back to me. Karen got back to be within about a half hour to say the medications should not make a difference. She will send a prescription to my pharmacy. 

Now one of the things that was made extremely clear to me at the pre-op meetings was that if ANYTHING,  ANYTHING . . . even a bug bite . . .  should occur before the surgery I needed to call the hospital immediately . ( I had called my surgeon's office early on in all this but no one answered. I left a message on their machine.)  I now called the hospital and was told by them that my surgery would probably have to be postponed. My surgeon would call me.   Sure enough within minutes the surgeons office called and told me it was in my best interest to postpone until all this got settled and the dentist could check me out.  Then, AFTER the surgeon got back from his 3 week vacation the office would set up another date for me.

I'm not sure if I was happy to get a reprieve or upset because I really wanted this over and done.  I think relief won that battle.  A whole month to relax more and prep for this couldn't be a bad thing. 

But by Saturday I was second guessing myself. "My gums were probably just sore from the stitches that were supposed to dissolve but are still in my gums.  That's probably what's rubbing and irritating my mouth,"  "I never should have called the dentist," "What was I thinking?" , "stupid me!" All day Saturday I was beating myself up thinking I had screwed the pooch.  (God is now laughing out loud).  

And this is where I am made aware that nothing is in my hands.  When God wants something to happen or, in this case, NOT happen HE makes sure we hear Him.

Sunday morning I woke up with a sore throat and as the day progressed it got worse. My eyes started to water and my nose began to drip or clog depending on the moment.  I realized that if all this nonsense had not happened I could have been in that operating room with a bunch of cold germs running around my system just waiting to attack.  There was NO doubt in my mind that all this was happening for a reason. What ever that reason is I will never know but what I DO know is that I was not meant to have surgery today.   

I guess I must be fairly stupid not to have gotten God's message the first time, or the second. Thankfully I heard the last message. If I hadn't paid attention to that I imagine I would have been hit by a bus. 

When God speaks you had better LISTEN !!!

HOSPITAL GAMES

 Are you familiar with the series of books and movies titled "HUNGER GAMES" ?   Or perhaps you are a fan of "SQUID GAMES" ?  (Which I liked but also found quite disturbing).  I always wonder when watching or reading these stories how the authors have come up with this stuff. Forget about my favorite author, Stephen King.  That man has the mind of a genius or a lunatic.  

This morning I got thinking about what I may/will encounter during my next adventure. Open heart surgery is scheduled for me this coming Monday.  I will be in the hospital for about a week after the surgery and then a couple of weeks in a rehab facility.  This is nothing new to me as I have had many dubious "opportunities" to experience surgery, hospital stays and the torture they inflict on us patients who are at their diabolical mercy. (That is an oxymoron for sure.)  I do not really look forward to any of it. If I were like anyone else I would take a cruise every so often to get away from "The Daily Grind" but since that is usually not an option I visit the hospital to have a "vacation" 

  It must have taken the hospitals years to get their evil torture perfected.   I think they must all be fans of the genre of reading material that I enjoy.  

Let's start at the beginning of any hospital stay.  You are told to arrive at the Devils Lair at some unGodly hour of the morning.  They blithely say, "Be there by SEVEN but arrive 15 minutes early to fill out forms.  These forms they refer to are the very same ones that I have filled out seventeen times already on my iPhone or computer.  For weeks before the surgery I receive a constant barrage of requests to "REGISTER ON LINE".  Who these seventeen different persons are I have no idea. They apparently don't work in the same place or for the same office and they do NOT communicate with each other.  Every questionnaire is EXACTLY the same. Each time I fill in my information it is like the hospital has NEVER heard of me before.  With this in mind, by the time I arrive at the hospital is it no surprise when they ask me to "FILL OUT SOME FORMS" !!!!!  For me this is not an easy task to perform at SEVEN AM.  

From the registration desk I move on to "PRE-OP" where I will be asked to remove all my clothing and put on a hospital gown that is 87 times too BIG. (That is always a moral booster to put on clothing that is too big. It doesn't happen often.) Depending on the surgery the gown will either open in the front or the back. Which ever it is I know that gown will be removed as soon as I get into the operating room where it is twenty degrees below zero.  

As soon as I have gotten the "gown" on and climbed up onto the bed the parade begins.  Nursers, aids, house keeping and I think I have even seen the valet that parked my car,  keep showing up to stick me with needles, take blood, put in an IV line, take more information, sweep the floor.   Every single one of these people enter saying, "What is your name and date of birth?"  I have no hesitation answering these questions because I have spent the last month and morning writing down this information.  (In thinking about it I should put a different name and date of birth on every different form.).       Once this flurry of activity is done I am left alone to freeze and think.  If I'm lucky some one has asked me if I am cold, (which I am), would I like a blanket.  This is the FIRST GOOD thing that happens in this adventure,  They proved me with a heated blanket or two so I can "relax".  The heated blanket is in fact a sheet that they have doubled over so it really doesn't cover me but it is better than nothing. 

And now I wait !   There is always a huge clock on the wall facing me so I get to count the seconds, minutes, hours that I wait, and wait and wait until FINALLY a doctor shows up, all smiles (if he doesn't have his mask on), and asked me how. I'm doing.  SERIOUSLY . . .   I'm cold, tired, achey from sitting in this "bed" for 3 hours and scared shitless.  (Actually I have not been nervous about any of my previous surgeries but this open heart thing has my tummy in a twist.). My mantra of, "I'm in God's hands" has always carried me through but as much as I know that I am still nervous.  Once the Doctor shows up it is now a whirlwind of activity.  All of which ends in the operating room where I get knocked out.  

 But the games are not over.  When I wake up there is usually someone about 2 inches from my face calling my name and asking how I feel.  They ask me this before I have time to assess the situation so I mutter something and they are satisfied that I am in deed alive.  I will have plenty of time in recovery to figure out what hurts, where it hurts and how much it hurts.  From this point on every nurse and doctor and aid will constantly be asking me, " How bad is my pain?"  They actually have a dumb ass poster on the wall with ten round faces that go from smiling to agony. The faces are numbered from one to ten with one being no pain and ten being "Holy Crap  . . .  give me drugs !!!!!!!!"   I usually answer this dumb, "How am I feeling" question by telling them my pain is at about 17.  It gets me now where but at least I'm being honest.  

From recovery I get to go to a room.  This this time it will be the ICU where they will monitor me for a couple of days before sending me to a regular room for another few days.  ICU means "I Can see U" because the nurses are constantly watching. Or at least that's what they are supposed to be doing.  Nine times out of ten they are sitting at a desk doing paper work.  (I thought computers were supposed to take care of that.). If an alarm goes off they will slowly put down their charts, stand up and calmly walk to my room. As they enter they say, "How are you feeling, on a scale of 1-10?"  This is all part of the game.  

The hospital stay continues with many more games such as . . .

Let's give her a huge bag of fluids in the IV and then wait and see how long it takes before I have to pee.  What goes in must come out. The joke of this game is that they have put a monitor on my bed so I can't get up without someone helping me. (Even if I am feeling fine I am being held captive because of my age). Anyone who enters the hospital and is over the age of 60 is automatically considered a fall risk.  There is a HUGE red sign on the door of the room stating "FALL RISK".  I could stand up and dance a jig for them but I would still be a fall risk because of my age.  As soon as you tell someone you are 80 they immediately expect you to be a drooling, wheelchair vegetable who can't remember her name.  I hate thatI!    The water came continues as they "allow" me to get up and go into the bathroom.  I am tethered to the wall with heart monitors on my chest, IV's in my arm and things on my legs that keep squeezing my legs to keep from getting blood clots.  If they would just shut off the "fall" alarm, take off all this other stuff and let me walk I wouldn't have to worry about blood clots or atrophy of my limbs.  Once I get all the paraphaernalia into the bathroom I am tied up in knots of wires and tubes that keep falling into the toilet. Funny game.

Another game is to put an IV in my right arm so I can't bend it to eat or scratch my nose.  Every time I move the most annoying noise starts because the IV line is now bent.  This "IV DRIP" machine has been around for years and in all that time they have not figured out how to shut it up once it starts blaring. Eventually they get it to quiet down, they leave the room and within 5 minutes it starts again. No one is in a hurry to come shut it off so I get to lie there listening to this damn thing over and over.  

The leaving game is the most cruel of all.  Once I have "recovered" , the hospital staff begins the "DISCHARGE GAME". They usually start a couple of days before I actually get to leave. Someone comes into my room and announces they are the hospital "Social Worker". They of course ask me my name and date of birth before asking how I am feeling . . .  on a scale of 1 to 10.  Then they start their standard speech about my "release" . Where do I want to go?  Home or Rehab?  Who do I have at home to take care of me?   How am I feeling . . .  on a scale of 1-10?   What rehab would I like to go to? Who will pick me up? How am I feeling . . . on a scale of 1-10?  When would I like to go home? Are there stairs at my home. Can I bathe myself?  How and I feeling on a scale of 1-10 ?   When they leave my room they make it sound like I will be discharged any minute.  When in fact it will be days before they get all their paperwork done, made sure I am indeed ready for discharge, and most importantly of all . . . I have pooped!!!!   This is a big thing with hospitals.  They will NOT release you until you have done #2. What I have realized from one particularly difficult past recovery is that they really don't need proof of this bodily function,  Telling them I have not gone to the potty only delays my release by days until I am so filled with fluids and laxatives that I can't be more than 5 feet from a bathroom.  To avoid this embarrassing situation I just tell them YES when they ask their question.  

Sweet freedom is only hours away and I can feel the fresh air already.  But as they arrive at my room with a wheelchair to take me down to the hospital exit they once again ask for my name, date of birth and HOW AM I FEELING ?   ON A SCALE OF 1-10. 

And I have all this to look forward to this coming Monday.  

THINGS I HATE TO HEAR

 I am not talking about nails on a chalk board, although that is the most horrid sound. Even thinking about that gives me the shivers.   No, I am talking about things I say or things that others say.  Just this morning I was searching for a sheet of stamps that I had bought for mailing Mother's Day cards.  They were lovely. pastel colors, flowers and butterflies.  The perfect stamp to send warm wishes to my fellow moms.  I bought them about 2 months ago and . . .  (here comes the most dreaded sentence in my life) . . .  "I PUT THEM SOME PLACE SAFE" !!!!!!!!    Good Lord they could be ANYWHERE !!!!!   I have a folder that I keep all my stamps in so why are they not in there??????  That would and should have been the best place to put the stamps but in my muddled brain I am sure I thought I would put them someplace "OBVIOUS" so I would have them for Mother's Day.    I remember using them at Easter, at which time I must have decided to "put them some place safe" until Mother's Day.     Yup . . .  they are surely some place safe. Too bad I don't remember where that place is.    I do this often with so many things.  My glasses, my keys, my shoes, my children.  (Oh no, scratch that last one. Thankfully my kids are grown so I don't have to worry about misplacing them any more.).  

I would like to think that this problem of misplacing things is because I am SO busy but to be honest you and I know better.   My brain is unfocussed most of the time.  I jump from one thing to another and do not pay FULL attention to anything I am doing.  (Good thing I'm not a pilot or a brain surgeon.)  I find that my brain is always two steps ahead of me so while I am doing one thing I am thinking about the next two things that I must do.  I walk through the house singing my mantra . . . FOCUS.  FOCUS.  FOCUS !!!!!  Sadly this does not help because I am now so hung up on chanting focus, focus, focus that I have forgotten what the hell I need to focus ON.  .   I am doomed to walking in circles wondering what I was doing and where I was going.  And if I do remember either of these things I cannot find what I was looking for because I have, "PUT  IT  SOME  PLACE  SAFE!!"       

Another phrase I HATE to hear is when The Man is around and he calls to me saying, "COME LOOK AT THIS!".     Oh Lord . . . those words run through my ears and into my brain and I know I should RUN in the opposite direction because I KNOW it will be something nasty !!!  It could be something he found stuck to the bottom of his shoe.  It could be some sort of oozing bodily orifice that I REALLY do not want to see. Or on one occasion it was something in a tissue that he had coughed up.  OMG!   I still get nauseous thinking about that one.   WHY !  Why would anyone think to show off any of the above things This is NASTY NASTY stuff that you REALLY need to keep to yourself.    Even when I taught kindergarten and the little ankle biters would come to me with some of the most God Awful stuff it wasn't nearly half as disgusting as what this man can come up with.  That is the absolute worst thing I want to hear him say . . . "Come look at this".   It sends chills down my spine every time he says it.  Sometimes I will be fortunate and it will just be something on the TV.  Or something that is in his closet that he has forgotten about for the last three hundred years.  More than likely it is an autographed picture of some hockey player who I have never heard of but it excites The Man so I pretend to be impressed.  "Oh WOW !  THATS AWESOME! "  Meanwhile I have left dinner to burn because he needed me to come see RIGHT AWAY!!!  Like it is going to magically vanish in the next three seconds if I don't come look NOW!   

You can keep your "What's for dinner?" or "Are we there yet?" questions. Those will never grow old for me but if you say, "Quick !  Come Look At This!" I will have my suitcase out and car keys in my hand as I head for the door.    

Unless I have put my car keys, "Some Place Safe".   Then I'll have to stick around to see why I am being summoned. 

MY BEST FRIEND HATES ME

 Well, not really but every time I do laundry it sure makes me think she hates me.  

I shall not name names but her sister Carol knows exactly who I am talking about.  

I have several "Best Friends" but this particular one is my oldest BFF.  We met many, many years ago when she and her family moved into a house across the street from me.  Her first child was about three when they moved in and she and I would soon be pregnant at the same time.  She saved me many times from panic and the attempt of giving my new child away.   I had NO idea what to do as a mother but here I had this experienced, patient angel living right across the street.  

I can also call her my "OLDEST" best friend because although we were bot born the same month in the same year she is 16 days older than me.  Today is the last day I can officially tell her she is a year older than me because tomorrow is my birthday and we will once again be the same age. We have been friends since the moment we met so it breaks my heart that she would be so cruel to me. 

Two years ago at Christmas this wonderful friend sent me a gift that, to this day, makes me think of her each time I use it.  The thoughts are not nice thoughts because she is evil !   How could someone I love send this gift to me?  She knows I'm one banana peal from the loony bin and yet she thought this gift would be a good idea.  It's a wonder it is still being sold. I see it in the stores often and when ever I see some one picking it up I warn them of its demonic nature.  

The gift I received two years ago from my alleged best friend was a cute little cloth bag containing SIX (6) fluffy, semi hard white balls the size of a softball.   They are advertised as LAUNDRY balls that when added to your wet wash each time you put things into the dryer they  "SUPPOSEDLY"  will "fluff" your wash and help things to dry more evenly.  I will be honest,  they actually do work.               BUT . . .  They also like to hide inside your laundry.  I find them inside the pockets of my slacks.  They like to crawl up into the sleeves of my blouses.  Forget when I wash my bed sheets.  The flat sheet usually has one or two tangled up with it but the fitted sheet . . .   That is a whole other story.  

Today was sheet washing day.  Knowing what I am in for I put the fitted sheet into the dryer all by itself. When the dryer finished I opened the door to find just the sheet.  NO dryer balls at all.  My first thought was that they had disintegrated and would no longer make me nuts. But as I pulled the sheet out of the dryer the balls started popping out all over the place.  One rolled into the living room,  one rolled across the kitchen floor as it trying to make a break for the door. One even rolled into the bathroom which is around aa corner from the dryer.   But that only accounted for THREE (3) of these sneaky little monsters.  

Now I KNOW that I have six (6) dryer balls.  I have accounted for three (3). Doing the advanced math I now know that three (3) are still unaccounted for.  And I know where I will find them.   I took the sheet into the bedroom and spread it out and VOILA !!!!!  TWO (2) sneaky little bastards pop out of the fitted corners of the sheet. But one is still missing. HUM ?   I fluff the sheet out, No ball ! I retrace my steps back to the dryer and check inside.  No ball !  It's not in the living room, nor is it under the bed. Where in holy hell is it?   I smooth out the sheet on the bed convinced I will find the lump of a little white dryer ball.  Nope !     I am totally puzzled but decide I really want to get this bed made so I can jump into it. So I go get the now dry top sheet, fluff it up and put it on the bed.  Looking good but the mystery remains.  Until I put the pillows back on the bed and one of the pillows keeps falling over.  What the heck?   The stupid dryer ball is stuck under the bottom sheet way up at the top of the bed wedged down between the mattress and the wall.   Now I have to crawl across the bed right to the middle where I have to wrestle with the bottom sheet to recover the missing ball.

I am now totally exhausted and I know for sure my very best and oldest friend is really an evil fiend put into my life to make me crazier than I am.   

Oh, you ask why I don't stop using these silly things in my dryer?   Well, they actually do work and if I got rid of them there would be no fun in doing laundry 

Thanks Sharon,  I'll get you for this !!!

R.I.P. VACUUM

 Yesterday I found myself in tears because my vacuum is broken.  How silly is that !!!!!

But then I got to thinking that it is NOT about the vacuum. What it is about is my life right now.  I am feeling broken and tossed in the trash bin, just like my lovely vacuum. The vacuum was just the straw that broke the camels back or the incident that shattered my mind into a zillion dust bunnies. Like the dust bunnies I would like to spend my days this week/month/year hiding under my bed.

The quick list of straws on my back is this.  The Man's health is failing quickly now.  He will return to MI the end of this week when his son flies down from AK to drive The Man back to his home in MI. He will not return to Florida again.  Can he manage to live alone in his house on the farm ?   I doubt it but that is what he wants to do and I totally get it.   I am not going up to the farm this summer because I will be having open heart surgery some time soon. (I see the cardiac surgeon today.  I was born with a funky bi cuspid valve that is not happy after these past 80 years so it needs fixing.   Another blog in the making for sure.).     Then we have Cousin LuLu who is now having health issues. (She is only 94). She has been in the hospital for a week and calls every day to ask when I'm coming to visit.  Her kidneys are failing, she is loopier than normal and she looks so tiny and frail.  When I was there the other day I just sat with her holding her hand while she asked me why God is doing this to her.   I could have gotten into a deep, (well as deep as I can get) philosophical discussion or I could have told her she WAS 94 . . .  What do you expect !!!!!!  But I bit my tongue which is shredded by now.  

But there is a light at the end of the tunnel.   I just hope it's not THE LIGHT !!!!  I'm not ready to "Go To The Light"  quite yet.  I have more adventures to take.  The Man is leaving here on Saturday.  I will be dancing through the house as the car pulls out of the parking lot.   Don't get me wrong.  I love this guy. He is kind, sweet and caring but he is A MAN !!!!  And you know my thoughts on that subject !  The whole scooter debacle is making it much easier to say good bye before I kill him.  Because of his failing health and my heart issues I can't do all that I normally do for him and he can't do much for himself.  (Thankfully personal hygiene is still up to him.) This limited living situation has brought aides into our home twice a week for 3 hours a day.   Now before you say, "Oh, isn't that wonderful" let me tell you about home health aides provided by the VA.  These good folks are not doing this job to get rich and they certainly don't have a degree in Astro Physics, (or possibly even 8th grade).  It is one of them who destroyed my vacuum by ripping off the filter instead of just opening it. They never said anything to us so I didn't discover it until I went to use it.  Then we had the woman who apparently has never made a bed.  I had washed the sheets and The Man asked her to put the sheets on the bed.   She put the top flat sheet on the bottom and the fitted bottom sheet was put over that.   (That's how I know they don't have a degree in Astro Physics.).  They empty the dish washer and put the forks in with the spoons and dishes in with the pots.  It is a game of hide and seek every time.     I can not wait for this week to end !  Here's why . . . 

1. No more man asking me to put lotion on his legs. (Come on !  You CAN do it yourself !

2. No more watching TV shows about Cops, Cowboys, Soldiers or sports. No more hockey, basket ball, football or golf.

3. No more having to plan, shop and prepare dinners.  I probably will eat one meal a day. And while we are speaking about food . . . NO MORE Swedish meatballs, potato sausage, pasties or halibut. 

4. No more staying up until midnight watching TV because someone isn't tired because he took a 3 hour nap that afternoon.   

5. No more living in a house that is hot enough to qualify as a sauna.  

6.  I will eat my meal(s) OUTSIDE !!!   And then when I get too warm I can go inside where the temperature will be cold enough to freeze a side of beef.

7. I can put the wheel chair into the shed instead of the middle of the living room. 

8. I can clean out the freezer of all 12 gallons of ice cream that we had for The Man.

9. I can go out with friends and not have to worry about getting home in time to cook dinner.  

I am looking forward to this new life. Even if it is only for a few months.  I hopefully will be recharged with a heart that's working properly and a lot of QUIET TIME not taking care of other people.  I have my list of shows and movies that I want to watch. Life will be good. 

 I"m thinking that no matter what happens with this open heart surgery I WILL BE IN HEAVEN !!!!!

BUBMLEDOOR AND THE BATTERY

 If Harry Potter were a car mechanic he would probably have put a disappearing spell on The Man when he came to charge the battery on The Man's car.  As it was I could see the mechanics frustration as he was working under the hood and The Man was standing RIGHT on top of him.  If I had a magic wand I would have used it !   POOF !!  Good-bye mister annoying.   Once again I got to experience the lack of workings of the male mind.

About a month ago The Man got into his car and it would not start.  Because I have a Triple A membership I get to call for roadside service, even though it is not my car. About an hour later Pete's Roadside Service arrived. The mechanic, who was not Pete, opened up the hood, looked inside and said, "You need a new battery".  To which The Man replied, "No I don't. Just charge it up and it will be fine." How The Man knows this is beyond me but it is his car so he makes the decision.  The mechanic looked at me, I shrugged and he charged up the old battery.  The Man's car is a 2019. The battery in it is the original one that came with the car.  Batteries are only supposed to last 4-5 years.  You do the math.  

But as always,  The Man knows best !

From the time that the battery was charged by a mechanic, not named Pete, to today the car has only been driven ONCE.  Between that one ride that we took to West Palm Beach the car has not moved from its parking spot.  (The Man is not driving because he can't walk the distance from the condo to the parking lot. If he had a scooter he would be able to get out there and take a ride but don't get me started on that. Just read my previous blog.

It was then that I was given the job of going out every so often when The Man thought about it to start the car.  His "orders" were to just turn the motor on and let it run for a few minutes while I collected the mail. I took it. upon myself to drive it around the community for 5 minutes or so just to give it a better charge.  Yet even with all this the battery died again.  No surprise there !!!!    

 Today when The Man requested I go out and run his car engine for a few minutes I was not the least bit surprised when all I got was dead silence.  I returned to the condo and informed you know who that his battery was dead.  He was SHOCKED !!!!!  How could that be ?   (I could have told him exactly how that could be but I chose to just remain silent and see where this was going.  As if I didn't know.) The Man continued to mumble under his breath while I called AAA once again.  Help was on the way.     Now I had  to get the new wheelchair out of the shed, (another story for another time), get The Man settled in the chair with his oxygen tank in his lap and push him out to the parking lot where he can supervise Pete's mechanic who's name is Johnny.    I  positioned The Man and wheel chair about 4 feet back from the front of his car because I KNOW he will want to have his head stuck under the hood to make sure Johnny doesn't pull a fast one on him.  Sure enough as soon as the hood of the car goes up . . . The Man is out of his wheelchair and standing two INCHES away from the mechanic.  I am now sitting IN the car because I don't want to be part of this.  The Man is watching every move Johnny makes and when the battery tester reads D E A D !!!  The Man tells Johnny to just jump it and it will be fine.  (Where have I heard that before ?)

I don't know how or what Johnny said to The Man but the next thing I see is a new battery going into the car!!!  (Maybe Johnny had a magic wand?).   As Johnny is leaving he looks at me and grins. I read that to mean, "Good luck Lady, Your man is a pain but I won this one,"   

Unlike the previous battery incident where The Man swore up and down for days after he was NOT paying that kind of money to buy a new battery when this one is just fine . . . I have heard NOTHING! There has been no mention of why he decided to make the purchase now when just a month ago he swore he wouldn't spend his money on something he didn't need.     I say NOTHING !!!