THERE MAY HAVE BEEN DRUGS INVOLVED

 I think I have lost two weeks of my life.  This is not a concern so much as a puzzle.  All I can attribute it to is drugs.  And to that I say. " THANK YOU VERY MUCH !"

I managed to survive the 60's without ever having tried any illegal substances. (God knew what he was doing when he kept me out of temptation. Or perhaps it was just that I was too dumb to need drugs or too dorky to know anyone who had drugs.). What ever the reason I have made it 80 years without ever being stoned.

Until now . . .  

Open heart surgery was almost 4 weeks ago and the more time that passes the more I realize that I have NO IDEA of where I was or what was real for the first 2 of those weeks.  Every day the fog fills my brain just a little more until I suspect the only evidence I will have of my hospital adventure will the the scar on my chest.  

It is an extremely weird feeling to have "memories" of something but not be sure if they are in fact memories of things that happened or some psychedelic random wanderings of my brain.  I remember bits and pieces of things . . .  The pattern of the tiles  on the floor of what I assume was my hospital room. Is that not a strange thing to have stuck in my. head?   I vividly remember a painting hanging on the wall at the foot of my bed. I remember this because I was endlessly entertained by the people in the painting who were moving around all the time. (I am told by my children that the painting contained not a single person. But I swear to you there were people and a flock of seagulls flying around.). I apparently spent a lot of time laying in the bed with the painting to entertain me. I have no idea if this was in the ICU or cardiac recovery. It's all a blur.  Each day in the hospital I thought I was perfectly fine. No pain, no worries and now no memories.  One of my friends has told me the doctors probably had me pretty well drugged those first weeks so that I would rest and recover.  I remember being up and walking around. Sitting up in a chair each day to eat meals, (which I did not eat because I had zero appetite). This is really strange !  I don't remember individuals . . .  doctors, nurses, aides. It seemed there was a constant stream of people coming in and out of my room but I can't picture the room. I remember thinking I was in a hotel. A very old hotel with green tiles on the floor.  

I would really like to see a video of myself those first 2 weeks after surgery.  I can only imagine how entertaining that would be.  I know my son Kyle was with me every day even though I don't have a single memory of him being there until I went to the rehab facility.  That was when the cloud started to lift and I began making some sense of what was going on and where I was.  

One thing I DO remember is how freaking cold I was.  Perhaps it is kept so cold in hospitals so that if you should die the body will not decompose too quickly before the nurse answers the call button.   I have never been in a meat locker but I imagine the hospital rooms are at least twenty degrees cooler,  

I also remember the day about half way through my hospital stay when I had had enough and told the nurses I was going home NOW !!!  I was cold, tired, in need of some bathroom privacy and sick to death of nurses telling me I can't get out of the bed!!!!  My kids and the nursing staff managed to keep me from getting dressed and leaving, (as if I could have walked out on my own power.)  We came to an agreement that if I stayed one more day they promised I could leave after that.  I have a feeling they may have bumped up my medication right after that. 

WHY anyone would choose nursing as a profession is beyond me.  I guess it has its rewarding moments but as far as I could tell the poor nurses are overworked, underpaid and definitely un appreciated.  For the little I can remember I wouldn't want me as a patient.  

Hopefully the "nightmare" is over. Not that there was anything horrible that I had to endure but that sense of helplessness, frustration and fatigue really wears on you.  

Did I forget to mention the strange clock that was in my hospital room ?  Every night I would go to sleep around 8:00 PM.  (The time was determined by the staff so that they could fit in rounds and the changing of the shift.). Everyone would get tucked into bed, given medications and lights out.  There I would lay staring at the clock on the wall. (The moving painting was now a past memory).  I SWEAR to you I would look at that damn clock and it would say 8:02.  The next time I looked at the clock it would say 8:01.  HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE ?????  This would go on all night long.  I would look at the time only to realize it was earlier then when I had checked it before.  I would watch the clock, doze off,, check the clock again and finally fall asleep at about 3:30 AM.  Just in time for the nurses to come busting into the room at FOUR in the morning to get me up and ready for the day. The door would slam open, all the lights would go on and a cheerful, sadistic  evil nurse would say "Good Morning! Would you like to get up ad sit in the chair?"   There is no correct answer to this question. No matter what my response I ended up in that freaking chair, freezing and waiting for 7:30 AM when I might be fortunate to have something hot served for breakfast.   

Sadly these are the memories I have managed to retain.  

HOW DID I EVER MAKE IT THIS FAR. ???????

 Almost every day you can find some silly little thing on the internet about how the Baby Boomer generation actually survived their childhood in spite of no bike helmets, concrete playgrounds, drinking from a hose and any number of other things that should have killed us before the age of 10.  And yet here we are.  

UNLESS . . . You are now that "lucky" senior who is blessed with loving children who want to protect you from the ravages of time.  Because Grand ma and grandpa have now suddenly become brain dead and totally incapable of making decision on our own.  

GOD HELP US !!!!!!!!!!.     

My recent adventures with open heart surgery have brought forth the masterful take over of my body and brain by my loving children.   All those years when I thought I was at least a little bit smarter than my kids has proven not only false but deadly.  All because they "LOVE ME" !!!    I realize that my children have patiently awaited this day when they will have their revenge.  Mom is no l longer in charge, the kids are and heaven help the old lady sho is left to their mercy.

Let's start at the beginning . . .   I have managed to make it to a ripe old age of 80 only by the grace of God.   He blessed me with  parents who gave me life and managed not to kill me during my teenage years.  I don't know how I survived my college years other than God must have had a plan where I would have children just so they could have their revenge.  My  life was full of blessings. The most precious ones being my 3 children.  

My kids are amazing adults. Kind, generous, loving and evil.  I know they think they are helping but Lord save me from their care. And to think I would have moved mountains to live near them.  Now all I want to do is hide when I hear them coming.

From the moment the decision was made to under go this surgery my kids rallied like Custer at his last stand.   Phone calls were made between them, calendars were consulted, vacations were moved and I began to slide into the vortex of The Black Hole of my deadliest nightmares.  I had not realizes just how great a job I did raising these people.  They are smart, competent and well meaning. If only they would be taking care of someone other than me..  I would be so proud of them. 

It seems that mom going into the hospital for "serious" surgery meant that mom would suddenly become brain dead, incompetent, frail, need to be under their watch 24/7 and STUPID !!  The looks that would pass between siblings when I would  say or do anything no longer mean, "Isn't mom funny!  Look how cute she is when she is drooling mashed peaches into her Ensure."  Now the looks that pass between my kids mean so much more, first and foremost being, "OH GOD !  She has totally lost it and we are going to be taking care of her for years on end."  

Am I the same person who had heart surgery just 3 weeks ago?  YUP !  Do I need diapers and a bib?  NO! Not quite.  Is my brain still a bit fuzzy from being under anesthesia for several hours?  Yes !  Do I still know my name and how to wipe my. own butt?  YES ! There seems to be no middle ground here. I am either a half step from being a Kumquat or am so old that all I'm good for is clearing dishes from the table and bringing in the mail.  I might as well be a German Shepherd.  

My first born child arrived on the scene shortly after I was out of recovery.  (We shall call him "K 1" ) I do not remember ANY of those days.  I know the kids were there for me and had a plan of attack for when I would come home to an empty house.  It is a good plan and one I truly appreciate.  BUT . . . My first born child is Type A personality. I am sure there is a power point presentation for any and all who care to know how well I will be cared for.  He arrived with a full menu plan for the next 3 weeks. He is an excellent cook but I really think I may have appreciated being consulted in deciding what I would like to eat.  So far we have feasted on Salmon, swordfish and chicken. All gourmet meals but I am craving a simple bowl of spaghetti with sauce.  "K1" has taken care of laundry and "cleaning" all while working from here a full 8 hours a day.  If I make the slightest sound he suddenly appears out of nowhere to ask if I am "OK".  I am constantly asked if I want/need anything but my lips are sealed.  My fingers are itching to get into my kitchen to clean off the counter tops and put things away.  (I too am a Type "A" personality and it KILLS me to have to just sit and watch.). 

"K1" is also showing signs of being equipped to do nursing and physical therapy.  I have only just arrived home from a week in a rehab facility and "Richard Simmons" is concerned that I am loosing ground. If I don't get back to therapy I may spend the rest of my life in bed from lack of moving for 2 days.  Meanwhile the surgeon kept impressing on me that I am STILL HEALING inside and I need to "take it easy".  I guess that means that I can not open a bottle of aspirin but I can be made to march in place of 45 minutes until I drop dead.  

But it is all being done in the name of LOVE. 

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 !!!