Sling Blade

Time for an update on my recovery from that lil' ole Rotator Cuff surgery I had last week.

Over the past 211 hours (but who's counting) my arm has been held captive by a very tight papoose sling. I have a love/hate relationship with that damn sling.

I hate it 99.99% of the time.

When I'm brave enough to remove the sling for a wardrobe change, my arm feels as if 2 million alien chinchilla are gnawing at it.

My only relief is returning said arm to the sling. Which is when when I love my sling. (The technical term for this phenomenon is "Sling Stockholm Syndrome".)

Speaking of wardrobe, many would consider mine these days to be a fashion "don't".  But it's actually more like a fashion HELL NO, DON'T YOU DARE.
I wear a long sleeved buttoned up PJ shirt under the sling. And pull-up pants.  That don't necessarily have to match.  

I tried, unsuccessfully, to put on jeans but could not pull up the zipper nor fasten them one-handed.

It was quite the scene.  

It should be noted that I have not applied deodorant to my left arm pit for 9 days.  I suspect that is why Dave and Kevin can most often be found seated to my right.  Or in another room.

On a positive note, I have learned how to eat with my right hand.  Typically 82% of the food ends up in my mouth. Four percent lands on my face, 2% in my hair and the rest is, unfortunately, destined for my shirt, and contributes to the need for a wardrobe change.  

I entertain myself during the day by deleting junk mail from my in-box.  The rest of the time I am either reading, binge watching NetFlix, or shopping online.  

Dave thinks this surgery has saved us a fortune in shopping expenses.  Wait till he sees my Discover card bill.  Which brings me to my scathingly brilliant idea for a revision to ObamaCare: allow me to use my Health Savings Account card for surgical recovery shopping. (Feel free to use this idea, Donald.)

Dave and I go on one "special" outing each day.  Yesterday's trip to the Dollar Tree was just too darn short!  Although I am grateful to be getting out of the house, Dave has absolutely no appreciation for the Dollar Tree Customer Experience.

I was barely past the Rudolph Earrings and headed into the musical instrument aisle when I heard him beeping his car horn.

My surgeon, who has a very sick sense humor, prescribed what appeared to be Michael Jackson/Elvis drugs, but were really placebos.  The only impact the meds had on me required additional pills, the first of which I affectionately called S2.   (Stool softener)  The second was Benedryl, to get rid of the rash that covered my torso.   I threw a third into the mix: Chardonnay.   

I can finally sleep through the night.

I have a follow-up appointment with my surgeon tomorrow.  That's when I'll get the scoop about physical therapy.   If he takes my arm out of the sling I cannot be held accountable for his well-being.

That's all the news I have to report.  Except I'm still trying to pull my hair into a pony tail one handed. One of my neighbors did it for me last week.  She said my hair was soft.  

I must have had bananas for breakfast that day.  

I have an idea, but I'll need Dave's cooperation:  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vzJ7lf8mqBg

The Flopped Rescue

I was minding my own business in the Wendy’s drive through lane when I noticed some movement in the back of the pick-up truck in front of me.

The driver of the truck was paying for his lunch at the window.  His tailgate was open.

I surveyed the truck bed.  It contained buckets and what looked like an old freezer lying on its side, held in place with yellow rope.   

I saw something moving.  What was it?

Then it flopped.  

OMG. It was a fish.  A flopping fish.

I gasped.  What the flip was a fish doing in the back of a pick up truck in Wendy's drive through?

The fish kept flopping.  As if trying to make a get-away.  What should I do???

“There’s a fish flopping in that truck!” I said loudly to nobody.  

Nobody responded.  The fish kept flopping.

“He’s gonna die!” I roared.

Where did he come from?  The bucket?  He was about 6 inches long so he probably wasn’t bait.  Unless they were fishing for really big fish.

I quickly sized up the situation.  I could step out of my car and tell the driver that there was a fish flopping around on his tailgate.  He would probably laugh at me.

Or I could rescue him!  That’s what I should do.  There was a sidewalk between our vehicles.  I could walk past and casually reach in and grab the little guy.

But he needed water.  Badly.  His flops had become less spirited.  All I had was Diet Coke and I was relatively certain no fish could survive long in Diet Coke.  

I had no choice.  I had to tell the driver about the fish.

Except he drove away.  

“Wait!!!” I screamed.  “There’s a fish flopping on your tailgate!”  

I was sick to my stomach.  The poor guy was dead meat.  Make that dead fish.  

I drove up to the window.  The employee said, “$5.19,” without looking at me.

I handed her my credit card and in a shaky voice said, “There was a fish flopping around the back of that truck.”

“Say what?”

“There was a fish flopping around in the tailgate of that truck.  The one you just served.”

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t see no fish.”

I did.  And I wish I hadn’t.

My fish sandwich would have tasted way better.

Clash of the Duvet

I was in way over my head.  Literally.

And I thought I was prepared for the challenge. 

I had started training earlier in the day.

By putting towels in pillow cases.  I perfected my process: shove the towel all the way to the back, then grab both ends and shake.  

After hours of practice, my doggie duvet was perfect.

And I was ready for the real thing.

Or so I thought.

I laid Kimmy's duvet cover on the hallway floor and measured the duvet, determining which corners went in first.

"This hallway ain't big enough for the both of us," I said to the duvet.  "You're going IN THERE."

The duvet just laughed.

I took a deep breath, grabbed hold of the far end of the duvet corners, and crawled in, kneeling on the near ends to hold them in place.

  .
As I approached the end, I dropped one of the corners.  CRAP!  Where the flip was it?  I felt around for it.  Nothing.  Maybe over there?  Or there?  

Hours later, Kevin came to my rescue.

And my brave dog led me out of duvet hell.

I was 5 pounds lighter.  And that was before I grabbed both ends of the duvet and "shook."

It was an exhausting experience, both mentally and physically.

I told my sister Jan about my duvet workout.  She could hardly get a word in.

"Holy crap!"  I said.  "Assembling a nuclear plant would be easier."

I chugged some wine.  "Next time I do that I'm going to lay down bread crumbs so I can find my way out."

I was on a roll. 

"And pack a lunch.  I could have starved to death."

Jan accused me of being dramatic.

Who me?

"You could do what I do," she added.

"What's that?"

"I use my duvet cover like a bedspread and lay it on top of the duvet."

OMG!

What fun would that be?

The Race

As I was clipped from behind my car began to spin out of control. 

It was frightening. 

I circled 1,440 degrees.  (That's 4 times, for those of you without calculators.)

To say I was dizzy was an understatement.  My reading glasses only exacerbated the vertigo.

I screamed like a girl and managed, somehow, to straighten the car.  I gently pushed on the gas pedal and accelerated to 35 mph.

As an endless stream of aggressive sports cars passed by me on both sides, I wondered when this stupid NASCAR simulator race would finally end.

Maybe I should clip one of them and SEE HOW THEY LIKE TWIRLING AROUND LIKE A STINKIN' PINWHEEL!

I'm lucky my lunch stayed with me.  Actually, the NASCAR Museum is lucky my lunch stayed with me.

After what seemed like an hour, the race finally came to an end.

I removed my reading glasses and struggled to open the door.  Upon exiting the torture chamber, I stumbled clumsily toward the exit. 

All around me I heard excited voices.  "That was great!!"  "Awesome!"  "Where'd you place?"

I was thinking, "Where's the bathroom?"

The race results were posted on a wall in 260 point font.  

Lovely.  Public humiliation.

There were 15 of us competing as part of our "team building  exercise".  For crying out loud.  Why didn't they do a Sudoku competition?  Or a quilting contest?  At least I'd have a fighting chance.

I was certain to be at the bottom of the NASCAR simulation race.

I looked at the race results.  The letters were moving.  I grabbed hold of the wall and focused, looking for my name on the list.

I was 14th.

WTH?  How could I not have been at the bottom?

Was it a clerical error?  I did not pass one car on the track.  In fact, cars pass by me like I was a kidney stone heading south.

Wait. One. Minute.

I beat somebody!   Hooray for me!

Maybe I should do this again.  I could get good at it.  My virgin NASCAR race and I wasn't even last.

If fact, I think I accelerated all the way to 40 by the last lap. 

Okay, maybe it was 39.  

I felt sorry for number 15.  He or she must really suck at NASCAR driving.  I squinted at the standings and saw that it was Ellen who came in last.

Poor, pathetic Ellen.

I decided to comfort her. (That's how empathetic I am.)

This was a delicate situation.  I did not want to embarrass her.  I mean, coming in dead last in a NASCAR simulator race.  How humiliating.

"Hey," I whispered.  "Don't feel badly about coming in last.  Who wants to win a NASCAR simulator race, anyhow?"

"Oh," she said, casually. "I didn't race.  I couldn't get my car started."

No Use Crying Over Spilled Wine

I swear to God.  I was not drinking when I spilled wine on my laptop.

The wine was to be my reward for finishing the report.

I finished up, attached the document to the email, hit send, and reached for that well-deserved glass of wine.

What happened next was inexplicable.  Somehow the bottom of the wine glass became entangled in the laptop cord.

Did I mention that it was Halloween night and I was staying in a Myrtle Beach hotel?

The police were never able to identify the source of the reported screams.  Witnesses said they were certain a horrendous murder had been committed. 

 
Others suspected it was a werewolf on the prowl for young blood.

I immediately lunged for a paper towel and attempted to lap up the wine.  Unfortunately, the hotel did not have the quicker picker upper.  Instead a roll of three ply toilet paper masqueraded as paper towels.

I used the "knife in the ditch between keys" methodology and was able to completely contain all of the wine.

At least I thought I had.

The next morning I attempted to log into my laptop.  I typed in the password and was told quite rudely by said laptop that I had the incorrect password.  I tried again, unsuccessfully.

Uh-oh.

I looked at the screen and typed in the first letter of my password.  Here's what I saw:

Say what?  Two asterisks?  That's odd.  I only typed one letter.  

I entered the second letter of my password and this is what I saw:

 
Then I had a scathingly brilliant idea.  I started over.  I entered the first letter of the password.  Two asterisks appeared.  And I deleted one.

I was feeling quite proud of myself as I entered the second letter of the password.  When two more asterisks appeared, I deleted the second one.

Smarty Pants Clyde.  That's my name.

I entered the third letter of the password. No letters appeared.

CRAP.

I figured I had two options.  I could get the laptop repaired or I could buy a new one.  Neither option was ideal, and both options were expensive.

Way more expensive than that glass of wine.

Then I had my second scathingly brilliant idea.

Introducing the hottest, most technologically advanced laptop EVER:  the duo-keyboard laptop for those who want more than just 96 keys.

Forget Silicone Valley.  This baby was developed in Irmo, South Carolina.

And if you'd like your very own duo-keyboard laptop, I know where you can get one.  Just in time for the holidays.

And it's very reasonably priced.

What do you need foam for?

"Can I help you?" asked the man at the fabric center.

"Yeah," I said.  "I'm looking for foam."

"Foam?  What kind of foam?"

"Um, foam.  Foam that you use to make pillows,"  I explained.

He told me that they didn't sell foam, but there was a place in nearby Conway that did.  "They'll cut it to the exact size you want."

Then he asked the question I was dreading. 

"What are you going to use it for?"

"You don't want to know," I said.

He gave me a look like, come on Lady.  I work in a damn Fabric Center.  I've seen everything.  You will not surprise me.  You think you're the only woman who's made a futon for her cat?

"You really don't want to know," I repeated.

He raised an eyebrow and started to walk away.

"Okay I'll tell you," I said.  "It's a prop for a play.  I'm making boob prostheses for a woman who just had a mammogram."

He stopped for a minute.  Then continued on his way to the back of the store.

"But they have to be rectangular," I said more loudly.  Because he really needed to hear this.  

"Cuz she just had a mammogram," I sad loudly.

"And both her boobs are squished into rectangles."

He shook his head. 

"That sounds hysterical," said the woman who was standing nearby.  (The one with a sense of humor.)

Who, clearly, had experienced more than her share of Mammograms.

The History of Havelock

I know that this may surprise my readers, but I fancy myself somewhat of a history buff.

Stop laughing.  Especially you guys from Niagara Wheatfield who observed me sleeping though History class.

OK, so maybe I’m not in the same league as Mel Brooks.  But I do love the soundtrack to Hamilton. 

At any rate, here is your first Nerdling History lesson.

The year is 1707.  The founding fathers of the small settlement in Eastern North Carolina are concerned about containing the growth of their community and keeping the commoners out.  

They hold a secret meeting on a plot of land that will someday be home to The Dollar Store.

“We have to find a forgettable name for our community,” said Obadiah.  “One that the riffraff will forget.”

“How about Yearjust?” suggested Absolom.  

“Too memorable,” said Obadiah.  “I like Withwere.  Withwere, North Carolina.”

“Better, but we need something more obscure,” said Jedidiah.  “I've got it: Havelock.  Nobody will remember Havelock.”   

They nod in agreement, and snicker in unison.  They name their settlement Havelock, North Carolina.

And more than 300 years later I say to Dave, “Can you book us a hotel in Headlock?”

“Where?”

“You know.  That place where Linda’s stationed.  It’s not Headlock?” 

“No.  Guess again.”

“Locklear?”  

“No." He tries to give me a hint. "Do you have a lock on your head?”  

“What?  I already said Headlock.”  (I was beginning to get irritated.)

He tried again.  “Do you HAVE a lock on your head?”

“Lockness?”

“Havelock!”

When we arrived at the Dreadlock Holiday Inn Express I understood why I was having such a hard time remembering the city.  It’s really kind of unmemorable. 

There’s no Target in Landlock.  Only WalMart and a Dollar Store.  And, not surprisingly, there are quite a few gun stores in Padlock.

NO!  It’s Havelock.  

I have a mental block against that stupid word.  I decided to google Havelock.  Maybe if I learned more about it, the name would sink into my brain.

I was shocked to learn that Havelock is named after Sir Henry Havelock.   

I know what you’re thinking.  Who the hell is Sir Henry Havelock?

Apparently Sir Henry Havelock was a British General known for his recapture of Cawnpore from rebels during the Indian Mutiny of 1857.

OK, but what does Sir Henry Havelock have to do with North Carolina?   

Ah-Ha!

I guess I my history lesson wasn’t that far off.   

 “How about Gereral Washington?” suggested Absolom.  

“Too memorable.  I like Lafayette,” said Obadiah.  “Lafayette, North Carolina.”

“Better, but still easy to remember,” said Jedidiah.  “I've got it: Havelock.  Nobody will remember Havelock.”   

Jeepers Creepers

Kimmy wasn't nearly as impressed with my new sunglasses as I was.  

"Where did you get those?" she asked.  '

"At a VERY upscale store in Snowmass Village," I said, a wee bit defensively.

"I hope you didn't pay too much," she said, just as Dave rounded the corner sporting his own pair, purchased from the same rack.

She groaned audibly.

"Dad.  You do know those are women's glasses, don't you?"

Dave shrugged his shoulders and said, "They were the cheapest ones on the rack."

"You look like an Aspen Drag Queen." she observed.  

I laughed.

"But they look better than Mom's,"

What?  Dave's Aspen Drag Queen women's sunglasses look better than my uber-cute big-ass Teal sunglasses? 

I had a flash back.  I was about ten years old and looked like this.

And I saw the cutest pair of sunglasses.  Ever.

I begged my Mom to buy them for me.

"They're silly, Mary Lou," my Mom said.   "Why would you want those?"

I told her they were the coolest sunglasses I had ever seen and I JUST. HAD. TO. HAVE. THEM.

And I begged and begged and begged and begged and begged and somehow I wore her down.

And I looked like this.

Wearing my miniature television screen sunglasses.

I didn't care if anyone else thought they were stupid. 

I loved them!

And I don't care if Kimmy doesn't like my new uber-cute big-ass Teal sunglasses.  I love them.

Perhaps she would prefer my other pair.

My Shiney Hiney

When one suffers from TRA (Tyrannosaurus Rex Arms) it is difficult to reach certain parts of one's body.  I desperately needed help.

My friend Chris strongly recommend the My Shiney Hiney.  He said it changed his life by allowing him to keep his hiney clean.  But, then again, his arms are way longer than mine.  I was reluctant to take the plunge without first doing some homework.

I searched online and to my relief, discovered a Genuine Honest review for the My Shiney Hiney.

OMG.  It sounds too good to be true!

"My Shiney Hiney is a personal body cleaning system that guarantees to reach the most hard to reach areas of your body to give you 100% hygienic cleansing."

100% hygienic cleansing?!!!!  But will it make me feel sexy and confident?

"My Shiney Hiney proclaims to be easy to use and show quick results to make you feel sexier and confident with the new spic and span feel"

Wow! Spic and span feel?  I want that.  I wonder how My Shiney Hiney works.

"To give you the satisfaction of wholesome body cleansing, My Shiney Hiney brush set convinces to have an ergonomically-designed applicator brush that is curved to access the most inaccessible personal areas of the body."

The most inaccessible personal areas of my body?  I wonder if it will reach my hiney.  

And what if I want a more "intimate" cleanse?

"My Shiney Hiney also maintains to a finger brush to provide an absolutely intimate cleanse."

That finger brush looks just like my dog Kevin's toothbrush.  Can I use that?  

And my hiney doesn't always smell like roses.  Will it smell better after using My Shiney Hiney?

"It's cleansing cream gets rid of odor and impurities and moisturizes and conditions your skin to give you hygienic as well as a refreshed cleansing."

I'm still not convinced. Wouldn't shower gels work just as well?

"All the perfumed shower gels and scrubs couldn't make you feel a cent percent cleansed."

But my Bath and Body Works gels come in some great scents! 

"My Shiney Hiney assures to have three unique scents in the creams- Lemon Verbena, Citrus Gigner, and Passion Fruit, each cleansing and relaxing your skin."

I'm not familiar with Citrus Gigner.  It sounds exotic.  

Now, this is kind of embarrassing, but my hiney is really tan from all the visits I've made to nude beaches.  I wish that the My Shiney Hiney could lighted my embarrassing tan lines.

"My Shiney Hiney alleges to have a Whitening Cream that has a blend of ingredients to lighten dark skin and given an even skin tone."

The truth is that as a result of all those visits to nude beaches, my hiney has a lot of anxiety.  I just wish it would calm the hell down.

"My Shiney Hiney Whitening Cream claims to make your skin smoother and softer and its gentle ingredients calm your skin."

My Shiney Hiney sounds better than sliced bread!

But, wait a minute.  

My Shiney Hiney costs $19.98.  

That's a lot of money when I can make my own.  All I need is a few ordinary household items.

And Ta-Da!!!!  Introducing the Nerdling My Shiny Hiney.  No...

My Glassy Assy. 

Tyrannosaurus Rex Arms

I used to think that my inability to touch my toes in gym class had to do with flexiblity.  Or lack thereof.  True, I'm inflexible, but the underlying issue is my TRA.  Tyrannosaurus Rex arms.

Linda has just the opposite problem: gorilla arms.  She can scratch her ankle without bending her knees.

I became aware of this contrast when the girls were in school and had to abide by a dress code requiring their skirts to be no shorter than their fingertips.

As a result, Linda dressed like a Puritan, whereas I would be allowed to go to Middle School dressed like a street walker. 

Even with TRA I've always been able to scratch my back.  But now that I've torn my Rotator Cuff?  Impossible.

Which puts me in the market for a Back Scratcher.  I started my search on Amazon.  

I ask.  Why should cats have more options for scratching their backs than I?

Not to mention the fact that all the "people" Back Scratchers were boring.  Certainly no Barbie Back Scratchers to be found.

I decided to make my own.

I assembled four contestants for my Barbie Back Scratch Pageant Contest.

It's a little known fact that Barbie feet make excellent Back Scratchers. Unfortunately, Handicapped Barbie was quickly eliminated, since she has no feet.

Then there were three.

Pooper Scooper Barbie refused to remove her shoes so I gave her the boot.

Then there were two: Makeover Barbie  and Barbie with the Reattached Head that won't go all the way on.

I held a Back Scratch Off and it was no contest.

(Let's just say that Pooper Scooper Barbie should get a job at the Food Lion spa.)

Barbie with the Reattached Head has earned the position of Nerdling Back Scratcher.  

And it's a good thing she uses her feet.

Because her arms are really short.