Hobbies one should not admit to and dead plant life

This is a dead tree. Specifically, a dead Ficus Benjamina, a weeping fig tree. I nurtured it, coddled it and feed it nutritious tree food. And did it appreciate that? No. The Ficus is a drama queen, a professional victim. If a breeze comes within 10 feet of it, if a person (god forbid) brushes against it, it sheds leaves like a martyr shedding clothes to take in the burning desert sun. The wimp. I pampered it and replaced its soil. And finally

in the dead of winter, I put it on the balcony. But not, let me add, until one mutant very long branch poked me in the eye. A branch bearing 3 of it's scrawny collection of 14 leaves.

Now it lives on the balcony. Weedy thinks it's kind of cool looking. So. I'm beading it.

I think I've officially been working on the Etsy shop site for tooooo long.

The girls is OK!

The girls (find them about a third of the way up from the bottom middle - lower, I might add than they used to be) are OK. They are fine and dandy and taking a nice x-ray.

Or as the Breast Screening Clinic writes, "Dear Ms. JONES (are they shouting or using a form here?)Thank you for participating in the Mammography Screening Program. (I had a choice? My doctor didn't indicate that it was optional.) I am pleased to inform you that the radiologist who read your mammogram (forget the scandal over Atlantic Province radiologists who gave wrong results for thousands of women recently) did not detect any evidence of breast cancer at this time."

Good news. I'm not (at this time) dying of that. Pap test in July. They don't have to squash anything but my dignity for that.

Life is good (at this time.)

Send therapists

Shingle me tivers!

I get up finally when The Cat gives up on purring and head bonking and bites the top of my head to wake me up. No coffee. Fasting-since-midnight tests upcoming. I drink three glasses of water, shower, scoop the litter box, feed The Cat, make the bed and get dressed without actually being fully conscious. Weedy picks me up at eight a.m.

Blood tests. Routine yearly blood tests that I regularly go for once every five or six years when the doctor suddenly says, "How long has it been since...?" Take a number. Wait. Maintain dull caffeine-deprived stupor. Try not to look at other number-clutching victims. When number is called, proceed to stall four. Sit down, hold out arm and be recognized by staff vampire who knows me from another lifetime and needs to list all common acquaintances of our youth and ask if I've seen them. Stupor is holding perfectly. Lucky I know my own name. Finally, we reach the grand finale and I pee in a jar.

Then we are directed to the third floor by a nice man who clearly doesn't know if that is where you drink barium. By a stroke of luck, we arrive in the right unit. A sign says "Barium enema, Barium swallows, Upper GI" - very warm and homey. I am "Upper GI" and thanking the gods for it when I consider the alternatives. I take a number. I turn to Weedy and say, "It's your fault I can't read a magazine."
"That's right. Germs." she says without any hint of remorse or apology.

Finally they call my name and we go to waiting room three of the morning and I am issued the standard cotton-tie raglets. Everyone has barium to drink but me, I am wearing only large dust cloths in unflattering colors and my sandals and I consider complaining about the service. Then I look at the faces of the people drinking barium and reconsider. A half hour after my appointment time has come and gone, I am ushered into a room with a slab and given my very own cup of barium. I don't think it tastes half bad and swallow as ordered while a machine studies my inner workings.

By noon, Weedy and I make it to food. We inhale eggs, bacon, toast and potatoes and I steal an extra piece of complimentary fudge for her as we leave.

On to the doctor. Who looks at the big nasty sore red patches blooming on my chest, shoulder and back and decides that I have Shingles. He prescribes large dark blue pills and assures me that they should help. Should? Should? I am running horror stories about people with shingles getting addicted to pain killers and being unable to function for six months. Should??? No way. I am not taking "should" for an answer. This virus WILL die and it will damn well do it fast.

I phone to inform the new boyfriend of my pox-ridden condition. And add, cheerfully, in a later email, "Well, at least it isn't an STD!" I know how to charm a man, by god.

Inside my head, however, a small high-pitched voice is whining, "Why meeeee?!"

And of course, you all know the answer to that one, don't you? Why not me?

A mind is a terrible thing to waste

abstunt: to abstain from an activity thereby stunting growth

assclown: I just like this one. From KD

bioblabgraphry: talking about ones’ life on a blog (alternate: bioblographry)

biocide: unsound ecological practices (I haven’t heard this, but it might already be in use)

bubblegut: The result of drinking too much beer or bad elimination habits

coopernation: What politicians see as patriotism (these days)

drome: A self-employed person who works at home (fr: drone and home)

fantmare: A fantasy that turns into a nightmare (such as coopernation)

fembrane: the largely useless membrane that denotes virginity in women

Farch: Occurs in the month of March when it feels like February (Weedy’s word)

frage: fear followed by rage

frice: The price of friendship

friceless: Often mistaken for a typo (KD) meaning “without frice.”

sleaky: Slick and sneaky behavior; a charming sneaky person

tofood: Anything vegan trying to act like another non-vegan food

Undulush: Lush undulation

wisteria: transitional emotional state between wistfulness and hysteria (not to be confused with the flower)

worshop: To believe that prayers are currency to be redeemed for merchandise or other rewards

As usual, the f-words have it. Anyone else just dying to burn off a few brain cells in the pursuit of nothing? (It started with "wisteria" and I have no idea why.)

She begins in the middle and ends there, too

A week or so ago, I gave up men. I announced it to Weedy.
"I'm giving up men," I said. "Except for the ones I already like."
"No you're not," she replied. This is what happens when you're friends with someone for over 30 years. They go around thinking they know you and they say whatever they think.
"Yes I am. I'm keeping the Scorpios, though. Well...maybe I'm keeping the men I'm already friends with, as well. And the blog guys."
But that's it. Scorpio the Older and Scorpio the Younger. Maybe one Virgo (if he ever writes again). And okay, I'm still talking to Minor Deity. But I'm giving up on the rest. Absolutely.
"I'm giving up men," I tell K.D. "I told Weedy that today."
"And what did Weedy say?"
"She didn't believe me."
"Well. I'll believe you then. Just to keep the yin-yang balanced."

I'm going to sit around waiting for the end of the patriarchy. And ironing my wimple.

Meanwhile, can someone tell me why men who blog don't seem to have the a**hole quotient of your normal average male? If you can't tell me, then just pat yourselves roundly on the back, crack a beer (or a jar of olives stuffed with feta cheese) and do an entry so that I can keep hope alive.

More words

Here is my theory, and please pay attention because I've worked hard on this and put in precious seconds of the very limited time I've just realized I have left on earth.

As we age, we become increasingly stupid. Eventually, if we wrinkle up in an appealing way and manage not to drool, if we assume a slightly crafty look and say very little, our stupidity is sometimes mistaken for wisdom. And usually, it is younger people who make the mistake.

This is because, at 29 or 35, for example, we are possessed of the odd illusion that eventually life will make sense. It's what we cling to as life buffets us about like little rubber dingys in the midst of a category five hurricane - that feeble little hope that we just hang in there, we will achieve wisdom. The notion that the Monty Python sketch that is, in fact, our daily life, will assemble itself into a coherent picture and we will achieve the big Aha moment.

As resident "wise woman" in the lives of some younger friends, let me assure you that it is a Monty Python sketch, so we should all eat, drink and be merry. I believe that's from Ecclesiastes, originally. From the New Testament: Jesus wept. And by the way, didn't live to be old.