Sixty-something woman shares ruminations as she plys the latter third of her life with the caveat that age entitles her to be absolutely outrageous whenever possible.
"We Three"
Monday, October 24, 2011
Never say it can't get any worse, because, of course it can!
Let's see. In the last two months, darling Boo died, I got a rash from the medication that was supposed to make me feel better, a tooth got infected and I had to borrow $10,000 to get my mouth redecorated, my microwave died and my plumbing exploded. Today, I took my head out of my butt and examined my bank statement, and found that the gym screwed up and never cancelled the automatic withdrawal, so that the last two months that were supposed to be free weren't. I set out this morning with steam coming out my ears, praying not to be too stern with them, stopping by for the blood test I was supposed to get three weeks ago. The lab didn't have the order, and I didn't have the number of the clinic on my cell. I have to go back later today. Sigh. And I have not checked, but the gym swears they have it right now. Wouldn't that be peachy? I know the Universe does not have it in for me. I think. Whatever, I did not paint all last week because my mouth hurt so much. Now back to doing something. Doing something is better than languishing in my victim mode. Good stuff has happened, too. And will continue to happen, I am sure. Now would be nice.
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