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.
Wednesday, May 23, 2012
The cookie has crumbled...
Yesterday was one of those days I could have lived forever without experiencing. Got up early, never a happy thing, and headed for the lab for blood tests to determine why I cannot get my butt off the floor and what is causing hellish headaches. Nice hour spent there. Fortunately, I took a book. Unfortunately, one of my talky friends was also waiting for tests. The needle-sticker guy was dandy though. Five humongous vials, he took. Home again to pick up the Punk, take him for his rabies shot, and out to the animal shelter to get his license so they don't send me a bill for major bucks like they did with Pickle. What can I say, live and learn. It was closed. I stopped for gas, and this annoying guy was tailgating me, pulled up beside me to tell me my gas tank was open. Red-faced about that. Home again to peruse Animal Shelter website to figure out how to get Punk official, at senior rate, sans penalty, and languish for a couple of hours before heading out
to Costco for prescription, TJs for milk. Found that my glasses had fallen out of my tiny purse, so back to the car to look for them, where I stepped on them and they were totally trashed. Luckily, I had just sold a painting, so I had $200 to get new ones. The day ended when Punk threw up in bed shortly after I turned off the light. Did I mention I put him down every night on a towel? Best thing that happened all day was that he was on it when he hurled. Puppy-motherhood. Not much different than infants, except that yesterday was the first time Punk got left home in the general population instead of his cell in the kitchen. And he did just fine.