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.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
Reimagined Punkin, reimagined life, sigh...
Well, it was time. Punk got shorn because I noticed little mats balling up here and there that no amount of brushing were going to eliminate. And cowwoman got antidepressants for the same reason. Have not even been painting, much less cleaning up the yard of shame or decluttering the house. Inert, that's me. Oh, and THERAPY, too. No use just covering up the mess. And what a delight that is. First question: what exactly is being covered up? Well, let's just cut to the chase, guy. The road to happiness is full of detours and pitfalls. Punkin was here to be my guardrail. When he was little, life was all about the PUPPY. It rained a lot. The routine was take the puppy out, dry the puppy off, feed the puppy, repeat. In between it was WHERE'S THE PUPPY! Now he goes in and out and eats whenever all by his little self. And he is still worth watching, especially if I want to know where my other shoe could be, which is usually on the back psuedo-lawn. So, a new journey for the cowwoman. This has been a recurring theme in my life, probably because I have great coping skills as well as a high threshold for pain of any kind. I can suffer along just magnificently. NOT. ANY. MORE.