Insult to Injury

All right. Enough of this sweetness & light that’s been hanging around here lately; folks are going to begin to think I’m not a real person! High time for good old “Gripe Session”; buckle your seat belts.

+   First of all, getting old bites. Yes, I will admit it- I am middle aged & I feel every one of those 45 years hanging on me. The symphony of crackles, creaks, grinding & groaning first thing in the morning rankles the nerves of everyone present; Poppy has taken to giving me dirty looks for disturbing her royal slumber & stalks off to sulk in the corner. The cold, wet weather has aggravated all the normally moderate aches & pains we live with- between my hands & Chris’ knees, we’re going through a bottle of ibuprofen (100 caps) a week.

+   I have been playing “Clothing Roulette” with my soon-to-be 17 year old son- you know, the one who is normally pretty easy going & malleable. Here’s how you play:

o       Mom does the laundry (drag downstairs, wash, & dry), then asks the boy to fold & put away the clean clothes.

o       The boy heaves enormous sigh of oppression, before stomping upstairs to get a basket, where he is promptly distracted by: (a) cell phone, (b) video game, (c) the patterns on the ceiling over his bed.

o       Mom notices an hour later that the clothes are still in the dryer, & reminds the boy- who is now sitting on the sofa watching TV- that the clothes still need to be folded & put away.

o       The boy rolls his eyes, mutters something resembling “If it bugs you so much, do it yourself”, stomps back upstairs for the basket he forgot earlier, & precedes to roll it down the stairs or drag it behind him- Thump-Thump-Thump

o       Thirty minutes later, Mom walks through the living room to see the empty laundry basket on the sofa & the boy sitting in the recliner, eating an orange & dropping the peel on the floor.

o       In reply to the query “Are the clothes put away yet?” the boy states he was hungry & he’ll do it when he’s done; having been told that he is done & pick up that blasted peel, the boy removes clothes from dryer & drops them on the floor- next to the basket- & begins rolling them in balls & tossing them into the basket, Michael Jordan style.

o       Mom comes back through the living room later & spots the basket of wadded clothing sitting on the sofa, instructs the boy- who is now practicing with his kendo sword right below the ceiling fan- to re-fold the clothes & take them upstairs.... now!

o       Dad now enters the game- he trips over the basket of clothing in the upstairs hallway & calls for the boy to finish what he was told to do

o       The boy deposits the basket of clothes on parents’ bed

o       Mom deposits the basket of clothes in front of boy’s bedroom door

o       The boy moves the basket of clothes back into the hallway to get through the door

o       Dad picks up the basket of clothes & dumps contents on the boy’s bed

o       The boy goes to bed, dropping the folded clothing on the floor

o       The next morning, Mom picks the clothes up off the floor, puts them back on the boy’s bed, & tells the boy to put them away before he leaves for school

o       The boy stashes the clothes on his closet floor, before bolting out the door for Driver’s Ed class

o       Mom goes in search of her socks & sees the clothes on the floor; since she is in her underwear, she can’t charge out the door after the boy, so she puts the clothes back on his bed, murmuring obsenities

o       In the evening, while boy is taking his second shower of the day, Mom flushes the toilet, & when boy leans out the stall door to yell at whoever did it, she grabs his earlobe, frog marches him- starkers & dripping- into his room, & watches while he puts the clothing away.

This game is played roughly once a week- I sincerely hope the boy’s brain cells start sparking again soon.

+   After six years of being clean-shaven, Chris has decided to grow one of those Vandyke beards. I don’t know why; he’s not normally one to follow the crowd (hence, the full head of hair in a community of shaved heads), so part of me is slightly apprehensive & the rest is just plain annoyed. Chris is a natural blond, with nary a grey hair on his head that I’ve been able to spot (blast his 46 year old hide); this new venture is sporting a calico flair- the mustache coming in a dark blond & the beard pure black, with two bright white stripes running down the chin- similar to a skunk’s markings. The current length & texture is that of a cheap nylon nail brush; forget whisker burn- I’m being punctured each evening during his lemon-sucking-lip-pucker jab my direction as he heads to bed. Yep- unfortunately, we are back to “ships passing in the night”- refer to #1 in this post ...*sigh*

+   I had to go back to the doctor on Friday. Not to worry- nothing serious & my foot is still feeling pretty good, all things considered. No, I’ve developed my first ever yeast infection.

In my armpit.

Yes, you read that correctly; apparently, the cortisone shot I had last month (also a first) suppressed my immune system enough for the ever-present fungus to blossom into full smelly, itchy, burning glory under both arms. Two weeks of no shaving or deodorant, & daily doses of Lama*sil- same stuff they use for j*ck-itch. Boy, am I a class act or what?

Well, that’s it for now; I have to put in some hours at my desk, preparing year-end reports & hopefully rack up some overtime hours; Chris has been put on 4-day weeks for the next month unless enough people leave (always a possibility on short hours) or bookings pick-up. The timing could not have been worse- we are scheduled to go on vacation in March & I’ve already purchased the non-refundable tickets; unless the tax return arrives promptly, we may be camping out in Washington, DC for Spring Break. Now that would be an adventure.