Sore loser

May 10, 2013

Life is being alone in a group.

Have to dig deep where I am and not slip off elsewhere. To be clear in the moments of ankle throbs, angst regarding fiscal accountability, joy in the shenanigans of the silly playful dogs who insist on following me from room to room, cats that chase small pieces of plastic straws tiring of the game and tossing them into the yawning toilet bowl, horses who get excited about feeding time and canter around the ring and nibble at my head as they stop short of barreling into me.

The sunshine on my face is glorious as I await new tires and ever so grateful the frank mechanic explains the squeaking and churning noises that occur as I turn the vehicle. Time to turn inward as I read and visit the local Thrift Store waiting for my car to be serviced. Procured a pre-owned coffee table and set of eight drinking glasses today for my future multiple guests at the new residence. In need of far too many household goods to generate on a single list. Taelor isn’t a great fan of yard saling so I will have to solicit friends to go along.

I wonder how much the Auto Shop clerk will ring up on the till in the end. Since they don’t have any dishes to wash and I can only change oil, switch-out spark plugs in a pinch, flush and replace radiator fluid, complete a brake job with the owner’s manual and swap out wipers, I will have to cough up the dough!

Gracious indignation is a balance I tend to adjust and cater to. The consequence of gaping days ahead with little income give me the chance to create from absolutely nothing perched on my bouncy bed, lawn stool, director’s chair, loveseat, swivel office throne, park bench or the wood floor (though that is very difficult to stand up from.)  Have to remember to switch on the electricity and gas, fire up the internet, change addresses, do a run-through for the washer/dryer and remind my daughter just how good she is at driving a five speed! Though Taelor is used to a wagon and a manual transmission, she should be able to adjust easily to an SUV for the time being. In the future I may have to sell the bulky car and swap-out for a (gulp) automatic, depends upon how my foot is healing after 10 weeks time.

Plunging into last minute instructions-shaving my leg, scrubbing down several layers of skin, removing any trace of nail polish and embarrassing toe jam. Though I am certain the surgeon has seen it all, I don’t aim to be the one to make him or the nurses gossip after check-out. The nurse who phoned to give me the third degree, ask twenty questions and spell-out directives was pleasant and cheerful, who wouldn’t be since she is not the patient going under the knife?