Late in the day on our anniversary I asked Gary if he had truly forgotten, or if he was just waiting to see if I had forgotten. He was so immediately so wracked with guilt he bought me three pairs of gardening gloves.
These come with claws on the left or right hand, so he bought me two pair so I should have one plain pair and one fully-clawed pair.
I don’t know how far those claws will go in our clay, but it’s a nice thought.
These rose suede garden gloves with rose embroidery on each gauntlet were perplexing at first. How am I to scrabble in the clay with suede gloves? He then explained they were specifically for when I go out to the rose garden and I want to protect my arms as I clip the individual long-stemmed roses.
It’s a lovely thought. I mean, we don’t have roses, anywhere, at all, but it is nice that he sees me as both the gardener clawing at the dirt and the duchess gathering the roses.
My mammogram and bone density test went almost perfectly. Instead of feeling the usual pancaked bosom sensation, my breasts were impervious to pain. (Bwhahah, lifts breasts victoriously to the heavens.)
The mammogram showed no lumps or irregularities. The diagnosis by the lady doctor was: “Breasts hurt sometimes.” I accept this diagnosis. All in all, a good report, though the mammogrammer commented on the number of bruises I have. That will be resolved by the thyroid test later in July.
My bone density? Hard to say. I am above average for a woman of my age. Technically it says “[you are] 0.9 standard deviations above the mean of the average bone mineral density for age- and gender-matched subjects,” and I am utterly unable to do that math so I stopped reading at “above average.”
My spine is fine, my hips aren’t as good as my spine but okay, and my left femoral neck is not on board with the rest of the bones: “left femoral neck is mildly decreased.”
I was rubbing my neck to see I could feel anything while I looked up left femoral neck. Not what I expected.
I can see why that would fracture. Looks delicate.
After I waded through all the all the standard deviations and the oddly-placed leg necks I found some text that put my situation in plain terms: I have a less than one percent chance of breaking my hip in the next ten years. There’s an 8% chance of breaking something else, though.
Things went south there. I was trying to cut back on the contrast. Should have stopped. I liked the contrast. But you know, I was able to glaze the peonies, maybe I can take one more shot at correcting this. Maybe if I scumble white on parts and correct the angle of the waves.
[I literally scrape off paint and add more paint.] Well now it looks like this. I am stopping.
So, now I have turned on representing things in books, and now I plan to do one alla prima birdbath that represent the photos I have taken of my birdbath at various times of day, ala Monet. I’m going to make a template so they all are exact but for the colors.
I was under the impression that I had seen Sabrina starring Humphrey Bogart, Audrey Hepburn, and an oddly blonde William Holden.
I thought I had seen enough scenes piecemeal to put together the plot, and Gary thought he had as well, and evidently we had never seen a bit of this movie. I mean, what we did actually know, “Love triangle with men too old to be in a love triangle with Audrey Hepburn” still held up, but the comedy element was a surprise. Also the plodding in the second half was a surprise.
The final surprise? Audrey Hepburn had huge feet.
Gary has a nice quality in that he sees a beautiful model or actress and checks out any supplemental body part he might criticize. The more lovely the woman, the more criticism he gives her earlobes or elbows or lower teeth.
So every time Hepburn looked particularly head to toe luminous, Gary would shriek “MY GOD LOOK AT HER FEET THEY ARE BOATS GOOD LORD.”
(Car shown for scale.)
I think of her as petite - imagine being petite with giant feet. WikiFeet puts her at 10 and a half shoe size.
Only giant in proportion to how tiny she is - but yes, not International Toe Porn Superstar quality feet. Poor thing.
Flag day was yesterday. And, it was also our 35th wedding anniversary. The coral anniversary.
Gary entirely forgot, which delights me. He had Facebook to remind him, and Alexa told him the exact date, but he never caught on.
I don’t know why I love it when he forgets. It’s not just that I feel superior (which I do). It’s more that I am glad he doesn’t feel our 35 years of marriage is an “accomplishment.” Accomplishments are hard.
Another nice thing happened on our anniversary. Last Friday Gary asked me to find our marriage certificate and it is nowhere in this house. Thankfully, today the state emailed me that they do have proof of our marriage, and they will be sending it here in 3-5 days, so I will not be starring in my own personal remake of some Doris Day movie where a couple realizes they aren’t really married.
So far I have known three people who caught the virus. One didn’t even have symptoms, one had every symptom but recovered, one is still suffering. And now, I know someone who died.
Not a close friend, but a popular, healthy, middle-aged co-worker in another department, and people are reeling. I was scheduled to have a meeting with her and five others last Monday, and I just … mentioned it obliquely and then we went on with the work.
Whenever someone mentions her death, I have that instinct to ask “why”- as in “why her?” and implied in that is “what did she do wrong?” And of course she did nothing wrong, I am sure.
Remarkable though that it’s been over a year and people are still dying. Not over yet.
I read last week that the government found itself with a surplus of Johnson and Johnson vaccine. Evidently interest in the J&J vaccine dropped after that blood clot scare, and they were left with too much vaccine that was due to expire.
I’ll take your scraps, I thought at the time, just pass it my way. I could use a booster. I would be happy to be hooked up to an IV drip of vaccine and they could keep measuring my antibodies until I ding and I’m done.
Evidently the Powers That Be sniffed the vaccine and decided it would still be good for another month or so, so that’s fine. I’m happy enough here at home. If I’m not out next March I might lose it a little.
I was heating up some Chicken Parmesan for lunch, and as always I thought, “Chicken Par-MEEE-zhun” as that is how we pronounced it in my youth, and it occurred to me that the mis-pronunciation of Italian food names might be a way to highlight my heroine’s adjustment to her new environment. I’d been trying to think of slang she wouldn’t know but pronunciation’s less jarring.
And then various characters weighed in on pronunciation and that was a whole scene, and then one of the ladies made a snide remark about oil workers and that was another scene.
And then it wrote it down on the refrigerator whiteboard and it all stopped, damn it. Do real writers just have these episodes all the time?
I was excited when someone told me they now have Roundup weed killer in gel form. This is perfect for my bed of ground cover transplanted from Moms that is now overrun with chameleon plant.
Every year I pull up the invasive chameleon plant and it pops right back up, as if severing the root grid makes two more. It’s enmeshed with Mom’s good transplanted ground cover. Every other leaf is good and the next is evil. And of course, I can’t spray accurately enough to kill only the evil ones.
Supposedly, i can apply this gel to the offending plant leaves and skip the virtuous leaves.
Someone is going to mistake it for jumbo size extra strength men’s deodorant. You peel off the foil on top just like deodorant. Then they will apply it to their armpits and get cancer.
This is a really bad packaging idea. Hope it works on the chameleon plant.
This week the pansy got an extra dose of brown to calm everything down. So it went from this:
… to this:
The proportions are wrong, per usual, but that’s a little closer to this:
The cliffs went from this:
… to this:
I like my cliffs better than the one in the book. And frankly, I have begun to notice little inconsistencies in the book - it seems almost as if they correct things from step to step and they do not cop to it.
There’s been a vague pain on my left, ambling between my left armpit and left underboob, kicking tender parts and complaining when I rub it looking for lumps.
I had to get a mammogram anyway. I called, and after I scheduled one for the end of the week, I remembered I needed to get a bone density test because I am just that f-ing old. The re-scheduler asked why I’d decided to get a mammogram anyway.
Did I say “Because it’s been two years” and leave it? No I did not. I said, “Because it’s been two years and my left armpit started to hurt.”
And thus my simple in-and-squish-and-squish-and-out mammogram morphed into a diagnostic mammogram requiring an extra doctor’s visit.
Of course, nothing hurt anymore when I walked into the exam room. Then he added a little elbow grease during the breast exam and I squawked.
“Ack! Sorry. Sorry I yelled. That did not feel good.”
Which was a WEIRD thing to say, because it suggests I thought it felt good up to that point, and I was in that mid-breast exam social situation in which one don’t make eye contact with one’s doctor while he’s kneading one’s bosom anyway. Awkward.
He found no lumps, but he also found no muscle strains, so I’m approved for a diagnostic squish in a week and a half. I’m also signed up for the bone density scan on the same day, which I am sure will “feel good.”
Well, I’ve gotten the heroine in trouble and I’m very vague in how to get her out, so that’s what I worked on this week. No actual sentences, just brainstorming how she survives on her own after her husband flakes on her.
I’m not even punctuating / just putting slashes between thoughts / the woman has no skills / go back and give her skills / cheating / is sewing a skill? / too curtains
(“Too curtains” is “too much like Scarlett O’Hara sewing her way out of her Tara Tax crisis.”)
The most recent brainstorming had her sleeping on the train until I researched 1930’s train fares and realized that would be too expensive. If I have her sew for money how would that work? She could borrow a needle, but where would she get the thread? Could she dismantle the warp and woof of some fabric to get thread?
It amazes me how this is still hard even though I control everything in this universe. I keep going down Coincidence Road (she finds a needle in the gutter!) and then I write “/cheating/”.
I was discussing this with Friend Anne, and she immediately suggested a perfect resolution, perfect from a metaphor point of view and perfect in its realism. Not only that, it’s one of my favorite things to do: debugging. So now the Heroine can fix broken things. There’s already a radio in the plot, so now I have to research how hard it is to fix a radio, and maybe a treadle sewing machine, or any other 1930s technology.