It was a long week.
As if the red biohazard incident were not enough fun, I also caught a summer cold or some sort of respiratory difficulty that may or may not be H1N1 that could possibly kill me.
The peak of said respiratory difficulty coincided with my monthly city council meeting (and I mean that literally... not as a euphemism for something else) during which I had a coughing episode that had people: 1) getting me water, 2) giving me cough drops, 3) giving me gum, 4) asking if I were going to be okay and 5) made me wonder if I was going to have to ask for them to stop the meeting for five minutes while I ran to the hospital and asked for a little green oxygen bottle.
Fortunately, the gum an old guy gave me was what did the trick. I'm sure the Clerk is going to have a nightmare time trying to type up the minutes of that meeting since I was sitting only one chair down from the tape recorder.
I also didn't eat for five days. Not eating is highly underrated. About Day Three or Four the euphoria sets in and for a couple of days the world looks like a whole new light and airy kind of place. Then the pizza cravings start. Can't. Resist. Pizza.
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During the week of poor health my mother had surgery to remove some skin cancer. So extensive was the event that she also had to have reconstructive surgery on her face including a skin graft and a strange moving around of parts that I didn't even think was possible. Remarkably she looks great. The surgeon was brilliant, skilled and looked really good in scrubs. All good vibes for her speedy healing will be graciously accepted. I dare not tell her I spilled the cancer beans or she will be angry with me for talking about her personal business.
But when has that ever stopped me, right?
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My mother informed me this week that my brother will no longer eat food prepared by other people. If it hasn't been cooked in his house or by him personally he will not eat it. Apparently, his many years of working in the food service industry has finally pushed him over the edge. He insists that if any of us eat in a restaurant we have a death wish and it's only a matter of time before something horrible happens to us.
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My oldest son came running up to me yelling, "Mom, there are men attacking our trees!" He was alarmed and nearly in a panic.
I ran to the window and, indeed, there were quite a few men in our yard attacking our trees. They were from the electric company and they were here for the periodic butchering of the foliage. We have four trees in our front yard, three of which are "volunteer" (meaning a bird pooped out a seed and a tree grew where it landed) and not particularly attractive. Especially the way the electric company keeps hacking away at it. The fourth is a very pretty Rose of Sharon.
I assured Julius not to be alarmed... that it was all perfectly normal. I realize later that the puzzled look on his face was him wondering what kind of world he lived in that it was perfectly fine that a whole bunch of men with orange hard hats would swarm over our front yard and start grinding our trees up in a big, noisy machine.
Three days later the three volunteers were hacked down by my husband because we could no longer stand to see the evidence of the massacre. The yard looks naked, but nicer.
Strangely, a house I have listed has a tree growing up through the floor of the porch. It's a gorgeous country farmhouse that's listed around $500K and yet the owner will not pay to have someone cut the tree out of the middle of his porch.
I keep trying to turn all this tree babble into some metaphor on life, but I'm just not smart enough. Feel free to take up my slack and offer your own philosophical musings.
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We own two guinea pigs now. I think this might have been a big mistake.
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Driving to day care the other day, Tristan sat very quietly in the back sipping a yogurt smoothie. When he finishes a drink, he has lately formed the habit of chucking it with all his might across the room, usually AT someone. That day was no exception and I felt something hit me in the back of the head, bounce off and fly end over end flinging yogurt around in the car, bounce off the steering wheel and land somewhere at Julius's feet.
My hair, my face and my shirt were spattered with yogurt smoothie. My first thought was it looked like something else completely inappropriate. My second thought was all this might be good for my complexion if it weren't so embarrassing.
My third thought was "Welcome to Motherhood."
How was your last seven days?