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When You Live in the Sticks…

..things like this happen..

All.The.Time.

It was about 8:00 in the morning, a sunny day in 1985.

All the kids were at school, except our one-yr. old. She was busily applying oatmeal to her head as I washed dishes.

Suddenly, I heard the most God-awful yelling and cursing coming from the house across the street.

You see, while we lived in the sticks we shared stick-age with several other homes in close proximity. Each of us had a half-acre of land and the entire community was surrounded by cows, and cow shit.

A highlight of our day was watching the crop-dusting planes spray the cow-shit fields; their bright colors zooming by gave the kids a thrill and the chemical exposure probably explains a lot of later behaviors.

I don’t know, for sure, no one from Dipshit Chemical Corp. has ever knocked on my door with a survey, I’m just speculating.

 But, I digress.

After hearing the commotion I ran to the front door, quickly checking to ensure the baby had plenty of oatmeal, and walked outside.

Across the street from me, prone on the ground and gesturing wildly under her car, was my 60-something year old neighbor *Flo.

“It’s a goddamn rattlesnake, I tell ya!”

From inside the house I hear her son, *Bubba, yell, “I’ll git it mama!”

Bubba bursts through the screen door, shotgun in hand.

He walks around to the opposite side of the car from where Flo is lying and gets down on the ground for a better look.

He shoves the shotgun under the car.

The business end of the gun is now facing the snake.

And mama.

 “I’ll get it mama. Just don’t move.”

Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot.

“HEY!!!” I yell.

“What?” Flo yells back, still lying on the ground.

“Did you plan on having Bubba shoot your face off this morning?”

 Flo stands up, Bubba stands up.

They stare at one another across the roof of the car.

The snake, sensing the opportunity, slithers away and into the field.

“You were just gonna pull that trigger, weren’t you?” Flo asks angrily.

 “No mama, I’d of waited for ya to move.”

“Then why didn’t you say anything? I swear boy you’re dumber than a box of rocks…”

 The argument continued on as they walked back into the house, Flo insisting Bubba was an idjit and Bubba insisting Flo was being unfair.

Frankly, I think they both got whooped with a stupid branch at a very young age.

I walked back into the house where the baby was wearing her now-empty oatmeal bowl proudly atop her head.

I made a mental note to hide the firearms as she got older.

 

*Flo and *Bubba – not their names, but does it matter?

I’m A Little T-Vexed…

I decided to write a little about the searches that bring you wacky folks to my site.

That is, if a search brought you here.

If you just stumbled in, on your own, well then feel free to poke around the site and enjoy yourself.

If you like what you read invite your friends.  If you don’t like what you read invite your enemies.

The single term that drives people here seems to be “t-rex”.  Although, it has many iterations, like “t-rex short arms”, “I’m a t-rex head”, and the like.

I must admit that I was stopped in my tracks by this search string, though:

“t rex ding a push up enema”

I..just…umm…I reeeeeeeallly don’t want to know why someone would search such a thing.

But, I can speculate – in my own twisted way.

The obvious, of course, is that someone’s t-rex is constipated and doing (or “ding” if you prefer) push-ups hasn’t helped.

Or…during the administering of an enema, the t-rex in question started doing push-ups.

Or…someone used a t-rex as an enema.  This would clearly fall under the I-have-no-idea-what-I’m-doing category..if I had one.  It would also hurt like hell, and I seriously doubt it would yield the desired result, unless having a dinosaur shoved up your ass is your idea of fun…or works better than a traditional enema.  Either way  I don’t want to know any of the details.

I don’t think this t-rex approves of your searches.

 

My Long Lost Friend – Stephanie Rose

Sent me a very revealing e-mail:

******** was the exact link my cousin showed me after i spilled my faults out to my family. I swear since the last time we talked, i was doing bad, now im making over 30 bucks a hour, all on my own time. Thought you should give it a read and check it.

I left out the hyperlink she attached, she is after all a very dear friend and I didn’t want to, you know, embarass her or anything.

Never mind that I’d never heard of “Stephanie Rose”, it was apparent that at some point we were friends and then she fell on hard times and I….I….I wasn’t there for her…sigh…

I’m obviously a terrible friend and yet here she was reaching out to me and offering me this awesome opportunity.

So, I answered her back:

Dearest Stephanie,

You’re right! It has been ages since we spoke and I must say that though I didn’t know you had fallen on hard times – I know, I’m a terrible bestie – I’m very happy to see you’ve gotten your shit together at last.  If I remember correctly, you never were very bright so I’m not really all that surprised to hear about this.  In fact, Miss Stephanie, aren’t you the one I caught naked..in the back seat of my boyfriend’s car at prom?  Yes, yes…it was you.  Where, exactly did you say you live now?  How about a phone number, too?

Hugs,

Your bestest friend 

I am awaiting her reply, and yet something tells me I won’t be hearing from my best friend “Stephanie” anytime soon. 

Mom 911!!!!!!

That was the text message that I got last week from my oldest daughter.  My first thought was…

Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot

I began to dial her number when I got the second text…

“I’m at daughter’s school and we are on lockdown. I’m terrified, what do I do?”

Holy shit.

This is not what you think you’ll hear when all your daughter was doing was having a simple little teacher conference regarding your six year old granddaughter.

It’s just not.

I begin checking every radio station, every local news website and finding…

Nothing.

Maybe the authorities were keeping it hush-hush. 

Maybe there’s someone in the school, armed and dangerous.

Maybe some disgruntled ex-employee/spouse/significant other is loose in the school, ready to exact revenge by killing a bunch of kids and teachers (and random parents just there for a simple conference).

And, the thoughts went downhill from there.

I picture this guy, going room to room looking for random victims

I send her texts…

“Can’t find anything on the news.”  “What’s happening?” “Are you okay?”

I get no responses…the mind reels.

My other daughter (Baby Girl) calls, she’s frantic as her sister has also texted her and is trying to get a message to her husband.  My baby girl is near tears.  Her big sister is in danger and there’s nothing she can do.  “Mom, I’ll get a hold of her husband.  It’ll give me something to do.”

Baby Girl is pregnant and already emotional enough.  Now, she’s near panic.

“Okay, honey…I’ll see if I can find out anything.”

I send my hubby a text and tell him what’s going on.

No sooner do I send it than my oldest daughter texts me again.

“OMG! It was a DRILL!!!!!!!!!!”

I laugh, nervously and my phone rings.  It’s hubby and he’s alarmed. I quickly explain it was a drill.  He’s confused and so am I. 

Didn’t anyone get the memo there’d be a drill?

Apparently not, which is what I found out later that day when oldest daughter called me.

Daughter:  Oh my God, Mom! It was so scary! The principal comes on the intercom and says the school is on lockdown.  I was in the classroom with daughter’s class and her teacher turned off the light and locked the door and then we were all supposed to be very quiet.  Mom, these kids are 6 years old! Do you know how hard it is for them to be quiet? 

Me: (chuckling nervously, I’m still rattled) Uh..yeah.   I heard you were trying to get ahold of your younger brother during all this.  Why? You do know that if there is a real lockdown no one can get near the school, right?

Daughter: Yeah, but he has GUNS Mom!

Me: (this time I laugh out loud at my bleeding heart liberal daughter – politically we are polar opposites) Oh…so NOW you want guns, do you?

Daughter: Hell yes! And, it gets worse, Mom.  I was remarkably calm the whole time, which for me is a minor miracle you know, and all I could think of was how I needed a knife or something.

Me: For protection, it’s only natural.  I’m guessing that since no one was notified of this “drill” that the object was to find out how the staff and students would react in a perceived real emergency.

Daughter: I guess so, but Mom there were fully half the teachers and students in complete meltdown afterwards.  I was a little shell-shocked but really I’m fine.  And surprised.  I didn’t know I’d react so calmly, especially since I freak out at the littlest things.

Me: Well, maybe it’s the big things you are prepared for because your children are depending on you.

Daughter: Yeah, I just kept thinking about them.  I had younger son with me, too, and I kept asking teacher if she had a knife or something.  Apparently, dangerous situations make me all stabbity.

Me: (laughing really hard now) My new motto – “Warning: Danger makes me stabbity and I decide what’s dangerous”

Oooh…I am totally getting her this t-shirt for Christmas.  Totally.

Guess What? No, Really…Guess What?

…umm…nothin…

I was perusing pictures of posts, mostly so I could use the word “perusing”, when I came across this one:

 

I burn VERY easily, I’m tellin’ ya!
I have no idea what this is all about, but suspect it’s some kind of “art” I will never understand.
 
So, you tell me…what the flippity-flop is going on here?
 
 
 
 

There I Was Minding My Own Business…

….when I called hubby from the Big Box Home Improvement store to ask him a few questions about the list of nail-thingys and other fixy-thingys he asked me to pick up.

Do you realize there’s like a hundred gozillion different sizes of nails?

And the types?  Fuhgeddaboudit!

He wasn’t answering the phone.  That was odd.

Odd and irritating.

I was, after all, doing him a favor by getting those nail-thingys so the least he could do was answer his phone when I tried calling.

I had questions.  Lots of questions.

Finally, I found what I thought were the right thingys and went home.

I walked in the front door, ready to yell at him for not answering the phone when I saw that he was standing at the kitchen sink, muttering under his breath and furiously scrubbing his hands.

“What happened?”

“I can’t get this stuff off me!”

“What ‘stuff’ are you talking about?”

“The de-greaser,” he said and nodded in the direction of the garage where he’d been cleaning the floor with some type of solvent.

I went out there and picked up the jug of cleaner and began reading the label.

By the time I got back in the house my hands were shaking and I was sweating.

“Did you even read the label?!”

“No, but I’ve used it before.”

‘This?” I said holding the jug up in front of him as he continued to wash his hands.

“Well, no, not that, but something like that.”

I rubbed my brow.

“Honey, it says if you get this on your skin you should SEEK IMMEDIATE MEDICAL ATTENTION!”

“Now you’re just trying to scare me.”

I shoved the jug in his face, “Here, YOU read it.”

He kept scrubbing his hands.

“Were you wearing gloves?”

“No.”

“Did you splash it on you or…..”

“No, I used a brush to clean the floor with it and then I was sopping up the excess with a sponge and wringing the sponge out in the bucket.”

“WITH YOUR BARE HANDS???”

“Yes.”

Hubby stopped scrubbing and dried his hands.

“They’re sticky feeling…before, they were slimy.”

They were also shiny, red, and the tips of the fingers on his right hand were blistering and peeling. 

I grabbed the phone and dialed Poison Control.  The helpful “Medical Professional” on the other end strongly urged us to go to the ER…like five minutes ago.

I dragged hubby to the ER, the whole way there he’s marveling at his now stinging/burning/hurting red hands and muttering, “..they should put better warnings on the label….done this before….if I’d of just used gasoline, like when I was a kid….”

Me, I’m breaking every speed limit on the way – and where is a cop when you need one?? – and telling him that he’s just acid-washed his hands and we’ve got to neutralize the acid to stop the burning process.

The ER was another voyage to the strange and weird.

He saw three nurses before the doctor.

You know what EVERY ONE of them asked?

Two things – What did poison control tell you to do? Uh..come here, dumbass. Okay, I didn’t actually call him a “dumbass” but I wanted to.

…and…the other thing they asked?

What do you expect us to do?

I swear, visions of tackling and pummeling the entire ER staff did dance in my head for a few seconds before I managed to gain my composure and…

….stare, blankly, at the idiot nurse who had asked the question.

Maybe my “blank” stare translates to “murderous-daggers-and-flame-from-eyeballs” stare on the receiving end, because she turned pale and retreated backwards out the door and said the doctor would be right in.

The doctor knew what to do.  Thank God.  He has no idea how close he came.

Oddly enough, the solution is to neutralize the acid with a base (this I knew) but the coolest/strangest part is the base they use is something called “GoLightly”.

If you’ve ever had a colonoscopy, and who doesn’t love a good colonoscopy, right?  Anyway, if you’ve ever had one you will recognize the name.  It’s the stuff you drink to clear the plumbing prior to the big day.

Hubby had to soak his hands in this solution for twenty minutes.  Then they slathered this silver-based cream on his hands and wrapped them in gauze.

He looked like he was wearing mittens.

The next day we had to soak his hands again and since they felt so much better there was no need to slather on the cream (which, we were told, would turn his hands a lovely and permanent tan color – it didn’t though) or re-apply the mittens. 

His hands are still shiny – a result of stripping the epidermis and leaving the dermis exposed, much like the chemical peels women pay a fortune for at high-end salons – and the tips are kinda raw and sore.  They are also swollen, but all in all he’s much better.

It coulda been a LOT worse.

So, after the ordeal I asked my husband one question.

“So, what did we learn from this?”

To which he replied,

“Next time, use gasoline.”

Oops…

 

…..I forgot about a post today…

No, wait…come back!

I have a really good reason.

I’ll explain tomorrow. 

Meanwhile – a post is provided herein for you to discuss/marvel over/roll eyes at:

That’s the prettiest damned lamp post I have ever seen.

So, Here’s the Deal

I have no clue what to write about.

Apparently, I’ve busted a few things – like my sarcasm button and my give-a-damn lever.

Sigh…some days/weeks/months are like this, ya know?

So, anyway, I just clicked “Add New” and decided to start writing.

See what happens, right?

Wanna come along for the ride? 

Strap yourselves in and keep your hands and legs inside the vehicle at all times. The crazy train takes many a twist, turn and dive.

It’s Friday here…and probably where you are, unless you are in Nepal and then I’ve given up trying to figure out what day it is there.

I’ve got a friend in Afghanistan right now. Don’t know where, or more importantly how, he is at the moment.  I also can’t imagine how tough it must be on his wife and kids. 

Finally got a break in the heat.  It’s only going to get up in the 80’s here today.  Now if it would only rain…..

I saw a very peculiar ad on Facebook yesterday. It was for “Holy Clothing”…something about being tired of boring choir robes and how they make snazzy ones.  Unfortunately, I clicked to the Home page and the ad disappeared.  I’m rather intrigued, though, and may go back and try to find it.  Might make a funny blog entry.

My cat is weird.

He keeps eating the plastic leaves on my fake plants and then puking on the carpet.

Why is he eating plastic leaves when there are plenty of real leaves he can eat and puke up on the carpet later?

Must be a matter of taste.

I don’t have a five-foot metal chicken, like Beyonce, but I did see one at a flea market.  He wasn’t named Beyonce, either.  He didn’t have a name at all.  He looked rather sad and lonely.  Probably because no one thought to give him a name.

I’m pretty anti-social.  I just realized how anti-social when I found out a huge quarterly meeting, originally scheduled for another site, has been moved to my location.

My first thought?

Damn…people…lots of them, and then I have to smile and be nice and be all like…”So good to see you!” and “Welcome to Texas!”

Blech.

They’re not bad people.  Not at all. Some, in fact, are quite personable.

It’s me..or maybe it’s them.

I’m gonna go with…them, definitely them.

Mental leapfrog.

I haz a bad case of it.

Tech Support, Ken and Barbie Style

It had become necessary to drag ourselves into the 21st century, computer-wise, and get wi-fi connectivity installed.

 We had, up to that point, done very well with an old DSL modem but nooooo we have to go wi-fi like the other cool kids.

 I called our service provider, and within a matter of minutes I had a 5-port router/modem on its way to my house.

 It arrived the next day, and imagine my joy when I opened the box to find the modem and a four-step process for setting it up.

 Four steps? Really? Why I’d be cruising the ‘Net from every room in my house in no time at all.

 Riiiiiiiight.

 I didn’t have any issues hooking up the hardware, but when I opened the browser (as instructed) to install the modem I kept hitting the same brick wall.

“No PPP login”, the screen said, accusingly.

I went through all the troubleshooting steps to no avail. I did it again and again, still nothing.

I dreaded it, but I knew what I had to do next.

 I had to call the 800-number and talk to…..(que “Twilight Zone” theme)….….tech support.

 The wait time for my call was 8 minutes.  During this time I kept hearing ways to prevent viruses, keep my kids safe online, and how most technical issues could be resolved by going to the carrier’s website and clicking on their link for a live chat tech support session – which after the elebenty-hundredth time I’d heard it sent me into fits of giggles, because if you are unable to connect to the Internet, how are you supposed to initiate this miraculous cure-all chat option?

 I guess what happened next was a combination of the endless hold/wait loop of messages, and my naturally skewed view of the world.

 Herewith I give you my conversation with tech support:

 Tech: Hello, dis is Ken.  Tank you ver cawling (company name) tech suppawt. May I halve you name, pweeze?

 Me: Hi Ken, I’m Barbie.

 Tech: Hello, Bawbie, how may I hap hew?

 And that is the last clear communication we had. From this point on “Ken” sounded like he was in the bottom of a well, fighting tigers, water pouring down over him, while a string quartet played in the background.  

 Tech: Okay, you half burch-smelt wiff doss upchaw?

 Me: I have a WHAT?

 Tech: You half burch-smelt wiff doss upchaw.

 Me: Umm…okay.

 Tech: Good.   (Great, I have something and apparently it’s good…too bad I have no idea what it is)

 Tech: Now, type in famiss-brocks dis…

 Me: Do WHAT?

 Tech: Speaker-foam?

 Me: Speakers?

 Tech: You halve speaker-foam?

 Me: Speaker phone? Yes, but you are not on speaker phone.

 Tech: Take off speaker-foam, pweeze.

 Me: You are NOT on a speaker phone.

 Tech: Okay, type in famiss-brocks dis…

 Me: I’m having a VERY hard time understanding………

 Tech: That’s bee-crawz you half speaker-foam!! Take off speaker-foam!

 Me: YOU ARE NOT ON A SPEAKER PHONE!!

 This went on for twenty-minutes, but through fits and starts I got the instructions I needed to set up the new service, even though “Ken” kept insisting he was on “speaker-foam” until I finally asked if he could hear me alright and when he said “Yes” then I told him that the problem was on his end.  Of course, by then I was having a difficult time hearing anything he said between fits of giggles.

 We tried and tried to get the service set up, but never could get it to work.

 Finally, after about thirty minutes “Ken” decided he’d had enough.

 Tech: It appeawas you half bilge-dip provost kook.

 Me: Is that a bad thing? (By now, I’d given up trying to understand individual words and was listening for key words like “not working” “no service” “do you want eggroll with that?”)

 Tech: Well, you swould twy back tomowwow.

 Me:  Because?

 Tech: You sewvice, is bilge-dip.

 Me: Wow…um…okay, thanks Ken.  Good-bye.

 Tech: Thank hew foh choosing (company name).

 I hung up the phone and laughed till I cried.  My husband popped his head into the office and said, “Any luck?”

 “Well, either we have to try again tomorrow or there’s going to be a rather large delivery of Chinese food to the house in about 20 minutes.  Could be either one, honey.”

 He laughed, I laughed, and oh yeah…four days later and I still didn’t have wi-fi despite repeated calls to tech support.

Eventually, they sent someone to the house and he figured out the problem in about thirty seconds.  It had to do with the modem configuration and was something that could only be resolved by a tech on site. 

At least, when he left I understood what had gone wrong and we were up and running with the wi-fi.

Yeah, and the bilge-dip never did show up again.  Thank goodness, right?

In Which I Am Terrorized By A German

My appointment, with a massage therapist, was for 12:30 and since I’d never been to the place I decided to leave early. It was really easy to find and I arrived a few minutes early. 

 The massage therapist, let’s call her “Kiki”, came out of her room and introduced herself.  She was quite delightful and had just a hint of a German accent.  

 She handed me a clipboard and asked me to fill out the information requested.  Once that was done I could come into her room and get started.

 I glanced at the clipboard as the door shut behind her.

Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot? 

 I was looking at the same type of questionnaire one receives when going to a doctor.   There was the front/back human with a “Where do you hurt?” and then the myriad of personal medical questions.  I ignored most of them and made it clear I have fibromyalgia. 

 (A quick trip to fibro-land…if you don’t know what fibromyalgia is, I’m not the one to educate you.  However, I can tell you that while a hand stroke across sore muscles is soothing and feels terrific, poking with fingers/knuckles/hot stones across those same muscles is excruciatingly painful)

 I entered the room and she told me to sit down while she reviewed my information.  I looked around the room and thought if I didn’t know better I’d think she was a doctor and I the patient. 

 Except for the really soothing music, dim lights, steam and the awesome-looking massage table that took up most of the available space in the room.

 Kiki:  So, tell me about your back problems.

 Me:  Well, I have four ruptured discs in my lower back and three in my neck.

 Kiki: (eyes widening) Wow! How’d that happen?

 Me: Five car accidents and one horse accident. (I then proceed to tell her about the car accidents and the horse…you know, the Reader’s Digest version)

 Now, things start to get weird.

 Kiki:  You know, my father always told me to be careful when driving.  To not trust the other drivers and to leave myself an out.

 Me: Yeah, me too.  Thing is, NONE of these accidents were my fault and, in fact, I never even saw the other car in three of them.  (chuckling) Nope, I just seem to have a bull’s eye painted on me.

 Kiki: (raises eyebrow) Well, you shouldn’t follow too closely…blah, blah…

 At this point I’m getting pissed.  I’m not here for Kiki’s views on driving or anything else.  I’m here for a massage!

 Me: Yes…um…am I to change into one of those? (pointing to some robes hanging on the wall in an attempt to steer her back on course)

 Kiki: No, those are if you have to tinkle during the massage.

 Me: (tinkle? really?)How long does it last?

 Kiki: An hour.

 Me: Oh, I should be fine then.

 Kiki: Go ahead and take off your clothes, I’ll step out, and then lie face down on the table.  Just call me when you are ready.

 I got undressed and lay down on the table.  I called her name and she re-entered the room.

 For the next 15 minutes I had the most wonderful massage experience I’ve had in a long time.  She was a little thing, but her hands were strong.  

 I guess she’s used to clients who chatter, so finally she broke the silence.

 Kiki:  How many children do you have?

 Me: Four and six grandchildren.

 Kiki:  I have four as well.

 Me: That’s nice.

 I fell silent hoping she’d take the hint…sigh, no such luck.

 Kiki:  Yes, I have four boys and two girls.

 Huh? That’s six….

 Kiki:  And, I’m a doctor.  That’s why I take an in-depth medical study. Of course I only work two days a week, the rest of the time I do this.  My specialty is high-risk pregnancies and I do preemie massage.

 Whiskey.Tango.Foxtrot?

A doctor?  Highly skeptical I mumble something about how interesting that is.

 Kiki:  Yes, I come from Europe and let me ask you something.  What do you have for breakfast?

 Me: Wha..?

 Kiki: Typically, what do you eat for breakfast?

 I tell her, but mid-way through she stops me…

 Kiki: No, no…you must not eat anything microwaveable because you know ‘they’ just paid millions of dollars in a suit because rats exposed and people exposed to high levels of the preservatives they have to spray on the foods before they put the plastic over it..it caused cancer in all these people.

 I’ve slipped into the seventh circle of hell and am being held hostage by a crazed masseuse, bent on educating me as to every conspiracy theory the Internet has to offer.

Me: Wow…

 Kiki:  It’s true, my one son he’s working for the government of Spain and he has to get a letter from the FBI that says he’s okay…you know, because it’s the government.

 I’m still on spray-on toxins and don’t respond.  Please, God, just let her finish the massage…which, by the way was beginning to hurt as she poked me with her fingers.

 Me: You know that is painful.

 Kiki: I know.

 Me:  The fibro…

 Kiki: I know

 She presses harder.

 Kiki: You are all inflammation and your back is knotted up.

 Me: (whimpering) I know.

 Finally, she stops poking and goes back to rubbing the muscles in my back and legs.

 Kiki:  So, my husband and I we met in Germany. I went to elementary school in Australia and middle school in Ireland.  In high school, where I met my husband, I was in England.

 I’ve given up trying to keep track at this point and really, isn’t my hour up yet?

 Kiki: For most people a massage is a luxury, but for people like you – with fibro – it’s a necessity.

 Me: Yes, that’s true.

 Kiki: So, if you decide to come every month I will only charge you $50.  Because it is not a luxury.

 Me: Thank you.

 Kiki: You know, you need this, so for $45 that’s nearly half price.

 Math is obviously not her strong suit.  First she has four or six kids and now $45 is the new $50.

 Me: Thanks.

 Kiki: What is stress?

 Me: What?

 Kiki: What do you think stress is?

 Umm…having a massage by a crazed German?

 Me: I..well..

 Kiki:  I’ll tell you, it’s a poison that squirts from your brain.  Yes, it comes from the perpetuity gland.

 Perpetuity? Oh…she must mean pituitary…yes, she must have skipped ‘gland’ class in med school.

 Me: Um…

 Kiki: Yes and you can feel it.  Now the stuff I’m using on you now will get rid of the dead skin on your body so the nerves can retreat and the fibro can, you know, get better.

 Me: Mmmph…

 I was, by this time, seriously in danger of a full-blown fit of giggles and so I just buried my face in the towel and tried to shut her out.

 Kiki:  There! All done, and you know with the exfoliation most people pay $150 for that but it was my gift to you.

 Me: Thank you.

 Kiki: You get dressed and I will get you some herbal tea.

 Me: Okay.

 She leaves and I dress.  She comes back with the tea and it smells wonderfully of blackberries.

 Kiki:  What size pants do you wear, because you are not at all huge.  I have some clients who are over 600 lbs., but you have a lot of muscle.  I want you to write down everything you eat and what time and how much so next time you come we can discuss it. 

 Me: Uh…(seriously, I’m overweight but not by that much)

 Kiki:  Well, have a blessed day.

 As I left there I felt both extremely sore and relaxed.  I took the blackberry tea she gave me and after a sip, and mulling over the conversation we’d had,  promptly dumped  it down the nearest drain.

 When I got home I collapsed on the sofa, unable to move, and wondered if I’d ever get up again.

 An hour later I tried, and shrieking in pain, failed.  The cat jumped five feet in the air and ran to the next room where he watched me warily.

 I finally managed to roll off the couch and onto my hands and knees.  

 The cat, still shaken by the shrieking human from before, stood at the doorway and watched in wide-eyed alarm as I attempted to make it to my feet.

I finally succeeded, but since breathing was an exercise in extreme pain, I didn’t make it far before I decided the sofa was my best friend for the rest of the day.

By evening I could move a little better, and the next day although breathing was painful, I felt pretty good.

 One thing I know, for certain, is that I’m never going back there again. I don’t care if the new $50 is $45 and I’m in danger of being poisoned by my perpetuity gland every time I get stressed.

 The cat agrees.