I lost my new book, "What's a (Dis)Organized Person To Do?" by Stacy Platt. I stuck it somewhere, but desperate to find it so I can be this organized person. Not that I ever was. When I wrote an article about clutterers for a magazine, I attended a 12 Step program for Clutterer's Anonymous as a spy for my article. I truly was anonymous, but I never got converted.
But that isn't whyI haven't blogged lately. I need my doctor to cut my mildly anti-depressive pill in half. I am much too calm and unexcitable. I need to get fired up about this crazy world through my slanted, slightly ironic perspective.
Meanwhile, In my calm, meditative state, I did domething stupid. My water aerobics pals AKA croc-o-dollies on dry land, had a tour of We/Olive shop in town and sampled tons of goodies. Each of us were given a small paper cup of olive oil to hold in our left hand. Then we were instructed to put the olive oil in our right hand and cup over it with our left hand. Taking it literally, I poured the olive oil right into the palm of my hand. Wrong! Everyone around me cracked up, and I was handed a tissue to wipe up the oil sloshing in the palm of my hand. Slightly embarrassed, I smoothed it over my arm like a skin softener, as if this was my intention all the while. My pals promised not to tell anyone. Yeah, right. Better to hear if from me.
Speaking of stitches, did I mention that I sliced my thumb with the top of a tuna can while pampering my pets, namely Murphy and Mitzi. Des, cozy in his jammies looked at the blood flowing, sighed, and drove me to the Urgent Care Center near our house to get stitches at 9 p.m. The nurse practioner on duty, stuck a needle the size of a saber full of lidocane into my thumb to numb the dumb thing. Don't try this at home.
Rambling right along, it seems that everyone is on the move these days among family and friends. Two grandsons moved, one onto the campus at Santa Cruz , California and another grandson in New York is sharing quarters with someone dear to his heart. A third grandson moved back home temporarily, but plans to tour the world someday. A granddaughter and her baby moved from New York to Washington state. A daughter moved from one end of Washington state to the other. And on and on.
Meanwhile, we have the same address since 1977. My husband plans his next move to a cemetery plot in Ripley, New York. Believe it or not, we have a gravesone already awaiting the grand arrival.
Which segues to what I label, The To Do List After I'm Gone. ATheoretically, that means me. Lately, Des has been giving advice after his hereafter. I am not to get a dog, because I would have to walk it. I should have a garden like the one we have now, producing scrumptious tomatoes. We both know this Chicago girl is not a farmer. I considered reminding him that, should I outlast him nursing homes would forbid indoor gardens. Not that I expect to be in one. I plan, instead, to stow awayv on cruise ships. Why else, would I be learning to speak Italian? I feel more advice any day now.
So Says Sassy
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