I have at least twenty itchy little red hills on my ass and thighs. I even have a nasty sting between my toes.
Must have been a helluva weekend.
We rarely sit out at night anymore, choosing instead to try to find anything on the tube that isn’t a re-run. Bruce Springsteen was right about 57 channels with nothing on. Summer television is a wasteland of reality shows, dance-a-thons, games shows in which producers are trying to kill people, and endless re-runs of The Big Bang Theory. It’s so bad that Rogers cable has introduced a new service for viewers — your cable box now lets you know when there is some “new” on with a scroll at the bottom of the screen.
Thank God for Gordon Ramsay.
And thank God, too, for my son Stef who has delivered me from the evil of mindless programming into the arms of Link. For my birthday, Stef bought me another Zelda game, which he says should take me sixty hours, but will no doubt take me until the rest of the summer to figure out — with a cheat app I bought on my IPhone for three dollars. Scott thinks it’s hilarious that a 55-year-old woman has become hooked on role-playing games. I just think they will take me into my dottery with my thinking skills still intact. I haven’t seen any recent studies about video games staving off Alzheimer’s or dementia, but I’m saying that if you can beat a Zelda game then you can cook and chew gum at the same time.
In any event, I’m loving my birthday gifts. Scott bought me a brand new laptop, which is sitting right below my nose and aiding and abetting my blogging habit. I can avoid the dreaded main frame which is currently being used for storing tax files, old invoices and the work that I have piling up.
I also got a Starbucks gift card from a friend which I believe is a sign that I should shift my drinking habit, move from the liquor store at the Elmvale shopping mall across the parking lot and get my latte on. Time to shake myself up a little, dry out and take myself down to the doctor’s office for the tests I’ve been avoiding since last November. Not that there’s anything wrong. I just need to have the usual blood, urine and backside tests that everyone else has.
Avoiding the tests has been my way of putting off getting stuck in our universally bad health care system, which inevitably means being told I have something wrong but being unable to get whatever it is fixed before I die of old age.
Alas, I’m heading down the other end of the slide rule of life and must now be held to account for my bad behavior over the years.
I’m taking a couple of well deserved days off from the gymnasty to let all the welts heal on my ass from all the revelry over the weekend. I’ll drink a little coffee today, eat the leftover Haagen Dazs ice cream bar that Scott bought me — Holy crap, I’d forgotten what real ice cream tastes like. Really, it tastes nothing like tofu.
Then it’s back to beans and rice, salad and quinoa, as I will pursue my goal of finding out exactly what — dairy or wheat — is giving me a bad gut and constipation. Funny that topics like irregularity replace discussion of the world’s problems in an older person’s conversation.
It’s like Adam Sandler says. When you’re in your twenties, you rail against your parents, in your thirties, you want to rise up against injustice, and in your forties, you’re just hungry and want something good to eat. I’d add to that in your fifties, all you want is a satisfying poo.
And on that note, it’s off to the basement. Back to work trying to make enough money to pay for the dentist to fix that tooth I broke over the weekend.