Oy… It’s Wednesday Already?

By Daddy X

Aw, fuckety-fuck—Wasn’t I supposed to write something about procrastination?

But what a couple of weeks it’s been! I really wanted to get on this as soon as the topic was announced. Alas, that didn’t quite fall into place, not like I wanted. But then there were good reasons for it. Unfortunate though, how it played.

Next day turned out to be when I’m scheduled to work at the antiques mall where I rent a space to sell old stuff.  They say it’s good for me to get out of the house at least once a week, and the long-suffering Momma X gets to wash my writing pajamas (a nice sky-blue vintage flannel print with multicolored hot air balloons) and my lucky woolen sock cap. I tie my hair back when planning to go outdoors, so I can wear a different hat on those days.

Well, I guess we come in contact with a lot of people at the shop (shaking hands, explaining that the ancient Greek and Roman coins are indeed real, getting queries about a sophisticated African sculpture like: ‘What kind of wood is that?’) because-- You guessed it-- I felt this little tickle in my throat that night, and, sure enough, I spent the next few days under the blankets sweating out a real bastard of a head cold. Headache, muscle aches, fever, lot’s o’ tissues … woozy … you name the classic symptom (sounds like a ‘Vic’s Vaporub’ commercial) and I had it. Didn’t get out of bed much.

Fresh out of the fever-state, and I find it to be Sunday, Flasher day on ERWA. As many of you know, it takes all morning to critique others and respond to whatever critiques I received on my stuff. Then Momma tells me it’s Easter that day and we gotta go into the city to my sister’s ‘House of Bedlam’ for the afternoon and have dinner with her, her hubby and my two teenage nephews who, it turns out, were actually raised by wolves. Right there in San Francisco. Maybe no fistfights will break out this year (or competitive belching or passing out) so, no opportunity for a blogpost that day. But we are still a week and a half away from the deadline. No sweat … You’d think, huh?

Well, I wake up Monday morning with a toothache, so we cancel the gym class but Momma and I are lucky to have a great dentist who can fit me in that afternoon (which I’d planned to devote to writing the post). He tells me that there’s nothing wrong with my tooth, but that the pain was actually a sinus infection and that he would be happy to give me the antibiotics to fix it-- a new Z-pack 5-day program: 2 pills the first day then one a day for four more. The pain started to subside immediately, but I wound up weirdly compromised by the light-headed (and not in a good way) feeling I always get when taking any kind of antibiotic. Tuesday night my right arm went numb.

Considering that I had an AVM stroke about ten years ago and a triple bypass in 2010 (not to mention the liver transplant in 2004) we didn’t want to take any chances, so even though it was the right arm, Momma and I spent that night at the emergency room. Everything turned out cool enough though, and come to think, I may have smoked a really excellent bud after dinner that night and maybe had some kind of sensory hallucination? I didn’t tell them that at the emergency, although I do have a prescription and a state card.

Speaking of weed, it’s once again soil preparation time in Norcal for the medical marijuana patch in our backyard. What a time-consuming process. For one thing it means working in a yard or two of rich topsoil that I had delivered, but they just drop it in the driveway and I have to wheelbarrow it all in back. Lots of loads. Growing season waits for no one, I guess. Then it turns out I have to trim a bunch from last year’s harvest, on account of we’re getting low on manicured stuff. I always have been a fast trimmer and can still manage about 2-2 1/2 ounces an hour (depending how big and tight the buds are) but can’t sit as long as I used to. We older growers don’t have it so easy after all, do we? Everything takes so long to do when you’re pushing seventy.

Time marches on.

Now, finally, for a day at the gym. Momma and I have found that we do best if I go twice a week and she goes three, leaving an afternoon for myself on the day she’s gone, when I get some quiet, quality writing time (in my nice clean PJ’s). Those days that we do go together tend to work out great for our sex lives as well, considering our personal preferences regarding bodily environments in general. But maybe I can explain all that better in a poem:

RECIPROCITY

Mr. Sprat and his wife

have ahold of their life

hardly ever making a scene

She’s happy with fat

he wants it all lean

He likes her funky 

she likes him clean

He showers before,

she does it after

licking each other

with peals of laughter

Then I get tired and go for a nap. No writing on gym days. Sigh…

So again it’s time for a shift at the antique mall. No cold this time, but it is another four hours where I’ll be on my sore feet and need an early quit. Then it’s Sunday Flashers once more, but the next few days look pretty good.

It’s Monday! Another day at the gym and I have to get to that class where I’m the only dude. Wheee! I do have to watch myself, though. They threw some old guy out (a friend of mine. He’s this old European Socialist cat about 80) just last year for saying something untoward to a much younger woman (a girl, really). They now have people watching out for that kind of behavior so I have to mind my P’s and Q’s and try NOT to stare, or blurt out something of a faux pas. But then afterwards I get to bed Momma again and take out all that frustration on her.

And now, you’re telling me that I’ve lost count and it’s Wednesday already? So sorry for failing so badly on my second blogpost.

It’s just like the schoolteachers used to say to my Mom and Pop on ‘Parent/Teachers Open House’. Something to the effect of: “Nice to meet you, Mr. & Mrs. X …You know that little Daddy would get better grades … if he’d only finish his homework on time.”

Some things never change.