Slightly Off the Mark

 This week has been so hot, "so hot" jokes have been trending.

There's only so much you can do with them, of course--they've been around a long time. One of the original European settlers, in the Roanoke Colony of Virginia, left a note that said "it's so hot we're moving to Plymouth". The settlers were never heard from again, after apparently getting lost on the Washington, D.C. beltway.

Just the same, it's been so hot even I've been uncomfortable, not that I'd admit it. I'd still take a heat wave over a cold snap, but that doesn't mean I like either one. I went out to mow the lawn at 9 a.m. the other day, and ended up going through five water bottles: Three in me and two over me. It was so hot the lawn mower started flashing an error light that said "water me".

"You think I'm leaving the shade without a drink, first? You just filled me with gasoline!"

I didn't know it even had error lights.

Fun fact: In order to clean my mower you have to connect a garden hose, which sprays water all over the inside of the mower deck while it runs, to clean the grass off. So, you DO have to water it.

Naturally, it's not just the heat up here. This week the relative humidity was relatively low, but last week was so humid that, after I mowed, I had to step into the shower to dry off. Relax, I'm not posting any photos of that.

Anything that was in full sunlight started to glow red, unless it was already red, in which case it started to glow orange. The fire hydrant down the street called me over and begged me to let my dog pee on it. I refused, being worried about steam burns.

"Don't worry about me peeing back at you, I can hold my water."

You'd think the humidity would satisfy it. At one point the humidity level was 140%, which translated to a heat index of, and I quote, "broil". Jim Cantore came over from The Weather Channel to investigate how the humidity can actually be higher than 100%, and his cameraman drowned. Meanwhile, three people were blinded when the sun shone of Cantore's head. He was heard to say, "I'd rather have thundersnow". Speak for yourself, fella.

But I took advantage of it by letting the air conditioner drain its water into a bucket outside, then using the bucket to water my plants. By the way, if anyone needs any planters, I, uh, killed all my flowers with scalding water.

It's been especially rough for people who don't have air conditioners--or for people who had no power at all, including the ones south and west of my home who were hit by the latest derecho. (It is too a real word--shut up, spell check.)

I tried to honor their crisis by going outside, at least long enough to mow the lawn. Their general response was that I was crazy, and could they stop by for several hours?

Anyway, eventually I had to go out again, to let the dog water that hydrant. The dog's response? "Um, no thanks ... I'll hold it."

"Nope. Uh-uh, not until the next cold snap hits in July."

At some point, as I was cleaning carpets Saturday, I raised some kind of allergen in the dust that laid me out like getting punched by Will Smith.

Don't worry, I'm not going to dwell for too long on the infamous Oscar slap--just a little.

I'm allergic to dust, or something in dust, or maybe I'm allergic to dusting. In any case, our house had cats living in it for many years, and I'm highly allergic to them. It's not easy getting dander out of every nook and cranny. I don't even know where the crannies are. (I'm also allergic to dogs, but sometimes you just have to suck it up, as in sucking dander into your lungs.)

"Bombardier to pilot, dander away!"

I have a lot of allergies, but for some reason dust is the worst ... maybe it has all the other allergens in it? I should wear a mask, but I'm a man, and men are stupid. So for the second half of the weekend I laid on the couch, in a medicinal stupor, and watched a marathon of How the Universe Works.

The great thing about the weekend is that I didn't watch the news for three days (or the weather, which pretty much spoke for itself). But I didn't stay completely away from social media, which is sad.

This explains why I had a dream, narrated by Mike Rowe, in which Jupiter insulted Saturn's rings, so Earth crossed through the asteroid belt and slapped Jupiter right in its spot.

"Now, that's what I call a close encounter."				"Memes, uh ... find a way."

For those of you who, like me, don't really care, at the Oscar ceremony Sunday Chris Rock made fun of Smith's wife's baldness, which is caused by a medical condition. Smith then smacked Rock and said, "Welcome to Earth".

Or something like that. I don't watch the Oscars after my doctor advised me to cut down on stress-inducing political speeches. Besides, I haven't watched the movie that won Best Picture since 2002.

You know, there should be an awards show for low-brow fans, like me. Best Picture, 1977: Smokey and the Bandit! (Actually, that year it was Rocky--which I did watch, so never mind.)

My allergies made me feel like Sylvester Stallone punched me. At this rate, I'll need a TV on the ceiling. (This is actually from a sleep study. I couldn't. Sleep, that is.)

Seeing the reaction to the Will-Rock incident made me realize I truly am from an older generation. If someone got up in front of a national audience and made fun of my wife's medical condition, I'd break their nose. The speaker, not the national audience. I recognize this is hypocritical, considering I'm such a fan of Don Rickles, although in my defense Mr. Personality never made fun of my wife.

But it's the 21st Century, and although you can't swing a cat without offending someone (which would offend someone), apparently it's no longer allowed to be offended on behalf of a loved one. "Violence never solved anything!" Which isn't true, but it's a nice thought.

But I'm a man, and men are stupid. In any case, Emily doesn't need my help: She could punch out both Christ Rock and Will Smith. I've seen her push around horses.

Although she never made fun of them.

No, I don't hate cats. Read the whole title, people.

 Just a few medical thoughts shooting through my mind like a runaway bottle rocket (only the thoughts aren't as exciting). Come to think of it, fireworks were once involved in my medical condition, but never mind.

My annual major sinus infection has arrived, a bit later than usual, possibly as another way to welcome in the New Year. Because I'm having more pain and pressure this time (Naturally--it's the Roaring Pain 20s.), the Doc decided to put me on prednisone.

Despite my previous experience with the stuff.

Well, maybe it'll be different this time. After all, that's what people have been saying about 2022, isn't it?

"It has to be better than 2021!"

Hah. No, it doesn't.

The irony is that last time they gave me prednisone, several years ago, I was struck with one of the typical side effects: severe headache. So, to help my headache, I'm taking a med that gives me headaches.

It could be worse.

Speaking of headaches, the morning I went to pick up the prednisone and my old friends, the antibiotics, we had an ice storm. It wasn't much of an ice storm, but I'm sure my walk to the car was a good preview of how I'll be walking when I'm 90, assuming a sinus infection hasn't killed me by then.

Bad weather, especially when it's cold, tends to give me ... sinus headaches.

Still, a lot of the really bad winter weather this year has been south of us. My humorist friend, Barry Parham, lives in South Carolina, and this year has seen five times the amount of snow we have. I hate snow. The only kind of precipitation I hate more is ... ice.

I survived the trip to pick up my meds (how ironic would it be if I didn't?), and my only near-collision was when I got buzzed by a speed skating competition. Then I came home, read the list of prednisone side-effects, and promptly called in sick on the assumption I'd get them all.

No, of course I didn't call in sick--I don't do that unless I'm running a fever, or missing both legs.(Maybe I would show up if I lost both legs. I've never tried it.) On the subject of showing up, the day before the ice storms I was exposed to someone who the next day tested positive for COVID.

Tell me again how wonderful 2022 is going to be.

It could always be worse.

I thought that would give me a week home to write, but no--unfortunately, I'm fully vaccinated, the person who tested positive just had their booster and is asymptomatic, and I'm just not that good at faking illness. Even my grandmother and the dog are feeling better.

Speaking of the dog, the veterinarian says the med she gave us for Beowulf tastes even worse than prednisone, and that's going some. How the vet knows that, I was afraid to ask.

This explains why we gave up trying to give him the pill in food (the dog, not the vet), and Emily had to resort to force. I mean, on the dog--I took mine voluntarily, and thus have no excuse. Emily correctly informed me that I'm not tough enough to do the job, which involves prying open Beowulf's jaws and shooting the pill in like a basketball. All she had to do was avoid the three-point bite.

(Our high school men's basketball team just won their conference championship, so I'm allowed to make a basketball joke even though I hate basketball.)

So, having left the second full week of the year behind, my impression remains the same as it did after the first week: 2022 sucks.

Unless you're a Central Noble basketball player. Or manufacture medicine.

"At least you didn't get vertigo, fella."

I mean, totally blew, as the kids say, which is the same as sucked in the same way people use flammable and inflammable. On a related note, 2021 was both flammable and inflammable.

And yes, it was worse than 2020. At least it was to me, starting with my brother's death and ending with my wife in physical therapy. The physical therapist people are very nice, by the way, but I'd rather meet them in a social situation.

Not that anyone was allowed to be in social situations.

One of the reasons 2021 was so bad is because everybody thought it would be so good. "I can't wait for 2021! It has to be better than this."

The first time I heard that, sometime around the summer of 2020, I knew we were in trouble. Very few of the things that started then are the kind of problems that disappear when the ball drops. Pandemics, inflation, shortages--read your history, people. At that point I started lecturing everyone to watch out! 2020 was the second Matrix movie, and 2021 would be the third one.

(For those of you who aren't aware, they sucked. And blew.)

Even John Williams can't perk up this story line.

I'm a fan of being upbeat, but you have to be a realist, too. The way people thought in 2020 reminded me of what happens on my job whenever someone says "It's quiet" or, while escaping at the end of their shift, "Have a quiet night!" It's the equivalent of that old Chinese curse, "May you live in interesting times".

Saying the word "quiet" in a 911 center is the verbal equivalent of pulling the pin on a grenade and rolling it into the room. So all of you, keep your gosh-darn mouths shut.

You know, I didn't even get a new book published that year, for the first time since 2011. That's a small thing compared to everything else going on, but it's a symptom of what I'm going to call "Two Thousand Sucky-One", because I can, and it was. By the way, as I write this it's still 2021, and I have another sinus infection.

Yes, it IS related.

"2022 has to be better, right?"

"Yeah, it'll be quiet." *pulls pin* "Fire in the  hole!"

No. No, it doesn't have to be better. Could it be worse? Yes, yes it could. I can picture the old man representing 2021, stumbling toward the exit, broken, bleeding, covered in boils, only to meet the infant 2022 coming in. 2022 takes one look, fills his diapers, and says, "Um, maybe I should go back and gestate for a few more months."

"Forget it, kid. I'm outta here."

I'll bet the dinosaurs were fighting a pandemic the year before the asteroid struck. And do you know what survived that extinction event? That's right: the virus.

The murder hornet is still out there. Politicians are proof snakes are mammals, because they're still blowing hot air. All the Kardashians are still alive. But maybe they're all distractions. What's next? Super Volcano in Yellowstone? Earthquake off Washington State? Another election? And that's just this country.

So Happy New Year, and fingers crossed. Fuel your generators, stock up on water and masks, and barricade your doors because, the way things are going, door to door salesmen will come back into vogue.

Which would suck ... and blow.

"Jeez, you're a buzz kill."

Well, it's been four days since Emily had knee surgery, I think ... I don't know, I haven't slept since then.

We thought we'd have about four weeks from the time everything was confirmed until the operation, so I made plans to get certain things done in a certain amount of time. Then they had a cancellation, and suddenly we had five days.

Now that I think about it, maybe it was for the best that I didn't have a lot of time to think about it.

Emily had to have her ACL rebuilt. That's in the knee--I'd been telling everyone the ACLU was damaged, which caused some confusion. It turns out the ACL is actually the anterior cruciate ligament, and aren't we glad they shortened that? She also had a tear in the meniscus, which is also in the knee and not something you have with gravy.

We don't know for sure how she damaged her knee. Yes, it's possible all the hopping on and off horses at her job is connected, but sometimes it's the smallest thing. I once pulled a back muscle while hopping over a puddle, not that I'll ever admit it.

The out-patient thing sounded great. Who wants to be in the hospital longer than they have to? Of course, it also means someone at home had to do the stuff hospital staffs used to do, and why is everyone looking at me?

I'm doing--eh--okay, as a nurse. At least I did once we got her up the steps and inside the house, which required the help of two police officers, one friend, and a husband with a bad back. The friend then prepared a meal for Emily, who hadn't eaten in many hours, and me, who had no excuse.

A few other details of the week:

We did stock up on foods I could prepare (e.g., with instructions of five lines or less). My areas of cooking expertise include homemade popcorn; egg sandwiches; and microwaves. She has, thus far, not starved.

Thigh-high stockings can be sexy. Compression stockings are not. Now that I've helped put a pair on, I understand why pantyhose are going out of style.

It took only a few times of lecturing the dog and then having to shove him out of the way before he realized the appearance of a four-legged Emily means he needs to go lay on his bed until we pass.

On a related note, he likes to check up on his humans, and having them sleep in two different rooms drove him crazy. He finally settled on laying in one room, by the doorway to the other.

Our biggest challenge was utilizing the bathroom. Our house was built without plumbing, and eventually someone carved a corner out of the kitchen to make a bathroom. You can literally stand in the middle of it and touch three walls--four, if you lean over the bathtub. The door opens inward, and with it open it's impossible for someone with crutches to get inside at all, let alone reach the toilet.

So I removed the door.

Not as impressive as it sounds--I learned in basic firefighting class how to take a door off its hinges. The dog was very confused, but I didn't think anything of it until the first time I had to go to the bathroom. I felt like I was sitting in a porta-potty with no door on it.

So, that's how our week has gone. The physical therapist/torturer seems to think Emily's doing well, and now that the spinal block has worn off she's getting around. I just changed the dressing, which took five minutes, and helped her get the compression stockings on, which took two hours. We're recovering from that, then I'm going to cook her a great meal. Oh, wait--we're out of frozen pizza.

Well, then ... an okay meal.

 It was a hot day when Jeff Hunter's family and friends gathered to have a meal and remember him last Sunday. I think Jeff would have appreciated that--like his brother (me), he hated the cold. Jeff passed away on January 30th, and if I recall correctly, there was a snowstorm coming in at the time, so it was quite a difference.

We were at the Delt Church Park in LaGrange Co, a place Jeff and his wife Cathy liked to go. I'd never been there, so Emily and I ran up a week earlier, and found it to be a beautiful place. It's in Amish country, so every now and then a buggy would go by. The pavilion Cathy rented was right on the edge of the Little Elkhart River. More about the place here:

http://www.lagrangecountyparks.org/index.php/parks/delt-church

I personally didn't take a lot of pictures that day, being preoccupied with other thoughts. But in this one you can see, in the standing photo to the right, Jeff and Cathy on their wedding day. Toward the left are Jeff and me in our truly horrendous 70s leisure suits, along with our little sister Penny.

The following are photos Cathy gathered together and put up on poster boards for everyone to look at. Different times, different people with him in the photos ... a lot of memories, there. If you click on them, the smaller images should be easier to see.

It was nice to see a lot of people I don't get to see often ... wish it had been under different circumstances. Some weren't able to stay all that long due to the heat, and in the below photo the crowd had started clearing out a little. Mother Nature does like to screw up outdoor plans.

One final photo: Dad (Delbert Hunter) and me. In these COVID times, we haven't seen much of each other lately. I confess I haven't felt up to going out and seeing much of anyone, between my ongoing medical problems, the coronavirus, and everything else that has been going on in recent months. There's also the whole introvert thing--I believe it runs in the family. (Emily took the picture.)

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

I don't talk much about politics, but just to show I've always paid attention, I uncovered this piece from way back in 2012. I think you'll find me on the cutting edge of activism:

 --------------------------------------

          New York City Mayor Bloomberg wants to ban supersized sugary drinks, as a way to combat malnutrition.

            He also signed a proclamation for NYC Donut Day.

            (Oh, another note of irony: I brought up several internet articles to familiarize myself with the Bloomberg Big Belly Ban, and the very first one was preceded by one of those annoying internet ads – for Ben and Jerry’s ice cream.)

            The BBBB would apply to any bottled soda or fountain drink over 16 ounces that contains more than 25 calories per eight ounces, which is pretty much all of them. They’d be outlawed at restaurants, sports venues, street vendors, and – brace yourselves – movie theaters. Gasp! Next they’ll be taking my large buttered popcorn.

            But those goobers won’t get it without a fight.

            No word on whether the 17 ounce Big Gulp will be available in government offices, but grocery stores and convenience stores would be exempt. Apparently large soft drinks sold there are not dangerous.

            The good news is, banning things that are bad for us is always effective, and always, always works. Just ask the people who pushed Prohibition.

            Well, they can have my Slurpee when they pry it from my cold, sticky hands.

            If they criminalize supersized Cokes, only criminals will be truly refreshed.

Family reunions are a great place to exercise my right to choose.

Rumor has it the Founding Fathers fueled their revolutionary ardor with Heaven's snack: S'Mores.

Is this a great country, or what?

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 The other day I sneezed my head off, and I'd like to thank my wife, Emily, for not only retrieving it but helping me get my head on straight.

It was a challenge. I sneezed so hard my head bounced from the living room into the kitchen, where our dog got his hands--um, mouth--on it, thinking it was a new toy. Emily ran after him and got it back, but now I have tooth marks on my forehead and a chewed up ear. The staples I won't complain about--we didn't have thread.

She had to tackle him. It wasn't pretty.

Okay, it's possible I'm exaggerating. Slightly. Certainly my sneezes did startle Beowulf several times, and he'd come running to make sure I was okay. Or possibly he came running to see if I'd overturned a plate of food. It was all because we made a foolish mask error, and two days after we did Emily came down with a bad head cold. When I got it a few days later it was worse, of course, because I'm a man.

You may have heard the term "man flu", but it really was only a cold, and since it wasn't the coronavirus I don't have much room to complain. Just the same, Emily and I agreed that this was "just" a cold the way the Federal government does a "little" overspending. We were down for a week, much of which I don't remember because NyQuil is wonderful.

They way I measure my illnesses: I know it's bad when I take a sick day from work. In my job, if I call in sick somebody else has to work the shift, and I don't need any new enemies. At the same time, I've often lectured coworkers that if they might be contagious they should stay the heck home, and either I was contagious or my wife and I take this sharing thing way too far.

A rare photo of me pre-sneeze. The camera was recovered days later, but the photographer remains missing.

If I lose my appetite, I'm on death's doorstep. I did lose a few pounds over that period, but it's not a diet I'd recommend.

Meanwhile I really did have some impressive sneezes, although the only damage they did was crack windows and shatter nerves. The US Geological Survey says the worst of them only registered as a 4.7 in Chicago, which is barely higher than the sound of cell doors slamming on indicted Illinois governors.

Anyway, we got by with the help of chicken noodle soup, vitamin C, and modern pharmaceuticals. Wait. Pharma ... p ... h ... a ...

Um, drugs.

NyQuil is coma-inducing manna from Heaven. Did I mention that? On one day I slept for ten hours straight. But I have the same question about it that I have about Benadryl: Does it really do anything about my symptoms? Or does it make me sleep so deeply I just don't notice them? I don't remember.

Oh, I almost forgot one other indispensable thing: Kleenex.

The guy who invented Kleenex deserved a Noble Prize in Awesome.

The trick is to position so many boxes around the house that you could step from one to another. We had 2.4 boxes of Kleenex per room on average, with fewer in the basement and one by every chair in the living room. Fourteen trees died for our noses, in just one week. Always have plenty of Kleenex.

And NyQuil. Did I mention it's awesome?

A recent photo of my upper respiratory system.

http://markrhunter.com/
https://www.amazon.com/-/e/B0058CL6OO
https://www.barnesandnoble.com/s/"Mark R Hunter"

 Today, February 5th, is my brother Jeff's birthday.

Almost a week ago, last Saturday, is the day he died.

Emily and I had stopped by to visit with him and his wife Cathy that evening. He's been undergoing treatment for lung cancer and other problems for years, and a couple of months ago had been given two weeks to live--but more recently he rallied, gained weight, and was doing a lot better.

But by the time we got there that night he'd taken a turn for the worse. A hospice employee was on the way to check on him, and the three of us were trying to get Jeff from the bathroom back to the living room couch when he collapsed and died.

I didn't think of it at the time, but in my fifteen or so years as an active EMT and forty years as a firefighter I've never had anyone actually pass away in my presence. Jeff quite literally died in my arms, surrounded by three of his loved ones. It was the end of the struggle for him, and the beginning of a struggle for us.

Here's Jeff's obituary:

https://www.hitefuneralhome.com/obituary/Jeff-Hunter

Jeff and Cathy

Of course, obituaries rarely tell you much about a person. 

Jeff was a lifelong smoker, and that's the only bad thing I have to say. When you get addicted to something as a teenager, it's hard to think it might come back to haunt you decades later. why do I bring it up? Because we could have had him for another twenty years or more. It's worth noting that for those of you whose loved ones would like to keep you around, too.

Jeff and I were only a couple of years apart, and since our sisters weren't born until years later, we grew up basically as just two siblings. We loved each other, and we protected each other, and we fought like wildcats, and we tried to kill each other. He managed to shoot me with both an arrow and a BB gun, not to mention almost blowing me up more than once. We loved blowing stuff up, climbing places we shouldn't climb, and jumping things we shouldn't jump.

He put together all my models of starships and warships, and his of various cars and trucks. He was a hands-on doer, while I just liked to play and imagine. That would be a pattern our entire life: Whatever I had that broke, he would fix it. Jeff could take an engine apart blindfolded, and put it back together again without instructions. I could write. Believe me, when people needed help it was him they went to, and he usually dropped what he was doing. He single-handedly kept my first three cars together, despite all my youthful efforts to shake them apart.

His teenage years were a little shaky, but by eighteen he was working, and he worked full time for the rest of his life. He wasn't a joiner; he wasn't part of volunteer organizations or other groups, although as I said earlier he was always ready to jump in and help. Like me he was something of a homebody, but he did a much better job of it than I did. Basically he wanted to pay his bills, take care of his home, see his friends and family, and not interfere with the lives of others. Boy, we could use more people like that.

He put ketchup on everything.

He was a fan of science fiction as I am, and wanted to see the new TV show, Picard, so Emily and I bought him season one. But his birthday is today, and he was gone before we could give it to him.

So, that was my brother. Life is duller for him not being around. My job now is to make it less dull by making sure people remember him. Forgive me, but for the moment this writer can't do any better.

He was loved.

 I started out last week in something of a good mood, because I finished the third draft of Smoke Showing and then took the preliminary steps toward writing a novel involving the Land of Oz--a project close to my heart that I've been planning in my head for years.

Then the week turned into one of those Medical Weeks. You know the ones I mean: When for a certain period of time everything that happens seems to be health related, usually in a bad way.

Starting from worst, my uncle and my grandmother both fell and broke their hips, and as I write this both are scheduled for surgery today. For my grandmother it was supposed to be yesterday, but they couldn't transfer her to the hospital where the operation will be done because all their beds were full.

You knew the coronavirus was going to pop up here, somewhere.

So everything after that is pretty minor. In fact, very minor, and begging to be made fun of, although sometimes even I'm not in a fun-making mood. It's just that it all happened at the same time.

I got poked by needles four times, for instance, but that doesn't really count because I get two regular allergy shots, anyway. The third was a routine flu shot, so only the fourth--my annual blood draw--led to anything worse than a little soreness.

Besides, one needle was a withdrawal and three were deposits, so doesn't that count as a net gain?

The first day saw the two allergy shots and the blood draw, which my employer has done so they can shake judgemental fingers at me. I had a feeling about the results, so I downed a half gallon of ice cream between then and the follow up ... I figured it was likely to be my last guilt-free food treat ever.

Two days later, we took our dog Beowulf to the vet to get his ear infection looked at, so that counts as one. He's been walking sideways with one ear drooped over, and no, I don't share booze with him. Last time I walked that way was after two strawberry daquiris. (I'm a lightweight. Well, in that way, I am.)

Left ear, the one under the dump trunk.

Where was I? Oh, yes, the chiropractor. As usual, my vertebrae were trying to pass each other on a curve, but she pounded them back into submission.

Then came the flu shot, which was entirely uneventful as shots go. My wife and I were together for those last two, because it's important to experience pain as a family.

We closed out the week with a follow up at the doctor's office, where I mentioned two strange little bumps on my left hand that didn't really seem worth mentioning. Turns out they might be the beginning of a condition that can lead to the inability to use that hand without surgical intervention and GAH! I've always had a fear of not being able to type. Talk to text just isn't the same, because the whole reason I started typing to begin with is because I can't speak.

 Oh, and also I'm fat.

But you already knew that, and thanks for being polite. The doc didn't actually say so, in so many words. She said my cholesterol was going through the roof, I had a fatty liver, and my PSA levels took a huge jump. Since two out of three of those things mean I'm fat, I took it that way. The third had to do with my prostate, so I guess another visit to Doctor Finger is in my future.

Prostate cancer is one of the cancers that's more common in firefighters, so of course I'm going to have it checked, but I'm not too worried ... and there's nothing I can do about it, anyway. Doctor finger will poke around until he digs out the problem.

Weighing 233 pounds is whatI can do something about.

First I took all the stuff out of my pants pockets, then I cut my hair, and finally I bought a cheaper pair of shoes, so I'm already down to 232.

No. Just--NO.

Anyway, that was my medical week. If I read back through this I'd probably feel ashamed of myself for whining, and delete most of it. Then I'd have to find something else to blog about, so hang the edits! I'm going back to my story outlining.

Maybe a trip down the Yellow Brick Road will shave off some pounds.

Oh, you'll heard more about my new project later.