And yes, my hair is a bloody mess because I was trying to get it out of my wound. Pretty soon we’ll be able to call it a scar.
Still yourselves and listen, chirruns, to the wisdom from a soon to be 59 year old crone…
Old women just know things.
Or is it because they’ve been there, done that?
This particular old woman liked the sun when she was young. Practically lived by the pool and at the beach. OH and there was much work to do on the farm…none of it inside the house. The long horseback rides… and I loved being slightly burnt. That radioactive glow really gave me a kick.
Though my memory isn’t what it should be, nobody ever mentioned SPF anything.
But then I could be passing the buck.
This was my fourth MOHS surgery. Whenever the dermatologist finds something on my pale skin that looks not quite right, he biopsies it. When cancer shows up I go back in for the MOHS.
During Mohs surgery, thin layers of cancer-containing skin are progressively removed and examined until only cancer-free tissue remains. Mayo Clinic.
They’ve been a year apart lately. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wished my Viking/Celtic ancestors had been black or olive skinned instead.
Passing the buck again. Story of my life.
Anyway, there is a moral to this story and I’m sure you get it. If you don’t, at least I and that waiting room full of fellow tanned crones sure do.
I’m ashamed to admit that we’ve lived here for 15 years and for all that time the pantry has been a large crap closet. Really; there were no shelves inside when we moved in so we just threw a bunch of crap inside and shut the doors.
I had no real pantry. SO, we decided there should be one.
The nasty start. There were 2x2s on the walls to hold shelves, but those had to come off. And the doors that had been painted 17 times… gone!
This is the kind of crap I had to deal with; they’d never actually painted the primed cement.
My next door neighbors have a fabulous yard, replete with many flowering plants. Unlike me, the black thumbed. Oh, I can grow aloe and ivy… easy, hard to kill stuff. They, however, must know the secret.
I have the same plants that flourish on their lot but perish (with extreme prejudice) on mine. It’s crazy.
But I get to appreciate their efforts as they grow onto my postage stamp sized piece of real estate.
I can’t grow hibiscus, but theirs is robust… and trying to come visit. Hope he makes it.
Likewise the bougainvillea is going gangbusters where mine never really got off the ground.
I fully expect to see the part of their plants on my side of the fence attacked by all manner of insects and mold.
Mike and I have been married for 23 years… yesterday. He surprised me by coming home last night with two boxes of chocolate, two cards, a dozen roses and three dinners from Flannigan’s. What can I say? The man knows I love my food. Their ribs are delish!
He read my earlier post and felt… bad? Sorry for me? He’s such a sweetheart and I’m so grateful for him.
But I got happy in the same shorts I got sad in, darlin’. Not your fault at all. I love you for many reasons, including caring for me and my feelings. But listen, you can bring me ribs any time!!
Love you, always.
I went in for a yearly physical (they used to call it ‘well woman’) couple weeks ago. The Nurse Practitioner who usually saw me had been sacked so the Actual Doctor and I met.
Hate when that happens. The NP and I had carved out our 10 minute-at-a-time friendship over years. We laughed, we cried. She was fast and honest and not afraid to listen or call me out on silly bullshit. And isn’t that what everyone needs?