That’s our Myrtle in the front yard. It’s in its second bloom this summer. In January – when it isn’t in bloom – I hold forth on how and why we should prune it back: it was planted too close to the maple, just a few snips her and there. Then summer comes again, it blooms, the heart goes pitter-patter, and commitment wanes.
I’m not complaining or explaining, but I’m bloated with carbs. I admit that pretty much covers complaining and explaining. It is H’s fault, and I will not be moved from that declaration. He had to eat soft foods because of the implant, so that automatically meant that I had to eat soft foods. What is soft food? Pasta. Pasta is soft food. And so is a creamy broccoli-cheddar soup with a roux so smooth it slides down like liquid silk, not to mention that pulled pork tangent we went on. We are out of control in this house. I used to laugh at people who told me they felt bloated when they ate carbs. This week will not include: pasta, lazing on the couch with a book and a hubs that must stay still… or getting on a SCALE. No one wants me to shoot myself. Maybe a few people, but they don’t count.
H did beautifully with this implant business. He’s done it so many times, he’s a cottage industry all on his own. He breezes through these things like he was born to do it. I would still be making an ugly scene: fetal position, clenching pillow, low mournful moaning, occasionally high pitched. Why bother with these things if you can’t get some sympathy? The dentist told him to try Ibuprofen and Tylenol. He said that Tylenol is wimpy, but when taken (short-term) in between doses of Ibuprofen, it makes a darn good painkiller. H did that for the first and second day and never felt a thing. The dentist gave him a script for hydrocodone “just in case,” but he never needed it. The boy aces this stuff.
This is what happens when we get old. We’re reduced to bragging about our recuperations. He gets bragging rights in this house.