“For we all of us, grave or light, get our thoughts entangled in metaphors, and act fatally on the strength of them.” ~ George Eliot, from Middlemarch
Friday afternoon, drizzle, 48 degrees.
Another week without much production on my part. I’ve spent over a week trying to coordinate the delivery of my next Aimovig shot, and the entire process has been unnecessarily tedious and difficult, talking with different reps each day, being told different things each day, being told delivery was scheduled only to find that it has not been scheduled.
As I’m getting this medication free, I probably should not complain, but what bothers me the most is that I have been unable to introduce this medicine into my system uninterrupted; it’s one of those things that needs consistency to work best, so because of the hiccup in delivery, I’m starting over.
Things like this tend to consume my attention, which means that everything else falls by the wayside, which, most especially, means posting (or not posting, as it were) with any regularity. Add to this the stress resulting from the omnipresent impeachment hearings, and my daily allotment of brain cells burns up far too quickly.
I know. I could not pay attention to the politics, and I could ignore the incompetence of the people giving me incorrect information, but you and I both know that I won’t.
Oh well . . . . . . Have some leftovers . . . . . . . . .
Today is the birthday of British writer George Eliot, pen name for Mary Ann Evans (November 22, 1819–December 22, 1880). You can read about her here.
This explains Japan’s love affair with all things Kit Kat related:
So I sat at this computer for hours yesterday and produced absolutely nothing, not a single word. It’s not that I have writer’s block as I can think of at least four different things that I want to write about; it’s more that I can’t get my mind to focus enough to get started. I decided today that I’d just start and let it takes me wherever it takes me.
On Wednesday I had an appointment with my pain management group to find out the results of Monday’s MRI. So it turns out that I have a couple of bulging discs at the top of my spine, and they’re bulging towards my spine. Now I get to see a neurosurgeon for follow up. I told the NP that I’m not going to have another back surgery, not ever again. At least it kind of explains how doing these least little physical activity causes me to hurt like crazy by nightfall.
Too bad, though, as I had to dismiss the entire house staff for failing to keep my shoes polished and buffed satisfactorily. No wait. Sorry. That’s my Downton Abbey life rearing its head again. Damn. I guess that means that the laundry and housecleaning situation isn’t going to miraculously resolve itself. Corey and I had hoped to work on the whole bedroom situation once the weather cools more.
Hmm . . . things that make you go hmm . . .
Have some leftovers. More later. Peace.
I miss having an intelligent, patriotic president who isn’t driven by pettiness and believes in the Constitution . . .
The more things change, the more they stay exactly the same . . .
Friday afternoon, partly cloudy and beautiful, 84 degrees.
I’m having problems getting to sleep again; I’m really hoping that this doesn’t turn into another full-blown episode of insomnia. Last night I dreamed I was having a good conversation with Brett’s partner, Dom. I was telling her how much I missed speaking with Brett. She said that she would tell him . . .
I’m hoping that Corey will spray the bugs around the house soon, so that I can venture outside without adding to my huge collection of bites. Oh well.
Hope you like today’s collection. Enjoy.
My nights lately:
In praise of words:
When you realize . . .
I love this picture. One of my earliest memories of is of my father working on a green car while we were living in Navy housing before going to England.
Today I had my first appointment with the pain management center in Abingdon. That’s a post all by itself. Actually made it on time, early in fact. Then we did a few errands. By the time we got home, my back was killing me, so not a lot for leftovers today. Sorry.
“We are engaged in the search for progression. A story. But some lives do not make a coherent story, all they do is make a sound.” ~ Etel Adnan, from Paris, When It’s Naked
Friday afternoon, partly cloudy, 79 degrees.
So when the goats tried to destroy my laptop, they also killed my mouse. It’s always interesting here.
I’ve been on a British history binge lately, watching documentaries about the War of the Roses, the Plantagenets, Henry VII and VIII, and the time of Stonehenge. I already know a lot of this, but it’s a nice distraction. Whenever I watch things like this, it makes me regret not going into archaeology. I really, really enjoy learning about civilizations, and I think that I would have enjoyed the field.
Since the cable is out, I’ve been binge watching the show The Americans on Amazon Prime. I’m really enjoying it. I had always wanted to watch it, but it was one of those shows that requires dedicated watching so that you don’t miss anything, and at the time, I already had too many shows on my plate. I’m currently on season 5; season 6 is the last season, so I’ll have to find something else to watch after. I tend to watch a lot of TV whenever Corey is gone, just the animals and me . . .
Here’s today collection. Enjoy.
More later Peace.
I miss being near this:
What a great thing:
This whole thing is truly hilarious—it’s a military base; they have guns, bombs, you know, things to keep people out. It was a joke, people:
Nothing Tesla did surprises me any more:
No happily ever after here:
Dumpster obviously never watched Mr. Rogers. It explains a lot:
Apologies in advance to those who are about to be embroiled in a major heat wave. I feel for you. I really do.
I woke up very early scratching bites on my arms and legs. It’s too bad there’s no spot treatment for humans that lasts for 30 days like the ones we use on the dogs. So I took a Benadryl, rubbed some tea tree lotion on my limbs, and tried to go back to sleep, but the dogs woke up rambunctious, which meant fitful sleep with weird dreams.
In the one I had just before I got out of bed, Alexis had gotten in trouble on the bus, and a teacher wrote a four-page report on the event. The only problem was that the writing was so bad that it made no sense. I was appalled, especially because this teacher was so proud of it. I know. I’m critical even in my dreams. By the way, did you know that Filipinos believe that if you dream about poop, (which I did), it means that you’re going to get money? Oh, if only . . .
Enjoy today’s collection. More later. Peace.
Bittersweet . . .
This made me laugh way too much:
The fluffy comedian:
Never thought of this:
I’m in that kind of mood today:
But no one asked me if I wanted the new version . . .