My mother had a friend who recently died, a guy I always liked a lot. He was cool. They found this picture of her in his stuff, from February 1978. Kills me. Mom had the good eyelashes, and they didn't even have Latisse back then.
Tomorrow I have to have an endoscopy, which is where they knock you out with Propofol, the stuff that killed Michael Jackson, and then they're gonna look down my throat to see why I am having trouble swallowing. Be sure to give me plenty of advice re this.
I have to remember to not eat anything red or purple today, and already I was getting ready to have oatmeal with blueberries in it, so you know I will screw that up and they'll think the worst.
When I went to the doctor for this, and took the nice gut shot, above, they asked me to describe my symptoms. I told the nurse, "My throat feels irritated, not sore. And I can swallow solids, it's just liquids that give me trouble."
Me, at the doctor. Do you enjoy my gown? Nothing says cute like a pale blue gown with scratches all over it. Perhaps they'll keep me in this to ship me over to the Home for the Unfortunate, which is what I was forced to call the mental hospital in my home state. "Home for the Unfortunate." Oh, mom.
The nurse asked more questions, then she asked what I did for a living.
"I'm a fire eater," I said, then grabbed myself in a hearty embrace.
I was lucky enough that the doctor also asked me what I did for a living, and that time I said sword swallower.
Anyway, that happens tomorrow, and Ned is taking me there, and when I get home, Edsel will want to stand on the bed and stare at me worriedly. Which is super relaxing.
The doctor doesn't think it's anything nefarious, just GERD. I'm a herdy GERDy girl, apparently.
Oh, speaking of which, we got our health assessments at work yesterday, and you are gonna fall over dead, ironically, because I am in great shape. There is a less than 1% chance I will have a stroke or heart attack in the next 5 years, and among women my age, only 16% are doing better than me. Blood pressure, BMI, cholesterol, all great.
"You should go to Mrs. Winner's to celebrate," said the guy who sits next to me, who marvels at the Mrs. Winner's fried chicken I bring back maybe more often than is necessary. As opposed to those completely necessary fried chicken runs.
Last night, Ned and I went to the old theater we like to see Blazing Saddles. We sat behind a couple of June Hairs. Can you see the organist down on stage? The tiny organ? That's what she said.
When we sat down, the organist was playing, and Ned said, "I wrote this song. I wrote it for you. It's called June, O June."
"Are there any other words?" I asked.
"Nope. Just June, O June."
As we listed further, I realized the organist was playing Your Cheatin' Heart. Which just about killed me. "This is the most dramatic version of Your Cheatin' Heart ever played," said Ned.
Afterward, we had that disconcerting thing happen, where you leave a theater and it's still light out. We headed over to the Irish pub, because Ned was starving. I'd had to go to my old house right after work to feed My Tenant's cats, and I may or may not have stopped off at Hardee's, just like the old days.
Blood pressure, great! Cholesterol, fantastic! She even said the rating of my good cholesterol--80--was so good it was like a blanket of protection around my heart. Supposing I had one.
The point is, it was just a lovely night. Breezy, in the 70s but not dreadful cold 70s. Like, if it's 71, Ima have a problem with that. 78? I'm solid. Above please find Mr. Greensboro, in the center thing downtown, against last night's pretty sky.
I made Ned do his Mr. Greensboro impression, but he said I can't show you all. Ned has pride. And joy.
I was at a bar once (once! hah!) and a guy asked me if I wanted to see a picture of his pride and joy, and he pulled out a card with this on it, and I laughed so hard he gave it to me, then scurried away quickly.
Here's a picture Ned took of me on the rooftop of the pub last night, where he got hummus and pita bread. He was starving, and he got hummus.
Ned's blood pressure is always ludicrous. It's always like 394345853493529 over 594583489543.
Can we all chip in to get me a nose job? I abhor my nose. It needs fixing. Maybe I could get someone to punch me clean in the face, and my nose would break and they'd HAVE to fix it. Every time I've written "nose" I've type "bose" and now I'm annoyed.
I have to go. Stop talking to me. Hang up. No, YOU hang up.
All right, really. I have to go. Don't get your bose out of joint.
Herdy GERDily,
Jooon
