Naked And Afraid

I saw a TV commercial for the upcoming season of “Naked and Afraid” on The Discovery Channel. What is up with these people? Shark Week isn’t enough stomach-clenching action for them? They feel the need to bump it up to the Next Level? On the commercial were scenes of sharp pointy things in the jungle, snakes, and deadly looking spiders hanging out in their webs. There was also a scene of a squishy-looking man on a stretcher, being whisked away from all the danger (still naked, only wearing the straps that were holding him on the stretcher). I think the term “naked and afraid” should apply to the poor ambulance attendants having to treat the nudie guy. That’s what rubber gloves were invented for. I believe the man and woman on each episode are strangers to each other. Hmmm... way to break the ice. Whenever I contemplate what it would actually be like to participate in this show, the bottoms of my feet hurt. No shoes... just shoot me. Forget about getting naked in front of my stranger partner, camera crew, medical crew standing by, and various dangerous insects and animals. I wouldn’t make it three yards without shoes. I have very tender feet. I won’t address the nakedness, as that is too horrific to contemplate. Buns and underarms flapping in the breeze, cellulite on view to the world. No way. The most horrific element on the new TV commercial was at the end. The two contestants jump on surf boards and paddle like crazy, supposedly in shark-infested waters. I would think a naked man wouldn’t want to have his dangly bits anywhere near rows of sharp teeth. The Discovery Channel needs counseling. On one big giant couch, to see why they keep coming up with these shows. Then again, there must be a need they are filling. Maybe the screwed up people are the viewers. Good to know I’m not one of them. I can sit in judgement, fully clothed, shoes and socks intact. Sounds like this stupid TV show fills a need I have after all. And I don’t even have to watch it.

Killer Dolls

I cleaned the bathroom this morning. I tossed the old shower curtain liner, and excitedly got out the new one. The smell of new vinyl curtains always remind me of a new doll. I am transported to Christmas 1960 when I got my favorite doll, Whimsey. That plastic smell usually permeates the house, and for a while I’m thinking of all the dolls from my childhood - Chatty Cathy (She said dumb stuff and had teeth, which I found creepy.), Poor Pitiful Pearl (seriously... a doll you had to feel sorry for.), Betsy Wetsy (OMG... a doll that peed. We never bonded.), Madame Alexander Kitten (She was a baby doll that supposedly looked real. We took her around the neighborhood to see if we could fool anyone with our “new” baby sister. Nobody bought it.), and various Trolls. I loved that smell. As I hung the new liner, I kept waiting to be transported back to my childhood. Sniff, sniff, SNIFF. Nothing. It had no smell whatsoever. Weird. I got the packaging out of the garbage, just to see which one of us was crazy. It turns out this liner is made from something called PEVA, by our crafty friends in China. I looked online to see what PEVA is. It is a non-toxic material, unlike vinyl. According to the article, vinyl shower curtains leach off a toxic smell for the first month. They also have a bunch of other chemical-related bad things in their content. Great. My whole life I’ve loved the New Doll smell. It figures. I never seem to embrace anything that is healthy (I’m talking to you, tofu and brown rice). If I love something, chances are pretty good it is fattening or deadly. So looking back on all my dolls, I probably only nuzzled a couple of them. The other ones, not so much. But hey, I guess I didn’t need to get all that close. Chatty Cathy could sit there smiling with those perfect little white teeth, all the while leeching toxins into my bedroom. I didn’t even need to get close enough to pull her string, to suffer the effects of her vinylness. When she said “I love you!” or “Let’s play!”, she really meant “I’m trying to kill you”. Oh well, healthy stuff hadn’t been invented yet when I was little. We were dumb, and we liked it that way. Sniff, sniff...

Be Nice And Bend

Yesterday marked eight weeks since my knee replacement surgery. I still haven’t returned to work. I spend my days sitting on a chair and forcing my knee to bend. When that gets too painful, I get on my little stationary bike and ride for fifteen minutes. I also take the dogs on their afternoon walk around the block, as well as a short walk to my neighborhood coffee shop. I’m on a mission, as I have to be much improved when I see my doctor in a few days. Yesterday also marked the first time in eight weeks that I was able to drive. The last time I tried to sit in my Mini Cooper, I couldn’t bend my knee enough to get in. I tried again yesterday, and... no problemo! It’s a little dicey getting out, but at this point I don’t care how contorted and weird I look. Success is success. I was still sort of jazzed this morning, and was ready to drive to my favorite coffee shop. I was in my dining room, getting my wallet and keys. I turned to head out and stepped on something squishy. Half a second into mid-goosh, I knew my foot was coming down on a major pile o’ pooh. Ick! I guess my smeller hadn’t been working, because I never saw the pooh coming. I screamed, as I was truly surprised. In my mind, that phantom marauding elephant tunneled into my house with a sharpened spoon and took a giant dump in my dining room. Ok, I know that’s not rational. I’m sure it was my thirteen year old Scottie, Lucy. Rick took the dogs for a walk this morning. Lucy peed and then made a beeline back to the house. I’m the only one mean enough to drag her when she doesn’t want to go for walkies. Basically, EVERY walk is a drag. It’s no exercise for me. It’s a few steps, then stand and wait while Lucy sniffs every blade of grass. Her eyesight isn’t good, but her nose is in excellent condition. My theory is that Lucy needs to smell every square inch of the neighborhood to compensate for her lack of sight and sound. Great for her...but annoying as hell for the walker. It could take a half hour to go around the block. Not with me in charge though, being the Mean One, even with my bum knee. Hmmm... maybe the giant pooh was payback. Perhaps I’d better work on getting nicer as well as bendier.

Critters

I was sitting on the toilet the other day, as one does. I was watching a tiny ant wander around. What a dummy! He was a sugar ant, and should have been wandering around my kitchen. His tiny any GPS was obviously broken. He also had a bunch of friends who were also lost. Our bathroom seems to be the new haunt for these guys. As I watched the dumb ant wander, from my perch on the toilet, I stomped my foot near him. This did not deter him. He was headed straight for my foot. I now started to think he was seriously demented, or maybe suicidal. I’ve never been one to step on bugs, or squish them in a kleenex. I’m more of a scooper-into-the-toilet-with-several-kleenexes kind of killing machine. Growing up, if I found a spider, I would either put a glass over it or suck it up in the vacuum.Then, I would shove a kleenex into the end of the vacuum hose in case the spider lived through the suckage. My poor mom would usually be the one to find my spider traps. She was a trooper, and not afraid of bugs. I always thought that skill came with becoming a mother. I was wrong. Or else maybe my Motherhood membership card got lost. Anyway, back in my bathroom watching the wayward sugar ant... I got tired of trying to see where he and his friends were coming from. He was dispatched when I flushed, and I said a prayer for his teeny soul. Ok, I’m lying, but I did feel a little bit mean. I just can’t share my living space with bugs. This is one reason I never bonded with camping. Since my knee surgery, I have been sleeping on the couch. It works out much better for moaning, or getting up in the night for ice packs. Last night, I happened to notice some sort of bug directly above the couch. I didn’t have my glasses on, but it looked like a slow-moving, non-biting kind of bug. If it had been a spider, I would have had to holler to Rick to get out of bed and come get rid of it. The bug finally moved on, to parts unknown. As far as I know, it did not fall off the wall in the night and onto my sleeping self. I found no random legs or antennae this morning. A definite good start to my day!

Cramming

During my last physical therapy visit, I happened to ask my PT guy what kind of grade he thought I’d get at my upcoming six week checkup with my knee surgeon. I estimated maybe a C-. He got an uncomfortable look on his face and said I wouldn’t get an F but probably a D. I was shocked. For the last five weeks, I had thought I was doing all I could at home to get my knee bending. Apparently I suck at torture, and am not hard ass enough on my unfortunate new fake knee. PT Guy said my surgeon might want to knock me out and bend my knee. WTF??? If he was trying to scare me, it was working! No way would I go through general anesthesia again. I’m done with that crap. I was also told about some sort of brace that might be put on my knee that forces it to bend, is clamped down, then bent some more. I had visions of being on the Rack during the Spanish Inquisition (not the comfy pillow one from Money Python). Or how about one of those Tarzan movies where some unfortunate native is tied to two trees bent down and torn in two? With those dramatic, yet seemingly appropriate visions in my head, I realized I need to cram like I was back in high school. I have only three days to get my knee bending up to a C or B. I’m not sure it’s possible. Back in high school, I had a book report due in two days and hadn’t cracked a book. Someone suggested I make one up. What an awesome idea! It was kind of fun. I picked my author’s name out of the phone book. For my author’s biography, I made sure to kill him off after he wrote just that one book. “DaVinci the Dreamer” garnered me an A- and I’d wished I could also hand it in for extra credit in my Creative Writing class. This was probably the only time shadiness actually worked in my favor. I seriously doubt scheming and conniving will help me out with my surgeon. “Hey...look over there! Oops, you missed seeing me bend my knee, wrap it around my neck, and tie it in a bow. Sorry, I’m a little winded by all the bending. Maybe another time.” Sigh... Gumby is my new hero.

Officially Stir Crazy

Yesterday, I decorated the dog. I think that makes it official that I have gone stir crazy. It was Cinco De Mayo, and I thought it would be fun to take a photo of one of my dogs wearing a tiny sombrero. Yup...way too much time on my hands! I printed out a drawing of a sombrero, cut it out, and pasted it onto a pointy party hat. This art project took me about an hour. Then I deputized my Scottie dog, Cosmo, to be my lovely model for the photo shoot. It was a rousing success. I was able to share Cinco De Mayo wishes with my friends and family, as well kill and hour or two. So, what to do today? I heard on the radio this morning that 77 years ago the Hindenburg blew up. Perhaps I should try to make a blimp costume for one of my dogs. Oh the humanity! The radio report also said the Lusitania oceanliner was sunk this week during World War I. I’ll bet I have enough colored paper or fabric to make a cruise ship costume, and perhaps a German sub. OK, the ideas are starting to form. Brains cells are snapping. If my dogs knew any better, they would be trying to find a place to hide. They can’t choose under the bed, as I put a body pillow there last time Lucy tried to hide. (I hated dragging her out by her leg to give her a pill.) But I digress. Only total boredom would push me to start thinking about getting out my sewing machine. It’s never been my idea of a good time to sew. Only necessity, such as Halloween, has made me decide to create with fabric. I wonder what my high school Home Ec teacher would think. I doubt it would surprise her to know I might be using my limited sewing skills to fashion dog costumes. She was never impressed with me, but then again, creativity wasn’t high on her list of admirable qualities. I’m sure she wouldn’t have thought to sew a German sub costume for a Scottie. Anybody can follow a dress pattern. Not that many people could design a fabric submarine. Hmmm... Now where did my dogs go?

Turkey Wattle And Nanny Goat Hairs

My at-home knee rehab has left me with oodles of down time. Aside from hours of vegging out in front of the TV, I’ve been able to reflect on stuff. Life stuff... as in being 60 years old. It’s been four months since the Big Giant Birthday and I’m still not used to my elderly status. Even with my new fake knee, I still feel like just a really, really rickety 46. For the first three weeks after my surgery, I didn’t sleep much. I looked a lot like the Crypt Keeper from some kid’s show. Not a pretty sight. I’ve kept checking the mirror to see if my looks are improving. I get much more sleep now, and have noticed the shadows under my eyes have mostly disappeared. However, while scrutinizing my face the other day, I noticed my neck has some serious turkey wattle. WTF? When did this new addition happen? I don’t remember my neck being kind of wrinkly. My face is not very wrinkled, so maybe everything just slid south to my neck. For years I’ve had to go on Nanny Goat Hair Patrol. Stray chin hairs are the harbingers that the aging process is in motion. My chin hairs are mostly white now. Should I be glad they aren’t black and can be seen from the Space Shuttle? Or should I be unhappy that even my chin hairs are turning white? Either way, I’m bummed. I remember my mom pulling on the back of her neck to make the front nice and smooth. She said she would love to have work done on her wrinkled neck. At the time I thought that was silly. She was old, right? That’s part of the job description. Then, in the blink of an eye, here I am in her place. Not so small a deal anymore huh? At least my boobs are still perky. I suppose if I gained weight, my neck would fill in a bit. Hmmm...I think I’ll take turkey wattle neck over being a chunky girl. Hey, I still have choices! Nice!