Why, thanks for asking

Well, then.

This is my second attempt at blogging.  Of course, this blog pales in comparison to my sister’s blog,  and it doesn’t have all the bells and whistles that most blogsites have. Yet.  I am getting long in the tooth, and anything requiring attention to detail is just a distraction and demands to be ignored. (Just look at my eyebrows).  I had found a treatment for this flaw, quite by accident. I had pulled a muscle in my back one day, and my doctor (who looks like Robert Redford as “Sundance Kid”, without the six-shooter. Or maybe that’s what he carries in the pocket of his Levi’s. I’m too old to even want to try to find out) prescribed Valium.  Hmm, Valium.  Isn’t that what the Stepfordian Wives take, along with a dry martini, whenever their child in Harvard fails to make the polo team, or when the housekeeper fails to reposition the leather wing-backed chair by the marble fireplace?  Nevertheless, I took the Valium as prescribed, washing it down with a gulp of warm flat soda in my car. Did I mention I took the pill right there at the drive up window of Walgreens? Cars behind mine, honking for their turn at the vacuum tube of pharmacopeia, while I wrestled with the child-proof cap.

Not knowing what to expect, I drove home immediately and sat down in the recliner, waiting for miraculous effects. 5 minutes passed. Nothing. 

 I turned on the television, bypassing the Food Network and Spike (Dr K’s favorite channels–when he’s not learning how to improve his Salmon En Crout,  he is watching people in Japan slide down hills in giant teacups and falling into vats of mud). I watch the ending of a movie from the 80’s where every woman is wearing bumper bang hair and wearing dresses with shoulder pads the size of footballs. Now I’m feeling a little something..a buzz? No, something else..but my back still hurts.

I stand up to go to the kitchen for a glass of something, nothing alcoholic for fear one of my children, if they smell booze on my breath,  will want to take my leather wing-backed chair back to their Ivy league school, when I finally notice it.

A scrap of paper on the floor. Who left that there? And here, a old, broken rubber band!  What the?  Another scrap of paper under the coffee table.  And here, a piece of yarn!   All of sudden, I see little bits of whatever all over the house. Never mind the dining table is heaped with library books, junk mail, cat toys, dirty coffee cups, whatever.  Or that the newspaper on the couch is from last week. Or that the dust on my furniture has a visible depth now and not a few drifts.  All I see, and want to pick up, are the little bits and pieces from the floor. My back is still hurting, but that doesn’t stop me from getting on my hands and knees with a plastic grocery bag on my search and destroy mission to find every scrap,every string, every twist-tie on the floors of my house. I spend about an hour going from room to room, ignoring dust bunnies and piles of laundry, until I have filled my bag and have exhausted myself. Oh, I am quite pleased! Thanks to Valium, I have the concentration and determination to clean my house, just as long as it’s miniscule and on the floor.

I get up off the floor, my cat’s meowing in concern that I’ve hurt myself as I moan in pain standing up.( I won’t tell you when the last time I was in that hands-and-knees position for any length of time, I’m too old to talk about it.) I go into the kitchen, make myself a rather large something-and-coke, then flop down in the recliner, imagining what it would be like to sit in a  leather wing-backed chair in front of my marble fireplace.


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