Getta glassa cider
There I saw the bedbug
Foolin’ around with the spider
Went down agin
Getta glassa gin
Doin’ it agin
One of these days I’ll figure out how to put sound files (like, me singing, eek) on these posts.
Sonofabitch. Two weeks ago, or maybe three, I don’t know, time is all mashed up these days–I had steroid injections in both shoulders. Hurt like a sonofabitch, but what to do, my xrays look just like those mace things the barbarians used to swing on chains, in order to bash people’s heads in. I mean, they have these bumps and stickers growing out of the ball part oft the joint, diving into my ligaments and muscles and cartilage and whatever else they could stick into.
My left shoulder felt real good after a couple of days. Right one, not so much, but better, I’ll take better.
No pain meds, we don’t do pain meds anymore, don’tcha know.
Imagine my surprise when I woke up this morning to find that I couldn’t get out of bed the normal way.
I sure started to, but the pain in my left shoulder gave me those black spots in my eyes and I had to lie back down and contemplate for a while.
After a suitable interval, and largely because my dog was standing by the door with her legs crossed, looking sad, I hove around and slid out of the sack, grabbing onto the towel rack (remember I live in a tiny RV where things are all squashed together) with my right hand YOW!
Sonofabitch. The right one too.
As if the cortisone wore off of both of them, synchronized, just like that.
I guess that is what happened.
So now what the fuck am I supposed to do?
This was my second set of injections. So I did a little reading on the topic, and found that each injection can poke little holes in the shoulder cartilage, until eventually you need a joint replacement.
But even worse, doing nothing will eventually lead to a joint replacement.
Mmmmm…..no, no likee.
Gotta find me a good acupuncturist. I know one in Tucson.
Hell, I am a good acupuncturist, just real hard to hit those points on the upper back.
But sonofabitch, I’m stuck in Western North Carolina.
I had big plans to start heading West last week, but being a weather buff, I looked at the maps and said “nope.”
Good thing, because I would have headed right into that bad line of tornados and mayhem.
Driving around doing random errands, I scraped the bottom of my RV on a sharply angled driveway, and next place I camped I noticed nasty stuff pouring out the bottom of the rig.
That’s what it was.
Somehow that minor scrape opened up a pipe joint (hey, that sounds good) in the sewage system. All well and good, since I was parked at an RV repair joint..rollll another one…
But no. It was a couple days before Christmas, and nobody was working.
I called RV repair joints all the way to Florida and the Midwest. Same story.
But good news! I got an appointment for this coming Wednesday! Only eight days I will have been hanging around here.
But bad news, if they can’t fix it on the spot…it’s my home, you know…And if they take out stuff in the sewer system, that’s real bad, because I use it…a lot…between the fucking lithium that causes me to pee every five minutes to the Crohn’s that goes in cycles, but when it goes, it GOES…
Well, my full-timers rider on my RV insurance will pay for a rental car and a hotel room if my rig is out of service, but sonofabitch, I don’t even have a single one of my vast suitcase collection with me.
Why would I? I live like a turtle. All my stuff goes with me, wherever I go.
Just another small conundrum. The RV life is never dull.
In the meantime I’m stuck here in beautiful (not) Marion, North Carolina, where there isn’t even a Cracker Barrel. That’s how small it is.
But it does have a rental car place, which got me all excited till I called them up, and the rental agent told me sadly that they don’t have any cars at the moment.
Oh, and there isn’t any lodging here, either, not even a Motel 6.
Oh well, something will turn up.
My mother, who lives 45 minutes from here in a place that makes Marion look like a booming metropolis, offered to come and get me.
Noooooooooooo! I’ll sleep in the woods first. Have done so before.
In the meantime, I’m back in bed, writing this on my phone with one finger and trying to keep from moving, so I don’t hurt my shoulders.
Atina the Malligator has her 70 pound self draped across my legs, warm and heavy, sweetly sleeping, but still scanning the environment with her ears: they are always on duty.
She is a sweet treasure, my Atina. Living in close quarters, we grow more and more in sync with each other. She doesn’t like to let me out of her sight, so I just tie her leash around my waist, and she is content to go where I go, do what I do.
I think that’s the way dogs and their people are meant to be. Together all the time.
If I’m somewhere safe, without cars or people or other dogs, I let her off the leash. She still sticks close, but the difference is, she carries a toy around with her and bugs the shit out of me to throw it for her.
Which I have no problem with, except my bum shoulders don’t allow for long throws; which means in two seconds she is back with the blasted toy, wanting me to throw it again.
Where is the ten year old kid when I need one? They could throw the damn ball while I’m busy, then disappear till I need them again.
But I’m happy to see her all waggy and full of doggie joy, so I throw and curse, throw and curse, until I see she’s had enough.
Doin’ it agin