Horrible-scopes

You know what I mean. Mine said today's an 8 - out of 10, so that's not bad - IF I blast myself out of the "doldrums." I didn't think I was there, but maybe so. One thing that's been nagging and dragging is my inattention to this blog. I've come to the conclusion that it's surviving on an oxygen tank now, so it's time to pull the plug.

I return to the office on Monday (can you believe it's been five weeks since the hippy shakeup?) and my tolerance for distraction is limited. If my new project stands any chance for life, it needs my undivided spare-time attention. If it launches, I'll let you know, so don't write off my absence as permanent.

Turns out the "fish" are starting to bite again. If you know me, you understand the parentheses around this reference to two-legged bottom feeders (kidding guys!) and I'm not sure I'm up for that distraction either. Seems like an enormous cultivation effort to turn one into a frog, and from frog to prince is mostly a fantasy. I'm more inclined to keep my attention on the real men in my life - my sons and grandsons. After all, they're perfect already.

Thanks to you loyal readers who stayed with me. I hope you enjoyed what you got, and if you didn't, at least it didn't cost you anything :)

Over and out for real now ---

Beerma

Walkin' my baby back ...

Okay, so my "back" doesn't exactly qualify as baby, but it's smaller than it was a year ago and still shrinking. Today, Beth took me out to work it sans walker. First time on the track solo and boy was it work. But in a little over two weeks I'm back to work and determined to enter under my own steam so the evil people I call my friends can't torment me.

Isn't if funny how much nastier than total strangers are the people we like and who profess to like us, too? It's a form of humor I've often indulged in - the undercuts and jabs and usually in jest. It's when I get stern and talk very nicely that you know I'm no longer teasing. So I'm working to forgive my dear friend who likened being a Democrat to one who needed to be reincarnated to a higher intelligence. I know he was kidding, but like I said in an earlier blog, when I think politics I tend to get mean. It's just one more sign that I'm ready to return to civilization and the company of others. I need a buffer from myself - I think we tend to be too serious about our own egos sometimes.

Enjoy the sunshine.

Valentine's Day 2010

It was great - all my valentines were collected under my roof. There's not a lot to say about that, because it just doesn't get much better.

I hope all of you reading this had a good weekend. I'm watching roads and awaiting calls from Joel right now as he and Amy make their way back to KC. Weather isn't good and no-tow is in effect, so hoping they can stay on the road and get through without incident.

Evan loves his claw! He also loves his Star Wars guys and helmet and Super Hero PJs. He so thoroughly enjoyed his birthday party that it makes me wish for my own to be that age again. For a day or two, that is. Maybe a few hours ... they were a handful.

Love ya all!

Beerma

Nuts to peanuts

The Wolverine claw came today. I'm excited that I'll have the birthday present that Evan's been waiting on for months, but what a blow to eco-friendly. Not Evan's fault. No, the blame lies squarely with K-Mart. Get a load of the size of the box the claw came in compared to the size of the claw box itself. I could barely believe it when I opened the box and saw peanuts full to the edge!

Now, it's not like the claw, or maybe since it's causing me such consternation, I should call it The Claw, is made of fragile glass or ceramic material and must be protected. It's not like The Claw is of its own volition going to jump out of its confines and inflict lethal damage. It's not like The Claw needs so much protection in transit, more than that afforded a developing baby with amniotic fluid, I think. No, I think I know what it is. Whoever - or should that be whomever? whatever - boxed The Claw had a buttload of peanuts to dump and didn't want to pay the extra fee for disposal. This is free trade at its finest, don't you think? Pass the buck, even in peanuts.

Originally I planned to dump the peanuts in garbage bags (recycling crew won't take them), but after filling the one in the picture I realized it'd take five or six. So, given that half of what I tried to get in the bag ended up on the floor, I shoveled them back into the box. When I can drive again, I'm going to rip my name from the box and take this treasure out to K-Mart and let them have it. With a piece of my mind, maybe, providing there's any left after all these weeks of rattling around by myself all day.

Homemade beef/barley soup for supper and it smells darned good in here. That's my solace for today.

Dressing boys as girls

I watched Ellen this morning. The last guest was a staff member who submitted a bad "paid-for" photo of himself. Seems he was Boy Number Four and his mother had despaired of having the girl she'd yearned for, so, before his first haircut around the age of two, Mom borrowed a neighbor girl's dress, did up her little boy's golden locks with ponytail and ribbon and, click, there he was preserved for posterity as a temporary she-child.

I confess to letting my sons' hair get long enough to qualify for ribbons and barrettes before the first haircut, mostly out of busy-ness with so many kids to care for, but I did NOT dress them as girls. Their sister did that. I hope they've forgiven both of us. They all seem normal and well-adjusted. At least on the surface ;)

Short blog, "running off" to walk the mall, hopefully to find some Wolverine jammies to go with the electronic retractable claw I got for Evan's birthday. Oh boy, his mom and dad are sure gonna thank me. He'll probably need a cage to play in with his claw so he doesn't do damage to his sister, cats or dogs in the house. Another prerogative of Beermahood!

Eggplant makes "her" debut on Beerma's blog

Hello and welcome to the snow. Or take the snow and shove-l it. I'm over it, jealous that I wasn't on a Caribbean cruise and slightly embittered by being housebound. I miss my wheels!

Good time coming this weekend - unless the weather craps on us, of course. Eggplant, the newest photo posted here, is bringing her parents to visit this weekend from Kansas City. Let me say that the gender isn't determined and Joel and Amy don't want to know, but I'm applying all voodoo I can for another girl. We're severely outnumbered in this Wazac clan by the guys, so I'm hoping. But you and I know it won't make a bit of difference. Once here, he or she will be perfect, as are all my grandchildren. Some days they're perfect hellions, but that's all part of the package.

Evan turned five the day after his Mom and Dad got home from their cruise, so his party is this coming weekend, too. It'll be nice that his Uncle Joel and Auntie Amy can be here. That doesn't happen too often. Evan is something of our "miracle baby." He was born 10 weeks premature with several health issues that required an immediate ambulance trip to Iowa City, where he spent the next many weeks in ICU. At one point, he was only as big as his daddy's hand. Granted Michael at 6'5" has big hands, but that was still one small baby. He survived all the bumps in the road and now graces us with charm and humor way beyond his years. He just knew he was going to need new clothes the day after his birthday since he would be five and nothing from four years old would fit. He also wants Wolverine claws, which I'm hoping to find before this weekend. If you know where I can find them, please let me know!

I keep looking at the snow out there, trying to screw up the courage to shovel, but I'm slowly stifling the urge. My mail carrier said forget it, save the hip since she's already been through and has nice tall boots. After all, who else matters? Well, meter readers like my son Michael, but I hear they can read from a distance and hopefully my unshoveled sidewalk won't matter today. I've been motating around here without my walker - ain't that great! Even doing the stairs without and feeling pretty confident. Pretty soon, I'll be walking that track on my own, too, and then ... rats, I'll be driving to Iowa City every day for work. Ah well, time enough to dread that. At least I can hope that the snow will be gone by then.

Lunchtime!

More firsts

There's life outside my house. I saw it today and drank it in, along with a Blue Moon. Sherri took me to lunch at Parlor City. It really felt great to be at the bar, not very crowded on a Sunday afternoon so no chance of being jostled and a good first step back to socialization.

I also left the walker in the car. Less than three weeks post-op and flying solo. Am I proud of me? You bet! I still tote it up and down stairs - haven't got ALL my confidence back yet, but most of the time I walk around the house without it.

Had some of my tribe over for dinner last night and I did the cooking. I've missed making messes in the kitchen. This is a good time to do it, too. I earned sympathy points and my dear daughter cleaned up after us.

I've been sketching ideas for my next project and I'm anxious to get back at it. That's my plan for "watching" the Stupor Bowl. I figure this way I can put my time to good use and not be the only person in America to miss seeing the Saints win. Or the Colts. I really don't care much, but think it'd be a nice comeback for N'awlins to see the Saints triumph. And I like Who Dat! If the Colts have anything as catchy, I've missed it.

Another first: Pictures of "Eggplant," my grandbaby due in June were posted on Facebook. So far, "she" is skeletal, and gender is undetermined as far as I know, but I'm getting my voodoo in place for a girl. We're greatly outnumbered by testosterone in this family and need some feminine infusion. I'll take whatever we get, though, and keep my fingers crossed for the next time.

Back to my Sunday crossword. It's giving me a hard time today. Or my brain is getting fuzzy. Maybe the lunchtime beer will put it all back in perspective.

Happy weekend,

Beerma

A day of happy news

First things first: Happy Birthday to my dear friend Jim, he who first dubbed me Beerma. It's a special day because he loves to pick at numbers the way a nit-picker picks louse eggs. When he was my housemate and turning 44, he proudly announced that his age plus the year of his birth ('55), equaled the actual year we were in ('99). Clever, huh? And now his birth year and his age are the same. So enjoy 55, Jimmy. I remember it fondly ...

Next, the money woes are over. My generous HR department is paying me throughout my leave in spite of the snafus (see "Cure for low blood pressure" blog from 1/28). There are no strings attached that wouldn't apply to a regular employee, and I'm only being asked to work as much as my recovery allows. That's something I've been doing anyway, so no hardship at all. I can't describe the relief. Well, yes I can. It's like that moment you get home from a long grocery shopping trip and realize that you're about ten seconds from peeing your pants. You fumble through unlocking the door, dumping the bags in your arms and racing downstairs to the bathroom just in time ... aaaahhhh.

Here's a news item that should keep us all humble, especially on those days where every muscle aches and we feel we're just too damned old for all this. My mother, my 77-year old mother we fondly call Eeevil-lyne and Grammy, went to work today for a tax-prep company. She'll be doing part-time jobs like answering the phone, setting appointments, filing and "a little billing work on the computer." I'm confident in her ability with the first three and made her take a notebook to detail the steps for the last. I'm keeping my fingers crossed for her and truly do marvel at her ambition. Most 77-year old widows would consider a job ancient history, but for Evelyne, it's one more challenge to conquer. To celebrate, she's taking me out to Dead/Red Lobster for dinner. Thanks, Mom.

This morning I had my first shopping outing. Beth drove me around, first to visit Aaron who's still beyond darling, and then to the absolutely fabulous realm of Walmart. In my glamorous grey sweat pants and cranberry sweatshirt with a paisley scarf for decoration, I was decidedly overdressed for the occasion. I even put on some makeup so as not to appear the ghost of my own self, which only emphasized my fellow-shopper zombies. I succeeded in getting today's exercise and wearing out my poor daughter who's still in her own post-op recovery mode. To her fell the task of hauling my bags inside and running items up and down stairs to their proper home. Since I only got one daughter, I'm glad I got the good one. You can wipe away your tears now or go spit, whichever that last sentiment inspired. She's great, though, and I'm damned lucky.

That's the second time I used "damned" in this blog. Just an observation. My language has been amazingly clean here, so I'll excuse myself for the lapse.

I hear more snow is headed at us tonight and tomorrow. Once again, can I mention how nice it is to be tucked away where it's warm and dry and makes no difference what condition the streets are in??? Yep, I'm rubbing it in. Stay safe on your drives and I'll be pulling for you. After all - you're on your own out there in spite of Red Green's parting shot. (If you've never watched the Red Green Show, you should check it out. PBS on Saturday night, I believe. And don't give me that "date-night" whooey.)

Bubbly babbling Beerma

Shoveling

I am PROUD of myself! Yesterday I took my walker for a stroll to the sidewalk and, with shovel in hand, we cleared away the snow. This might not sound like much of a feat, but when you look at the males on either side of me who haven't shoveled through two snowfalls, I'm SuperWoman. Much younger males, I might add. Huh.

A sign you're watching too much daytime TV: You start talking to the people in the box as though they could hear or care. I listened to myself ranting yesterday about some of the asinine arguments against rescinding "don't ask/don't tell." Being gay isn't a disease, let alone contagious, so why all of a sudden do some lawmakers think separate housing accommodations would be necessary if gays were known? Haven't they been sleeping in barracks with their fellow men and women quite comfortably for these past years since Mr. Bill convinced the country this weasel tactic of DA/DT was the law of the military? Geesh. Another irony to it all is that the same republican party that argued against the democrat compromise in the Clinton era is now championing it.

I need to get back to being too busy to pay attention to politics. It just makes me mean.

I'm experiencing a couple of minor setbacks to recovery these past couple of days. First, my RBC (red blood cell) count is 8.8 and should be at least 12. Suggestions from my doctor include 325 mg. of iron twice daily. Can't do that, tried it once and was convinced I'd die from stomach pain and inability to eat without disastrous GI consequences best left to the imagination. Next suggestion? Liver, red meat, dark green veggies. I can do the last but no more liver is crossing this tongue, trust me. I ate enough with my dad back in the day just because he loved it so and invited me to dinner once a week to enjoy along with him. It's one of those things that now I'm glad I did, but he's gone and I don't have to fake liver-love any more!

So it's veggies and vitamin C which you smart people know will help absorb iron. I learned that my yogurt should be eaten separately from iron as dairy products tend to block absorption. Ah, the joys of Internet research. I do this stuff long enough and I'll be an expert on a bunch of nothing.

My incision decided to open up a bit yesterday and annoy me. Doctor says it's normal and if still oozing and dripping (it's that gross-out thing from Stephen King) tomorrow, off to the doc I go. I'm hoping for cooperation. I recognize the smell of medical facilities a mile away now and am afraid it's a stench permanently entrenched in my nostrils. If you've ever taken Fido to the vet, you know the reaction when he first gets wind of where he's headed. That's me, pulling at the leash and gnawing at my arm to get free.

Aaron went home from the hospital yesterday. Before he left, he was getting a bath while I talked to my son on the phone, so I got to hear him cry. I loved it - nice lusty lungs to prove he's capable of interrupting a night's sleep. Does that mean I'm wishing for my own kids what they dished out to me? Sure does and it's the Beerma prerogative.

Shower time.

Monday Monday

Do I look different? Do I feel different? Can't say that I do, but I am happy that the newest Baby Waz made his debut and is now among us to be passed around, cuddled and kissed. He's a beautiful baby, and that's not just proud Beerma talking. Mom and Dad are doing fine, too, and in spite of C-section might be coming home tomorrow.

The stats for those who are interested:
Name: Aaron James Wazac
Birthdate: Jan. 31, 2010, 8:17am
Vitals: 8# 1oz., 19.75" long, light peach fuzzy hair
Important fact: Peed on himself right away, made Daddy proud

Big recovery news: I've lost one steri-stitch. As far as I can tell, that leaves nine more to dry up and blow away. I'm doing fine walking on the hospital track and out in public and absolutely LOVE the handicrap restroom at Biaggi's. They put the sink in with the toilet and there's enough room to dance in there. Using something even as minor as a walker gives me a new appreciation for how wheelchair-bound people have to negotiate their travels.

I've also blown off the TED hose. They'd creep up between my toes at night and wrinkle around my ankles and knees like elephant skin while I tossed and turned. I did some Internet reading about them and found conflicting points of view, no surprise, but the consensus seemed to be that once a surgical patient is ambulatory - and baby, I AM - using TED hose is probably not necessary. Some surgeons don't want patients to use them at home at all as there are reported cases of popping the new joint out of place trying to put the things on. I can certainly understand that. Donning TEDs is like trying to fit my pre-weight-loss body into my daughter's jeans. I could hooch and wriggle and grunt and stop breathing to get them over my tush, but what would I do with the flabalanche hanging over the waistband or the seams threatening to explode the minute I moved??? Maybe my swollen thigh won't look so obnoxious without the definition of the hose.

As slowly as my bruising is fading, though, I've decided that purple, green and yellow make lovely leggings.

While I've had hours to think, I've cooked up an idea for my next project and am anxious to get started. It's more ambitious than this blog has been and will require coordination with a web host and graphics designer. Good thing I happen to know some people. That's the long way of saying I'll be closing down this blog eventually (this is an edit from yesterday, when I thought I was done, but got some convincing requests to continue a bit longer). I want to thank those of you who have followed, either anonymously or not, and especially thank those who took the time to post comments. When my next project is ready, I'll post a notice here and/or a link on my Facebook site. If you'd like to know about it and don't do FB, check here or send an email to me at kwazac@yahoo.com and I'll clue you in. I'm aiming for summer, so don't hold your breath while you wait or you'll look just like one of my bruises.

One last comment about THR (remember the beginning? Total Hip Replacement). You who said so were all dead-on about it being such an improvement. I'm nowhere near finished with recovery, but already my knees don't ache and the movements I do make with my new hip only hurt when I laugh. Okay, not funny, but the "pain" is merely that of sore muscles needing further exercise and not the bone-grinding ache of a degenerating joint. So here's to the Hippy Hippie Shake!

Love y'all! No longer "laid up," but laid over now by "popular demand."

Beerma

Rounding out the week

It's Saturday and I think I'll remember this one. Last Saturday was a blur of drugs, thankfully, and I did enjoy them as I was urged to do by one who's been here, done this. Thanks, Jan and Don for the card.

Flowers that I got from my dear friends Jane and Jerry are still brightening up my living room and mock the bitter cold a few feet outdoors. Hah. More than one way to beat the Iowa winter. Not quite as powerful a beating as escaping on a tropical cruise like my son Michael and his wife, Tracy, but me and my TED hose wouldn't be much of a draw on the beach anyway. And since I was asked, here's more than you need to know about TEDs:

TED stands for thrombo-embolism deterrent, among other variations, such as thrombosis-embolism deterrent. The stockings are used as a preventive measure against the formation of stationary blood clots (thrombosis) and blood clots which move (embolus).

Don't you feel enlightened now?

I'm also happy to report that the mystery of the strawberry-sender is solved. My son Joel jokingly told me, after reading my blog about receiving them and the surprise snow shoveler, that he actually sent a guy to do the shoveling and just had him bring the strawberries along for fun. So I thought he was kidding as he's known to do, but he wasn't. It doesn't change a thing. I still loved them, happy that I shared them with other women in his life - his sister, his sister-in-law, his Grammy - and still wish he'd been here to have some with me. Joel lives in Missouri, near KC, and he and his wife Amy are expecting their first baby in June.

Tomorrow's the red letter day for my son Jamie! He and his wife Sarah are having their boy by C-section around 7:30am if all goes as planned. I've seen 3-D ultrasound pictures and felt him kick and am so ready to hold him. If I'm this excited, imagine how they must feel. They were cleaning their house earlier, so I guess that means they're overcome with practicality. I'm glad that Beermas aren't bound to such mundane things as clean houses and being practical.

Time to grab a nap and dream up ideas for the next post. Any requests?

Cure for low blood pressure

Hi there. It's nice to know there's someone reading - thanks for your comments. I enjoy them as much, sometimes more, than writing. I've received some very good writing advice and try to squeeze in the "homework assignments" from Tara, but it's going to compromise my sleep, gotta fess up. Naps are becoming luxuries now instead of the way of life. The inferno is of my own making.

Low blood pressure was a concern during my hospital stay, corrected with saline and two units of A negative blood. Then I got a message today from the insurance carrier for Short Term Disability (capitalized intentionally so you don't get confused when I say STD) insurance. Seems I don't qualify, a little factoid overlooked by my own HR department when communicating processes for medical leave. Reading the website policy, I was still convinced I qualified, and finally got an iota of satisfaction when three HR people agreed it was misleading. Now it needs to be rewritten, and they offered all their apologies for the misunderstanding that's just part of the "learning curve." Whatever that means. Low blood pressure is no longer an issue.

I think they're going to offer a compromise (HOPING!) that will allow me time to recuperate and do some work, albeit less than a full day, while still getting paid. If not, expect to find me schlepping along the Ave, plying the oldest trade known to horny men, all in hopes of finding money for the water bill and details to flesh out a fictional rendition of what's been dubbed my "sordid sex life." Gotta have one to be sordid, so I'll see what I can do about that.

Still no one taking credit for the awesome chocolate-covered strawberries, unless I buy the witty response of my acerbic coworker and writing taskmaster. Tara, is it really you? In all the hullabaloo the last day or so, I've forgotten to call Edible Arrangements for confirmation. Don't make me do it. Take your well-deserved bow, unless you already have. FYI, the delicacies have been devoured.

Night all.

Perfect timing

There's a new picture today. Note it well and eat your heart out. As for me, I'm going to cut the chocolate-covered strawberries into bite-size pieces and let the creamy deliciousness melt in my mouth before I savor the strawberry sweetness. I've already had one, four separate bites, and if you think that's fast, realize that I delayed long enough to take a picture of the arrangement before I indulged.

There's a story behind the strawberries. I was having a pity party for myself this morning. Boo-hoo, why do I have to be alone. Wah, it's so hard fixing my own supper. Dammitall, why do I have to make all these trips up and down stairs myself ... you can hear me, can't you? And then there's the snow blown across my sidewalks after yesterday's storm and no one volunteering to fix that for me. My daughter would, I know, but she's having a hysterectomy at noon so her day is tied up. My mother would, too, but that poor lady has enough trouble staying on her own two feet (she fell yesterday leaving my house). And how can I ask a 77-year old multiple-joint replacement woman to do what should come naturally to my whipper-snapper sons? In their defense, they're at work and would doubtless come over afterward, but the fact is the sidewalk was ankle-deep in snow when the Edible Arrangement gentleman stopped by with my fantastic - and anonymous - delivery a short time ago. He was so cheerful I forgot to feel sorry for myself, especially when I saw the goodies in the bag. And then he almost knocked my walker out from under me when he picked up a shovel and told me he'd take care of this snow. This man had never met me before, will probably never see me again, and I doubt he was looking for exercise (I'd guess his age at 70 or more), but he's etched himself forever in my Hippy Shake memory.

The person who sent the strawberries reads this blog and is firmly etched, too. The attached card was dedicated to "the reclamation of your chocolate habit with a little nutrition to boot." I love the sentiment as much as I love the taste treat. Well, almost as much. Thank you thank you thank you. If you want to stay anonymous, then I'll call the EA office and see if I can weasel a name from them. If you'd like to reveal yourself, I'm guessing you'll just confirm my suspicions. Either way, I sure wish you were here to share with me.

Another treat today: my friend and former co-worker Sherri is bringing lunch. In her honor, I got dressed up in clean sweats and a bra. I even put on some face paint. See the great lengths I'll go to for friends and food?

Criminal mind

It's been a while since I've written, hasn't it? Expecting an apology? Good that you're not. I'm so far away from surgery now that blogging on rehab almost seems moot. After all, I had a real shower today, hot water running over my face and wetting every inch of my grateful skin. Every inch, that is, except those protected by Press'n'Seal. (What it can do for keeping food fresh it can do for keeping incisions dry.) I've been up and down stairs as often as if I had important business afoot and I've even done laps on my front porch. These things are necessary for good recovery and to keeping my butt from falling permanently asleep.

I eat mostly normal, though I have yet to reclaim my chocolate habit. Stomach is still on the queasy side, so I make nutrition happen first. There's usually no room after that. So you think I'd drop a pound or two, right? Get this - after all the months faithfully adhering to my low-carb eating and consciously cutting fat calories, losing 63 pounds, I come home from the hospital weighing FOURTEEN POUNDS MORE than the day I went in. Believe me, I'm going googling to see just how much a fabricated hip joint weighs. Here's hoping the doctor didn't leave behind his chain saw.

I woke up this morning from a dream where I was writing some sort of exposé from a women's prison. Psychiatrists could be in diagnostic heaven analyzing that dream, but it led me to the realization that writing - even something as low-powered as this blog - requires the same basic elements as any crime: means, motive and opportunity. Figurative butt-kicking acknowledged previously accounts for motive, but what I've lacked lately are means and opportunity.

I have two computers available for my use in this house. There's the home setup upstairs, the warmest room in the house, good light from two big windows, new speakers to air my music, comfortable old chair and bathroom just down the hall. Downstairs is the laptop, the go-anywhere tool I could even take TO the bathroom if I were perverse enough. It would appear then that I have means. Until today, I've had about a dozen impediments to access these means in the form of caretakers and visitors. I've enjoyed all of them and sincerely appreciate their help, so I hope none who might be reading take offense when I say I'm also enjoying the quiet that dominates right now. So opportunity has been restored, and since I'm unable to write with people dangling over my shoulder or hovering just a foot away, I chose to celebrate my solitude right here in cyberspace with you. This need for the furtive just points out to me that writers might make good criminals, although I don't think it necessarily follows that criminals would make good writers.

Harking back to my dream, perhaps the message in all of this is that I'm pursuing the wrong path. Instead of writing my own story, should I investigate a career in ghost-writing the memoirs of an Iowa soccer mom who eliminated her son's team competition ala "Misery"? If I ever began to understand people like this, I'd hope there's some one among you cares enough to have me committed.

Off to nap, perchance to have another wacky dream. Let me offer my condolences to those of you who have to slog through the snow today. You don't think my choice of surgery date was an accident, do you?

Beerma

Moving slow

And slow ends with ow. But less ow today than yesterday. So enough on my progress. I have a 4-inch incision which was greatly admired by the nursing staff. The bikini I'll never wear would hide it just fine.

My mother's stint overnighting with me is done and the next team has moved in. My daughter and her two boys, along with a cousin of theirs, are camping out with me tonight. It's pizza and Harry Potter. Maybe Pizza Hut grease will accomplish what the laxatives, stool softener and extra fiber haven't yet done. If you expect to hear all about that in great detail, swallow your disappointment right now.

I mentioned Tara's trickery last time, and you're witnessing it in action. I figured out that she'd get me hooked on this blogging thing so that I would experience pangs of guilt for not writing. Let's give her a hand for successful manipulation. To you, Tara, in the midst of my pain and wooziness, for the ability to kick me in the butt. Don't forget I'll be back at work soon with my own new and improved butt-kicking ability.

About my brief hospital stay: My room was where the fun happened. The nurses congregated frequently when they needed contact with a patient who could actually hear or whose primary concern wasn't the fact of not pooping. I also didn't scream like the elderly woman down the hall. One good thing about her bellowing, though - I'm sure she was clearing out her lungs and eliminating the possibility of pneumonia. I did narc on the old guy next door. I was in a good sleep about 1:00 in the morning and suddenly blasted awake by the sound of CNN news on his TV. I guess he missed the memo about quiet time between 10pm and 6am.

I did discover that none of the therapy instructors have any real good information about resuming sex. It's apparent that their teaching materials still assume a geriatric population where waiting three months for sex is called foreplay. Aside from the length of wait time, I'd like to know about the advisability of certain positions or levels of expended energy, but figured I'd better do some research on my own. After all, I have the next two months, 28 days, 12 hours and 37 minutes to learn. Counting down ...

How to prep for surgery

Important: Follow all the directions, get your x-rays, your blood tests, your EKG, even go the extra mile and get an echocardiogram just to make sure your heart is pumping properly.

Rather important: Make plans for recovery and caretakers to wait on your every wish, providing you have any wishes beyond going to sleep until it's all over.

Most important: The do. I did the do as promised and the "new" me is posted. Not radical, but a nice little difference that should perk me up when I face the mirror.

Other things to plan: Unload the computer from work. Have a leisurely dinner (last decent food for awhile, remember). Remove tags from the recovery wardrobe freshly purchased from Walmart, easy enough since it's all sweats and tags are peel-off, then wash the clothes for packing when done. Take your shower, scrub your hip hide according to the disinfectant directions. Wash your hair, blow dry, and style if necessary because 4:30AM is no time to care about your looks. Make sure your phone is charged, your hospital reading material is packed and crawl in bed early with some kick-ass drugs to help you sleep. Sounds pretty good, doesn't it?

Here's the reality: My daughter-in-law got in a sitter bind so I'm hosting a couple of grandkids. They got here just as I finished scraping some piles of snow from my walkway in order to get in the house after surgery. They were hungry. Beerma had to pee. Ran down to the bathroom, raced back upstairs to scour the freezer for kid food. I just realized I used two verbs that won't be part of my activities after tomorrow. Run. Race. Hah.

No chicken nuggets. No mac and cheese. They don't want peanut butter. I did find one kid's TV dinner and enhanced it with grapes, Cheetos and chocolate milk. Magic food. I even halved the stupid grapes and got the seeds out and promised Evan no cookie until he ate every single one of those damned things. I'm still irritated about the seeds. I thought I was buying seedless.

So it's 7:30, laundry still awaits, packing of some sort will happen, and if I get to bed by midnight, it means I can eat and drink right up to sleep time. Tomorrow is it. Folks at work were great today, wishing me well and even saying they'd miss me. The nice thing is, some of them really will.

Carly needs the Ninja costume zipped and Evan needs his butt wiped. Off to do my Beerma duty. And then see what I can find to eat.

I have an idea for my next post: Tara Trickery. Stay tuned.

My First Time

Hello, bloggers. I'm signing on for the first time (just what did you THINK the title was about???) at some insistent urging from friends and coworkers. It's not because I've always had a burning yen to blog - in fact, I find it curious that other people even care to read one person's thoughts without some solid evidence that it's worth the time - but I know a handful who will read this if for no other reason than to poke fun at me.

It's also not because I'm motivated by any political, religious or otherwise zealous fever to spread the word. Those who know me accept that spreading words isn't my reason for living. I think the reason behind this blog lies in the blog topic - laid up, over and out. Two days from now I undergo total hip replacement surgery and will be at home for at least six weeks. After initial recovery, I plan to start working again - from home - but there are a lot of hours in the day and my friends want to make sure I don't have time for mischief. As if there couldn't be plenty of mischief in words. Heh.

So, while I have no particular topic in mind at the moment, I have a tentative plan to chronicle activities, situations, inspirations and recovery progress during the next few weeks. After that, we'll see.

My first activity of the Hippy Shakeup is to color my hair. It's an unusual silvery hue right now, but my hairdresser has been pushing for an experiment, so today I turn myself over to her and let her transform me. Most likely, I'll look quite the same but with a wig.

Also happening this afternoon is the installation of handrails. If a THR (that's total hip replacement) doesn't impress one's age enough on the fragile psyche, handrails are guaranteed to decimate. Handrails! They're for OLD PEOPLE. Old people smell like cabbage. I don't smell like cabbage, so why do I need handrails?

One last word about my signature: seems I'm in the midst of identity crisis. Once upon a time, I was just Kendy. Then I had kids and became Mom. Then the kids started breeding and suddenly grandmotherhood was upon me. I became Beerma, which distinguishes me from the other grandmas in the family. Also because I like beer; as my oldest grandson said at the charming age of 2, it's Beerma's favorite soda. And the title was a gift from a former housemate. Jim, here's to you.

Thanks for reading,

KendyMomBeerma