Dear Diary

Okay, here's how my week went: Sunday, I spent an entertaining Mother's Day with my older daughter, her boyfriend, and their two American bulldog pups, Rocky -- almost grown at six months, and Misha, who looks like a wind up toy at eight weeks. The dogs are straight out of Spanky and Our Gang. I have pictures on my phone, but I don't have the thingy to upload them and I haven't figured out how to email them. [Just shut up.]
          Since having puppies is like having babies, I got hours of grandma time without changing a single diaper. Not that there wasn't pee to clean up. Fortunately, poo was an outdoor event. 

This pup looks a lot like Misha minus the boy thing

          We started out the celebration with fresh squeezed orange juice and Veuve Clicquot [!?!?!] mimosas. As the last customer, I got a deal on a boatload of bagels from my favorite Jewish deli, which happens to be owned by an Arab who is Christian -- go figure. I brought containers of chive and plain cream cheese plus a half pound of Nova lox. But no onions or tomatoes because who needs bad breath or tomato guts squishing out the sides every time you bite down? 
          My daughter provided delicious Trader Joe's chicken sausages which were accompanied by freshly prepared ham and cheese scrambled eggs [thank you Mike]. The eggs were followed by several servings of my daughter's wonderful, eclectic spinach salad topped with olive oil and white balsamic vinegar. When we finished, it was time for lunch. I kid. To walk off a full twenty-five of those calories, we went next door so Rocky and Misha could have a play date with two other dogs. One of the dogs looked like a cross between an American bulldog and a horse, but that didn't stop teeny little Misha from playing bite the ankle with him. 
          So much for Sunday. I don't remember Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, except for work and it was cold [f**king May in Chicago] -- oh, saw my Hip Doc. He [and me] are both pleased. He said, "You look good." Of course, I always want to know what that REALLY means. I could have said, "So what do you mean GOOD?" But I didn't. So do I look GOOD, relative, say to the rest of the world? Like in the world of all women on earth? Or do I look GOOD, considering how BAD I looked before the surgery? A look which was rapidly descending into HORRIBLE. Or when the doc says I look GOOD, does he mean GOOD for my age group, which, I hardly need to point out, is losing members daily. Or do I look GOOD among people who have two new hips? GOOD could mean anything. Let's be realistic and concede that I may not look GOOD, as in 20, 30 or even 40 year old hotness, but clearly, there's been so much improvement in my overall disposition at least, that it seems like I look GOOD now. Certainly compared to THEN. Of course looking GOOD becomes increasingly impossible at sixty-six without intervention. Perhaps now that's not as important as having a GOOD attitude. Yep. It's all about attitude now. And we know what a great attitude I have. . .
          Meanwhile, I don't have to see him again for two years. Surprisingly, I was kind of disappointed to hear that. He's one of the few docs I LIKE. 

My hip doc, really

          Sometime during the week I also paid cash for a new used car -- A 4x4 white Ford Explorer. Also my stepma and I went to one of our favorite Asian restaurants for some potstickers, egg rolls, and mushroom beef and asparagus chicken. Isn't this riveting? Last night, if you're keeping track, I had Thai. 
          Thursday was a long day. It started with backyard flooding, thanks to the huge footprint of the McMansion built on the hill behind me -- but I was rescued by two firefighters who sandbagged my window wells. A couple of resourceful plumbers [one of them training for the Olympics in weightlifting, thank you] dug a hole and set up an industrial strength pump for the low low price of five hundred dollars. The good news is that they diverted the water from heading for the house and sent it down the driveway. Needless to say, after paying five hundred dollars, I now own that pump. 

Unretouched photo taken in my driveway

          Thursday night was the weekly meeting of the ladies barbershop group I joined. I am still learning the tunes and choreography. I have a CD of my part for every song, so I can sing along, learning as I drive. Since I'm a "bass" -- second alto is not a barbershop designation -- I'm not singing the actual tune, I'm singing a harmony part, which isn't very sexy. I say that based on the looks I get when the windows are open. Have I no shame? Apparently not. 
          Finally, Friday, I was downtown working. No biggie. The agency I was at is in a loft building on a street that has a huge cement mixing company. There are always several red and white cement trucks coming in and out of the gravel yard. As I was leaving for the day, I drove by the cement place only to see a big black horse standing outside a garage getting hosed down. WTF?     

 Imagine this horse standing in front of a city garage with two guys hosing him down like he's at a car wash