Anarchic_Universe® by tina oiticica harris
My husband left for a meeting in D.C. My son sleeps like a log. At a tad before one a.m. I had to go number one. I called for GHR. NADA. When he finally got to me, I was sliding off the bed. I ended up on the low pile wool carpet. I'm allergic to wool.
I call the home-grown Ph.D. HIs proposal is simple: lie on the floor till 9:30 a.m. That's when my helper arrives. I called 9-1-1. And I refuse to tell you about the horror story there at UCLA Student-Hospital in Westwood. A dominatrix nurse, pretty-young-thing, a nursing mother, very likely, "If you walk to the bathroom with me, I'll let you have a spinal tap. No walker, no wheelchair."
It was quite night-day-marish. The blood samples people made eleven holes in my arms to find a vein. The worst was yet to come. The chief of the E.R. a cute young cat from D.C. missed the spinal tap four times. He hit my sciatica instead(right leg.)
My C-Pap machine broke down. I've lost track of the days. I missed my insuline shots at the E.R. and some ambitious blogger went to the corner to buy cigarettes on me. Play me Liza Minelli. From Cabaret, by Bob Fosse. Please.
Tomorrow we have our del.icio.us links as usual, gathered by André_Marmota, Seth A, Tom_Watson, and Tina, yours truly. I hope you enjoy them. The photo is of a ground cover that spreads like this newer generation's belief they'll never be old. Sigh. All rights reserved.
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