Better

Yesterday, I went to bed at 4 pm. I woke up at 10 pm. Took some pills. Staggered back to bed.Woke up at 3:36 am and went back to sleep. Woke up...I don't know. Maybe 7? Maybe 8?

I wish that for three days I could have back the Xman who drifted around after I had a hysterectomy. Things were relatively clean, not that I went anywhere except to the bathroom and back for the first week. And at regular intervals, there were good, healthy, interesting meals. (I had given him some list from a book that had foods that are good for you while recovering. They weren't meant to be inclusive. But when I asked him where he went during that day, he said, "Grocery shopping! All the stuff on that list wasn't easy to find." Bless him, he did buy every last thing on the list. Then again, we'd never eaten better than in the entire time we'd been married.)

The sheets were clean. Madame had but to ring the bell and up would come the servant to cater to Madame's whims. I liked it. And I could deal with having that available to me for the next two days.

Ahem. But yes, my butt does feel better. When it starts to feel un-better, I take a pill and go back to bed.

Finger is now very purple but not swollen and can bend. Chin hurts and is not bruised. I'm finding other little places that ache, but all in all, live to fight another day, etc. etc.

The cats have been all over me. Dylan loves to rub on things. And when I'm holding him, what does he love most to rub on? My chin.

Yes, it is ironic and kind of funny that all of this stems from trying to get my ankles fixed.

It reminds me of a science fiction story about a guy who takes "Treasure Island" out of the library. He forgets to return the book and gets increasingly confused and confusing letters from the library until he is accused of kidnapping someone in the book and because he cannot produce the body of this person, alive or dead, ends up going to prison for life.

That just cracks me up.

Or the one about the guy who is in a hotel and leaves a note for housekeeping to stop leaving fresh bars of soap until he winds up being thrown out of the hotel because the housekeeper has become a nervous wreck, delivering more and more soap, and the hotel's bill from the soap vendor has run into thousands of dollars.

Yeah. That one kills, too.

I'm up and being sarcastic, so I must be better.