Note One: This post is one week tardy according to my hump day calendar. Two days before last Wednesday’s post due date, I moved from Cambria to Morro Bay. (Two weeks earlier, I ran in front of a truck trying to save a young child and hurt my left wrist,* limiting packing to one hand.) The day before blog due date, I had an appointment with a hand specialist who scheduled surgery for the day after due date. So you see, I was preoccupied and not thinking clearly, as is evident by my behavior in pre-op. The last thing I remember before the anesthesiologist said, “You’re going to go to sleep now…” was my belting out of Ethel Merman’s signature tune from the musical Gypsy, “Everything’s coming up roses…”. Really, Heidi? Ethel Merman?! You couldn’t retrieve the words or song of some cool rock n’ roll tune?
*Tis a fib, I just fell
Note Two: In a cast and limping around like Quasimodo, now I’m having to unpack all my stuff with only one hand. Rather than sing woe is me, for psychological health, I’ve preferred to think of myself as Wonder Woman. Until yesterday. At the grocery store. In the freezer aisle, I’m perusing the selections of ready-made pizzas. Then, a surprise attack. Without warning, I poot (Tom’s word for fart; I like it, it’s southern quaint). Out loud. Through my peripheral vision, I spy a guy a few glass doors down. The sound was brief, a split second,…but.did he hear what I heard? Thankfully it was a sneaker, not a stinker. I stand frozen and stare directly ahead like nothing happened — but my mind is a flutter. “Is this age? Is this what it’s come to?! Pootin’ in public?”
Note Three: Coincidence? Divine affirmation? Strange beautiful weirdness? I believe there are only seven readers of this blog-thingy. To my recent realization and wonderment, each one of your names begins with the letter J! I find this immensely intriguing…
I know nothing. But I do know that your J hooks to my H, a blessed connection. Because of your support, I remain motivated. You keep my writing practice alive. And much more…
With gratitude, I love you, J’s.
“Who can explain it? Who can tell you why? Fools give you reasons. Wise men never try,”
— Rogers and Hammerstein
Next month shall discover something other than health talk and putenschnitzel…