I have recovered the will to live. I worked yesterday and today. I even took a walk today. With the dog.
Our beloved Brenda, office manager, gave her notice yesterday. Crap. I have a lead on someone who sounds great but sheesh, we have to continue to roll with changes. The only constant.
I am eating rutabaga and tuna for dinner. Not together. With an apple/blueberry crunch leftover. I don't care what you think.
I suppose you all watched West Wing when it came out and I am woefully behind the times making my way through the gazillionty episodes of terrific writing and great acting. And it's politics. A liberal president and his staff. Stockard Channing is the First Lady and her mouth bothers me. Please tell me she hasn't had 'work' done. Besides her chestnutty colored hair which, I'm pretty sure, ain't her real hair anymore. My hair is sparkly gray and I think it's beautiful. Like Joan Baez:
I actually look like Penelope Cruz with glasses.
Tomorrow I'm going to have an ultrasound on my gallbladder. Fun, you're thinking. My doc waxed rhapsodic about the gallbladder laparoscopic procedure. Gave me chills but not the good kind. I've had pain all my life. Whenever stress strikes and my eating is irregular, I'm bound to suffer. I've even limped into the ER holding my middle and I'm spotted as a 'gallbladder'. I've read about the symptoms. I've been as good as I can be so I avoid attacks. Doesn't matter. And I'm over it. Really. I've taken to hoarding vicodan so in a crisis, I can get through the night. Damn, it would be swell not to be a slave to this pain anymore. By the way, old outdated vicodan is still good. Anything with tylenol in it is no good out of date. But don't throw it down the toilet. Pharmacies have places where you can bring your retired meds so they don't end up in salmon or the food chain.