Stupid buggers

I should be overjoyed and energetic. The days are getting longer, with little green bits and flowers popping up here and there. Despite seven inches of rain in less than a week, we had an absolutely splendid spell of spring-like weather, without a white flake in sight.

Not long ago, when a summer day was about to hit us full force, I decided that enough was enough, and stopped taking that stupid antibiotic, the one for lymes where you can’t go out in the sun without coming back in within minutes resembling an overcooked lobster. And oh, what a delectable day it was, sitting on the beach in tank top, shorts and happy bare feet, watching my dog romp, gazing at sailboats gliding up the bay, feeling the heat of the sun on what’s left of my body.

That was the last nice day I had, before beginning a dark descent back into an unsteady world of exhaustion. The person I used to be could stay energized for days, sticking to the wet, sideways-slanting deck of a sailboat in a gale with one toe. Despite eight months of treatment, this person I've become still sometimes can't remain upright on level ground, and wouldn't pass a sobriety test despite consuming no alcohol in nearly a year (because booze exacerbates the sick wobbly feeling I live with, that's why-and save the unbalanced jokes, okay?)

I hadn't expected to start falling apart for at least another decade, thinking it would happen gradually enough that there would be plenty of time to get used to the idea of becoming a decrepit doddering dame, instead of the physically strong, able-to-rebuild-a-sailboat-in-a-single-bound-bundle-of-energy that I had been.

I'm still struggling with having been bouncy and active one minute, and flattened the next. Now, it's hard to remove a lid from a jar that's already been opened. What a wimp.

Place your bets-will I get any of my strength back, or will I always be this weak pansy girl who annoys me no end by wanting to sleep all the time?

The $1,000 Stomach Ache

It began with me washing the poo off my dog’s butt at 5 am. I dunno, maybe it’s just me, but I can think of a few better ways to start a day. At 9, she tossed her cookies. At 11:00, she looked at me with glazed eyes, obviously unwell. By 1, she couldn’t even stand up.

I learned something that day. Vets are like people doctors. They’re all off playing golf on Wednesdays. That left me with only the most expensive place to take her, the doggy ER.

Had I not taken her, odds were high that she would have died. The cause is still not certain. Let’s, shall we, list the known toxins on our 23 acres of property, of which she has free reign: There’s the ‘graveyard’, which is the area in the vicinity of the cat door. It’s always littered with corpses of all types: Birds, mice, moles, voles, chipmunks, formerly cute little bunnies, the occasional bat, and other creatures that are no longer identifiable. Normally there are at least three dead things available for immediate consumption at any given time. That cat is a career killer.

All over can be found an assortment of cat poopsicles, deer scat, rabbit raisins…Ok, let’s face it, there’s a lot of yummy crap out there. But apparently that’s not only harmless, it can even be beneficial to a dog. Lovely. And I suppose rolling in doodoo is good for her coat? Maybe, but it’s not good for my nose, which is why she gets chucked in the tub on the occasions when she comes in reeking.

Then there’s the compost heap full of used dirt and micro green bits. My dog loves the greens that grow in the greenhouse (which is why she’s not allowed in there-dogs in the trays are not up to code), but I’m guessing that, like the carcasses, after those tasty treats have been decomposing for a while, they probably aren’t the healthiest choice of snacks.

Then there’s the infinite supply of sticks to chew into bits.

Whatever it was that nearly did her in, she certainly seems all better now, ready to romp and chomp once again. Thank goodness it’s a crappy weekend, not suitable for playing outside. When it stops raining, if it ever does, I intend to surreptitiously monitor her movements, in what will most likely be a vain attempt to discover what it was that she munched. In about a week, she gets her liver functions rechecked. If everything is fine, it was simply something she ate.

That was a heck of an expensive meal.

A Season of Reruns:

We interrupt this broadcast to bring you the following
special report:



We now return you to your regularly scheduled programming:

Raise your hand if you're ready to change the channel to spring after seeing that special report.*




*although the air temp on Tuesday was 52, with plentiful sunshine and not a hint of wind, bay water temp was 38. Yes, my dog is insane. It's hereditary.

Which would you prefer?

Hell:


Or Heaven:


It's that time of year again, where I ask myself daily, "What was I thinking?!"

Hell has always been portrayed as a hot, burning place. That version is wrong. Hell is frozen over, where you can't go outside without spending half an hour layering up, and then have to cart that extra 50 lbs with you. Hell is your butt touching that toilet seat at 3:00 a.m. while at the same moment one bare foot misses the rug and lands on the cold tile floor. Hell is never being able to make your fingers function because they're always frozen numb. Hell is weeks and weeks of starting each day by scraping and shoveling frozen stuff off your walk and car and driveway.

As we enter March, I count the number of boat canvas jobs that came into my shop during the month of February: 0. Which matches my bank account, unless you count the credit card, then it's less than nothing. Zip also matches my enthusiasm for gray, damp, dank, chill New England days.

Without gas money to flee south for a break in a car that needs brakes, there's nothing to be done except suffer through, awaiting the season of plenty. The arrival of spring will hopefully see hell thaw out. The mud stage should usher in sunshine, sailing weather, and income.

And when the leaves turn dead and drop off as the season of replenishment winds down, if anyone should hear me even think about staying here another winter, please whap me with a big hunk of fish carcass until I come to my senses.

I'm going back to sleep. Don't wake me till it's green and sunny out, or unless your boat is in the tropics needing canvas work, and you're willing to fly me, my sewing machine and all the materials in to do the work.

At this moment, I will work for sunshine.