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Archive for the ‘Life balance’ Category

DUCKING CATS & DOGS

 

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Jeff and I drank coffee Sunday morning. Lily White, the black Lab, lounged by the sliding door.

”Meowwww,” said a cat somewhere. Lily barked and pawed the door to go outside. In she came, a moment later, her search discontinued.

“Meowwwww…” we heard from the front of the house. Lily barked. So did Jeff.

“Is there a cat in this house?”

This surprised me that he’d heard anything at all, because he often doesn’t.

“Nooooooooooo.  It’s outside the front. I’ll check.”

But cats scat fast. We resumed coffee and reading. 

Sunday was one of those “get stuff done and finish tired” days. Jeff left for work and onto the duck camp. 

7:30 p.m.: “Meowwwww.”

“Holy baldy! There IS a cat in this house!” How’s this even possible with an 85 pound hound in residence? Okay, she’s old. Her patrol isn’t what it was, but when the pizza guy comes, Lily goes bananas. I frantically searched the house. 

There, staring at me, all comfy-like on the basement barstool, was the neighbor’s cat. I’m not sure who hissed first. Since this house was built (‘71), there’s NEVER been a cat served at this bar before.

It ran for safety, right under the back bedroom bed. I broom-poked it. It didn’t budge. Reality check: this cat had been in this house since morning. No, wait! It was yesterday. It all returned… 

4:00 p.m.: Saturday, after work and errands, I threw the slider open for Lily. I changed into walking clothes. Being a nice day, I left the slider open. BIG mistake. Apparently, the cat entered. 

I recognized the this cat and looked across the street to the neighbors. They weren’t home I phoned a friend, Michele. She has cats.

“HELP! I can’t get a cat out of my house!” 

Michele laughed.

“Not funny. What can I do?

“Do you have any cat food?” Michele asked.

“Now, why in the hell would I have cat food? What about dog food?”

“Tuna?”

“Yes! We have tuna.”

I served the tuna bowl, hoping to coax the cat out from the bed.

“How’s your day?” Jeff texted.

“Great, but got a cat in the house!”

“What cat?”

“Neighbor’s.”

“GET THAT DUCKING CAT OUT OF THE HOUSE!”

It was almost funny he’d hit “d” instead of “f”. Almost.

“I’M TRYING!”

“Figure out where it pooped and peed!”

“I’M AWARE!” 

I texted the neighbors, who were minutes away.  Soon, Sara (not her real name)  raced over and on her pregnant belly, peered under the bed. I couldn’t recall if baby bellies should do this maneuver.

“C’mere Ryan! C’mon Buddy.” She kissed the air, coaxing the cat. “He’s probably scared,” she said. So was I, of ensuing messes.

Finally, Ryan crawled out and into her arms. She apologized profusely, ran Ryan home, then returned to help search for his deposits.

“Nice watchdogging!” I growled at Lily.

“Are you allergic to cats?” Sara asked.

“No, we’re just not cat people.”

(Don’t judge us; we won’t judge you.) We discussed that they try keeping Ryan closer to home and off our deck, which drives Lily nuts. Through all of this, I remain puzzled as to why people own cats, only to let them run amok 24/7. As I said, I’m a dog people, but I’m open to explanation.

No nuggets or puddles were discovered while searching. Still, we’d launder all bedding. She offered to have carpets cleaned. This helped; a CRNA student (nurse anesthetist) was moving into the bedroom for a five-week rotation.

Soon, bedding and carpets were restored to clean…just in case. Abby, our student, arrived the following Sunday. 

Upon entering, she asked, “Is that your cat out there?” He’s baaaack.

Worn out from a week of cleaning, straightening and searching, I started and couldn’t stop laughing long enough to tell Abby the story.

In an ironic event, for Halloween, our work staff decorated yellow tee-shirts with favorite emojis. I helped a co-worker, who was busy studying. 

“Which emoji do you want me to make?”

“The grinning cat!” She said.

But, of course. And I did- make it. And it was – grinning. And the slider will stay shut, because that’s what ducking screen doors are for. I hope your Halloween was as happy as the grinning cat emoji! Bw

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Oh, When the Saints, Go Marchin’ In

/Bobbe White/10.21.18/

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Recently, Jenna, my daughter-in-law, and I popped into Pappion Artistry, a petite New Orlean’s area gallery. The artist, Christina Pappion brings New Orleans culture to life through whimsical painting. She accents certain pieces with gold flecks that makes them fancy. Christina greeted us. We browsed and read publicity pieces hung on walls and easels around the shop. In addition to painting on coasters and canvas, she paints on football cleats. Not just any old stinky, muddy cleats, New Orleans Saints’ cleats. 

Nosy (me) leaned into her studio. While she painted, I asked about the cleats. “It’s a weird canvas, but I researched and figured it out.” She literally creates masterpieces on cleats. Pappion learns the foundation/cause each player supports and incorporates the theme onto the boot (e.g. Brandon Coleman (Alzheimer’s Association) and The Mark Ingram Foundation (Children of Incarcerated Parents).

The Saints wear these decorated cleats during one designated game a season, they named “Cleats for a Cause.”  The cleats are auctioned afterwards to raise (a lot of) money for the respective organizations. It’s the ONLY game Saints are allowed to deviate from their standard uniforms. 

Naturally, we asked about Drew Brees’ cleats. Not surprisingly, he commissions his own artist but, and this is a BIG but, Drew’s wife, Brittany, contacted Christina, after seeing her “Streetcar” at a fundraiser. She was disappointed she didn’t bid enough to buy it. She had Christina paint another streetcar painting and asked her to paint Drew into the picture for a Christmas gift. (See Drew at the end of this article.)

Christina assumed delivery would be an exchange at McDonald’s parking lot or somewhere neutral, but it was delivered to the Brees’ home.  While balancing a baby on her hip, Brittany wrote the check. She then asked Christina to help her hide it. They ran around the house, then up to the second floor to explore potential hiding places. Holy baldy! Christina was running through Drew Brees’ house!

Many years since, Brees’ has commissioned Christina to paint streetcars, incorporating their growing family. One year, she requested the extended family of thirty be featured. “Thirty people! All I had to go on were family photos, texted photos or social media. I didn’t even know how tall people were, in comparison to Drew, so I painted him seated!” Somehow, she managed to nail it.

Pappion shared other victories with us, but also failures, such as rubber boots (i.e. Hunter brand) on which she painted for $200 for a Kentucky Derby dignitary. “These boots were stunning!  Until the woman stepped into the rain and onto the race track (not to race, but to pose for photos, haha). The design got wet and slipped right off those boots! All that remained of the $200 artwork was colorful mud. I was mortified.”  UGH.

“I cried for two weeks after that disaster. I was sure I’d never work again. But the drippy boot buyer was gracious and commissioned me for further work. I couldn’t believe it!” 

Another low point was a large painting for Mrs. Benson, widow of Saints’ owner Tom Benson. First attempt: botched and tossed aside. Take two: flopperino. The third time was NOT the charm. “I could not deliver, but Mrs. Benson’s secretary insisted it would be fine. It was a mess, but she insisted. Amazingly Mrs. Benson LOVED my mess and wrote me a big, BIG, HUGE check. I showed my family the check while dancing around chanting, “We’re going to Disney World!” My kids joined in the dance. And we went. Best trip ever!

My family thinks I’m a busy-body, talking to random people like this. In fact, I’m pretty sure they roll there eyes out loud at me a lot, as in, “Oh noooooooo, there she goes again. We’ll never get out of here!” I can’t help it. People are interesting. Talk to them. Ask about them. Learn about them. You never know what treasures you can discover. In honor of meeting an artist phenom, I purchased four coasters, representing the four major food groups we consumed during my stay at Nick and Jenna’s in Louisiana: shrimp, oyster, lobster and red fish.

Check out the artist at: http://www.pappionartistry.com

Check out Drew Brees and the Family with Streetcar below. How cool is that? bw

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Chicks Fly Coop, Hens Grab Hankies

 

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Photo by Nubia Navarro (nubikini) on Pexels.com

This post is dedicated, in general, to all the parents who are getting ready to send off their child(ren) to college. In particular, this post is with thoughts of Tracy S. and Jennifer D., who are sending their third and last child off to school. Whether it’s your first born or your last, take comfort that you are not alone if you’re feeling the struggle.  

Mom always said, “As a mother, you are only as happy as your unhappiest child.” This means that you will soar with their successes and, yes, you will hurt for their failures. The hardest part is for those of you who will have children hours away. On the other hand, they will learn how to deal without your physical presence. (Nobody said you couldn’t coach them from afar, though).

Recently, I was sorting through cards and notes I’ve kept forever. I found a card that was written by me, not to me. I don’t remember if I ever gave this to Korey or wrote it and shoved it in my drawer or if she read it and shoved it in her drawer. I wrote it the day she left for Versailles, France, for her junior year. Here it is:

September 3, 2009

Dear Korey, 

Well, finally, here it is and here you go! Your careful preparation and consideration will give you a wonderful foundation for your adventure abroad. This is just too wonderful of an opportunity to put into words. We are so many things right now for you…excited, nervous and anxious (a little) for you to get there, settled and started. Remember that not everything will go smoothly and to just adapt, whether it’s the travel, the school, communication or housing. Just remember, positive or negative, the experiences will all go into your memory bank. The good things will be replayed and the negatives, deleted or laughed about later, but you will gain valued lessons from both. We hope to follow your adventure as best as we can and will give advice only when asked…or when Dad thinks you need some…which will be often. Ha! I gave Nick a buckeye for good luck when we got him to school and here’s one for you to travel with. I guess it has brought me/us good luck along the way, because you bring us a lot of joie de vivre.* 

We love you very much. Have fun, stay well, be safe – see you in December.             Mom & Dad

*Joie de vivre. My attempt to incorporate some French. It means joy of living. 

As I reread this note, it makes me kind of sad. In fact, sadder now than when we actually sent her off. Weird. Maybe it was adrenaline or maybe shock, but Korey asked me as we hugged around her gargantuan backpack, “Is it okay that we’re the only ones not crying?”  I replied, “Yep, it’s fine!” There may have been more than a few teardrops later, in the car, as we left Chicago’s O’hare. UGH. 

From my memory bank, the worst moments of the year were:

  1. The American Airlines ticket agent charge of $100 for overweight baggage, until she realized the bulk of weight was from shoes Korey needed for an entire year. She gave her a pass on those!
  2. housing situation was less than pleasant.
  3. Her good camera was pickpocketed in Athens.
  4. Her dad found out she traveled to his two forbidden countries, because they had extremely volatile economies: Greece and Spain. (Korey, this probably explains the bad camera karma in Athens…)

Parents with college-bound children could have a support group, except everyone’s too busy packing right now.  Stay busy, be kind to yourself and know that your struggle is real. 

On the other hand, you might have a different experience like I/we did. 

  1. After we moved Nick, our second and last child, into his dorm room, we asked, “Do you want to get a bite to eat before we drive home?” He answered, “No, I’m good!” Sometimes they make it easy on us, right?
  1. When leaving for Arizona State, 8/17/73, I road with Debbie, a returning sophomore. My parents didn’t take me. Nope, they waved me out of the driveway. WHAT? I’m going 1,500 miles away and they wave bye-bye? And I thought that was normal…

Parents, however you feel, just own it. You’re entitled.

Lace ‘em Up Because Nobody’s Looking!

person tying lace of shoes

Photo by EVG photos on Pexels.com

How do we hold ourselves back in life. Let me count the ways. I’ve been noodling on why and here’s a big one: We hold ourselves back when we believe people are judging and watching us. Consider this: people are thinking waaaaaaay less about us than we imagine. I test this theory whenever I work out at the gym or take a class. Most members are high school or college age. There are a handful of mature athletes in the house. (I use both those terms loosely: mature, athlete.) Trust me people, they’re not watching us, critiquing us or caring one bit about our squats thrusts. If they give one second of thought to our presence, it might sound like this:

What you HOPE they’re thinking about you:                                                                  “Sure hope I can work out like that when I’m his/her age!”

What they’re PROBABLY thinking-if anything:                                                                                            a. “Hope I never get THAT old!                                                                                               b. “Don’t old people have their own gym and workout times?”                                        c. “What old lady/man? Where?” As they step over you. 

I realized a long time ago that my presence is of very little concern to others in most situations. I’m okay with that fact. And you should be too.

On the flip side, I enjoy observing them, when they don’t know it. No, not in a creepy way. Geesh. I’ve watched gangly, awkward boys come back more grownup after a summer or semester. I’ve seen young timid girls workout solo instead of having a twin-friend attached to the hip. Eventually, they become more comfortable in their own skin. I’m amused at the cajoling and berating they exchange and also receive from the trainers, who push them for more. Mostly, I attempt to absorb the raw energy that permeates the gym environment, when young people are present. Then again, maybe it’s the rap music that’s playing…

If and when the gym sets hours by age group I will abide by that schedule. Until then, I intend to show up as it fits into my schedule and be perfectly comfortable. A few of us have already coined our workout times, should we be segregated, such as, “Old Fart Friday!”

But and this is a BIG but…what if I’m all wrong and the gym rats don’t like mature men or women sharing their weights and space? First of all, there’s enough space for everyone. Secondly, the kettle bells I use are ones you cast off years ago. Finally, like it or not, one day, you’ll be us. Bratty looking emoji. 

Isn’t it refreshing to realize you’re NOT under anyone’s microscope but your own? Live your life in perspective. bw

#nobodyreallycaresanditsok

#liveyourlifewideopen

#imdoingthebesticananditsenough

This Match: beyond Wimbledon or the World Cup

Bobbe White

07/16/18

While many of you watched tennis, soccer or golf this past weekend, I found a fabulous match of my own. It was a busy Saturday, starting at 7:30 a.m. with Lily White’s annual shots and pedicure. Dr. Bridget checked her from teeth to tail. 

“Any changes since your last visit?” she asked.

“Not many, except the skin tag on her belly has developed into a penis!”

“Yes, well, those skin tags can become quite unsightly!” she said nonchalantly.

“I know! The neighbor’s two-year-old grandson spotted the skin tag and pointed. He couldn’t find words, but knew the anatomy wasn’t right!”

After the vet, we hit Starbuck’s (Puppacino), cleaners (dog biscuit) and home. From there, I flew to Poundfit, followed by a gas-up and oil change. I told you it was busy. At this point, my friend, Michele, invited me to go swimming. 

“Thanks! I’m four cars back for an oil change. I can’t escape. I’ll be a little late.”

Finally, I was finished and calculated the time it would take to go home to get a swimsuit and towel. It was quicker to go to K-Mart, right across from Quik-Lube. Besides, after July 4th all swimwear goes on sale. I grabbed a suit. It would suffice, even if I:

         A. didn’t like it or 

         B. it didn’t fit well.

I was sweaty and sick of running errands, but had accomplished much. I was pleasantly surprised by K-Mart’s selection for my desperation purchase. After check-out, I made a quick change. I was on my way to the pool!

I approached Michele and Tim’s lounge chairs.

“Hi! I’m here!”

Michele’s eyes popped wide open. She was nearly speechless.

“OMG!” She yelled.

She saw through my cover-up (Free with women’s swimwear purchase today! Ch-Ching!”) I looked at her. She looked at me. And then…laughter. Lots and lots of laughter. Now, THAT’s a match!

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BEING BRAVE & BOLD: Dumping Self-Doubt

 

/Bobbe White/6.13.18/

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Photo by Scott Webb on Pexels.com

Recently, Sam Horn, Intrigue Agency, wrote about being Bolder in Boulder. She was entered into a 10K walk and almost let self-doubt demolish her plans. She asked us readers if we were being bold on our own behalf. I replied and she suggested sharing my reply, as others might relate. The last twenty-four hours have been a cacophony of “Should I or shouldn’t I? Be bold or bashful?” Aha! I was practicing the exact self-doubt demolition to my idea. Would readers think I was a nutcase or normal? Asking for affirmations and compliments? My people will always think I am a bit of a nutcase, only because of my trudging through a number of human struggles. Oh, right, like everyone else. In that spirit, here is my attempt to be bold today. Read it, reap it or recycle it. It’s simply my offering.

 

My body image brain has two heads.  On one hand, I am the wellness program coordinator for our company. It pushes me to participate to the fullest as an example, if I’m leading the program.  I would probably workout with or without the program; always have.  I am proud of the fact that as one of the oldest employees at 62 and 11/12 , I’m in decent shape, energy-wise, fitness-wise. Last Thursday, I wore a pair of slacks to work, or rather, they wore me. I felt fat around the waist all day. I started doing that thing I do in my head.

 

“You don’t work out hard enough.”

 

“You don’t work out often enough.”

 

“You finally let yourself go. Great.”

 

“You’re getting the middle-aged spread.” I have felt that I delayed the onset (like it’s a disease) until 63.”

 

“Grrrrrrrrrr.”

 

And so it went for a few days. I was so angry and disappointed in myself, that no matter how much effort I would throw at my waist, it would never be enough. You see, I’m a recovering enoughaholic. Yes, I suffer from Enoughaholism.  I’m considering writing this idea for a book title, but would enough people want to read it? There I go again.

 

Saturday morning, I signed up for Pound Class with my daughter. I was forced to stand in front of the mirrored wall of truth. However, during the forty-five minute class, some switch flipped. I was actually able to look at myself objectively. This is not an easy thing for PLU (People like us) to do. Somehow the wellness demon decided to ease up. Perhaps she had seen me berate myself enough the last two days. I assessed myself from head to toe. I didn’t hate what I was seeing, as much as expected.  First, were my shoulders. One time a physical therapist described them to his co-worker as, “Well developed.” I liked hearing that. My upper body workouts were actually having a positive effect.  Who knew? Next, were arms. There was a little jiggle underneath them, but overall, the biceps actually had definition. Moving south, the waist and tummy were next. Ehhhhhhh, they’re not HORRIBLE. Passable, I suppose. “However,” I reminded myself, “Remember, Young Lady, you’re wearing LOTS of Lycra.” Oh, for heavens sake, who let in Bobbe, the Body Bubble Burster? The self-sabotager. Finally, I looked at my legs; they aren’t twigs by any means, but they’re strong and they still work. Good grief, listen to me!

 

After class, I glanced once more in the mirror as we walked out. I’m used to being the oldest in most classes. It’s obvious, I’m not as lithe and flowing as younger specimens, but, by golly, I’m there. I’m okay for turning 63 in six days. Yes, I could work out harder. And more often. Push, push, push. Does it ever end?  Or are we working ourselves out to death, literally and figuratively?

 

Choices I make are just that: choices. Live with them or make different choices. Ease up and give a little gratitude to the physical abilities I have and start bursting those bubbles that say, along with my rationale,

 

“Not strong enough,”

There will always be someone stronger.

 

“Not coordinated enough”,

There will always be someone more coordinated.

 

“Not thin enough”,

There will always be genetics that dictate body type.

 

“Not flexible enough”,

There are always ways to improve flexibility.

 

“Not smart enough”,

There will always be someone smarter. Hello genetics.

 

“Not pretty enough,”

There will always be someone prettier. By whose standards?

 

“Not rich enough,”

How much is enough?

“Not popular enough.”

There will always be the high school mentally.

 

”Not successful enough.”

There will always be someone with more drive, better timing, more bravery.

 

 

Sound familiar? Any of it? If yes, then let the mantra be,

 

“Enough OF enough.”

 

“Enough IS enough!“

 

I’d love you to PM me if you struggle with Enoughaholism too. Or am I the only one? Be bold. Be brave. I just was and it wasn’t that bad. The first step is recognizing what we’re doing to ourselves. bw

 

“Comparison is the thief of joy.” Monica Rivera

My Tee-Tee Tsunami

/6.6.18/Bobbe White/

When learning the speaking and writing business, we were taught, “Avoid speaking about bodily functions, seeing as everyone’s “ick” tolerance and privacy levels differ.” I’ve adhered to this advice for seventeen years in the business. No breastfeeding, colonoscopy or incontinence discussions found here. The only thing I might discuss would be: January 13th is my annual mammogram appointment, because it’s the same day as my annual vacuum maintenance

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Photo by hermaion on Pexels.com

at Sears. And, yep, they both suck. That’s about as far as I go.

 

Anyway, as I finished eight loads at the Wash Tub Laundromat Saturday, I reflected on the prior weekend. The wash consisted of 14 bath towels, 7 beach towels, 11 hand towels, 2 dishrags and 6 pairs of socks. I’m breaking my rule today to write about how humor in the home place is sometimes, well, hard.

 

It started at work, Memorial Day Saturday, at 8:37 a.m. BAM! I got the Urinary Tract Infection (UTI) from hell. Just. Like. That. It’s always perplexed me how the elderly can contract UTI’s, but have no clue until they land in E.R. for observation, antibiotics and fluids. Dad’s symptoms would mirror a stroke or brain tumor. The prognosis was typically “UTI”. In contrast, before drop #1 ever hits the toilet water, some of us KNOW we’ve got a UTI. Or is it “an” UTI? Whichever, I’m not kidding. Vengeful symptoms escalate hourly. These delightful symptoms include, burning from your wa-hoo to your tonsils, urgency and frequency, oh my! I helped customers between bathroom visits, alternating between the east end and west end of the building’s restrooms, so the staff wouldn’t think my frequency odd. Why I even cared is beyond me. I couldn’t leave work for staffing reasons.

 

My co-worker recommended an over-the-counter remedy. I flew to Wal-Mart out the back door. $50 later I owned every AZO product on the market. After work, I sped to Ambulatory Care for labs and antibiotics. The nurse said, “Doctor is in the procedure room, so you’ll need to wait.” Translated: a woman was getting stitches in her hand. I nearly laughed out loud. WHAT? WAIT? Seriously? So I sat near the restroom.

 

The frequency lasted all day and night, leaving me exhausted.

 

Sunday, my “tee-tee tsunami” calmed. I resumed normal activities through Memorial Day. Jeff returned from a fishing trip. By 8:45 p.m. we were ready for bed. I ran down to the laundry room to grab sheets out of the dryer when I stepped into half-inch deep water.

 

I hated to break the news, but had no choice, “JEFF…WATER IN THE LAUNDRY ROOM!!!” Jeff’s frustration resembled fire and fury, putting it mildly. Since I’d been the only one home, he started quizzing me on what I’d done in excess to tax our sewer system. Let me clarify, the standing water was crystal clear, thankfully.

 

“Why’s it always my fault?”

 

“I’M NOT GUILTING YOU, I’M SIMPLY DOING THE MATH!”

 

No wonder I hate math. (He speaks very loudly when he’s trying to learn me something!)

 

As he vacuumed water, I fetched towels and more towels. Not exactly our idea of fun at 8:45pm on a “school night.” His questioning continued. It was logical and necessary, I must admit.

 

“DID YOU TAKE LONG SHOWERS?”

“Nope.” Mine are fast. You know that.

 

“DID YOU DO LOTS OF LAUNDRY?”

 

“Two, maybe three loads tops.”

 

“DID YOU FLUSH THE TOILET A LOT?”

 

CRAP. Well, NOT crap, exactly… “I had a bladder infection, O.K.?”

 

“DID YOU USE TOILET PAPER EACH TIME?

 

“Uhhhhh, yeah.” (There’s another option?)

 

“ABOUT HOW MANY ROLLS DID YOU GO THROUGH?”

 

Seriously?

 

“I don’t know… 3? 17? 2? Yes, maybe 2.” Typically, I don’t keep a running toilet paper inventory, except when it’s the last roll, right?

 

“WELL, TWO ROLLS OF NON-BIODEGRADABLE TOILET PAPER WADDED UP IN THE PIPE WILL DO THIS.”

 

“Could it be the tree roots (again)?

 

“IT COULD, BUT STILL, HOW IS A WAD OF CHARMIN THAT BIG (holding his hands the size of a giant watermelon) GOING TO PASS BY THE ROOTS? IT’S NOT. THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS.”

 

Any and all humor had gone done the drain with the toilet paper.

 

As hot, tired and sweaty as we were following clean up, showers and flushing were forbidden for now. In the morning, the basement was dry, so I took a 10-second shower before work. I didn’t even wait for it to warm up. I couldn’t have used more than one gallon of water. No way.

 

When entering work on Tuesday, my co-workers asked, “How was your weekend?” So, I told them…about my infection…about the water and how it came down to T.P inventory. And how tonight, Jeff and Donnie would rent the sewer snake to break through El Waddo, (and roots). It got funnier. I called for my lab results and the nurse said, “You DEMAND to see every tissue square of those two rolls that you used to clog the system, do you hear me?”

 

I demanded. The guys laughed at me, because the wad was heading downstream somewhere. Seeing the two of them sitting on the basement floor rolling the snake out and then in, was like watching two little boys play in a puddle. They were in heaven.

 

Epilogue.

And they lived happily ever after, Bobbe learning her lesson, of course. And Jeff might get a sewer snake for Father’s Day. And the next time when a UTI attacks my system, I’m heading to the Holiday Inn Express. I belong to their rewards program. Huh? You see, I’ll get “points (for toilet) paper! And I’m pretty sure each room has at least two rolls and industrial sized pipes…

 

bw