Tuesday, February 13, 2018

My Boring Life Part 3

Just signed into my Amazon account.

My family has placed 132 orders in the past six months.

Does that sound a little undun to you?

If you need more proof, check out this post on Drying My Tears

Thursday, February 8, 2018

My Boring Life Part 2

I got a new car two months ago and have only purchased gas twice.  When I looked at the mileage today I noticed that I have put a mere 750 miles on the car - and that included an ill-fated, 120 mile round trip to White Plains to meet my daughter, Trigger,  at her rheumatologist when I was sure she was going to drop dead from uticaria vasculitis any day now.

I mean then.   I was sure she was going to drop dead from uticaria vasculitis any day - then - so I frantically decided to meet her at her doctor's appointment and then got a wee-bit waylaid on my way home, driving over the George Washington Bridge instead of my beloved surburban Tappen Zee.

If you disregard that mess of a trip, that's an average of 10 miles a day I drive that new car.

I live one boring life - but at least Trigger’s not dying of vasculitis.


My Boring Life Part 1

So here's a little confession. . .

I ran the dishwasher last night before I went to bed because, it had been like three days since I ran it last.  It was time.  Right?  Yet when I went to unload it this morning I was a bit surprised by its contents, which included the following:

  • 5 coffee mugs
  • 6 wine glasses
  • 1 Sam Adams pint glass
  • Some random silverware
  • 2 lunch plates
 That's it.  C'est tout.  The totality of it.

I haven't put away a spatula, a colander, or a pair of salad tongs in as long as I can remember. 

Proof positive that Drip Dry and I have been living on coffee, wine, water bottles, sandwiches that he brings home from work, prepared foods in microwavable trays, and toast that I put on an actual lunch plate.

Tuesday, February 6, 2018

Who Let the Dog Talk?

You know you're in trouble when your dog thinks you're boring.

And looks at you, mind you, just like that. . .

"You're boring lady.  You don't think I've heard the Tah-Rah-Rah-Boom-da-Ray song about a million times from you already?  Give me something new.  In fact, give me food.  That's why I'm here.  Whatever you do, don't put that R E S P E C T song on your iPod and make me do that stupid dance again.  Let me go outside and eat some deer poop.  Much more interesting.  Tasty too!   I hate it when you're bored, my female leader of the pack, and then take it out on me.

"I'm too old for this.  I deserve a little respect."

Monday, January 29, 2018


Dear Mr. or Ms. Owner of Bamboo Clothing Co. Inc, (but I'm guessing you're a man because I think a woman would know better.)

When I purchased your bamboo shirts it was for your ultra-comfortable-squishy-satiny-silky-softness - like that which I experience in my BamBoody underwear.  This, Mr. or Ms. Owner, is not just a matter of personal preference.  It is not like the choosing Charmin toilet paper over Scott or adding aloe or lotion to your facial tissues. You might, in fact, say that this bamboo purchasing is a medical necessity; allowing me to actually live outside of my bathtub and don clothing so that the rest of the world does not have to avert their eyes every time I come into their presence.  I have discovered that the bamboo clothing is just about the only clothing that can touch my peripheral-neuropathied-skin without feeling like sandpaper.

So when will I get to the matter at hand?

Right now.

You see Mr/Ms Owner, when sufferers like me have perhipheral-neuropathied-skin and so purchase your apparel  for the comfort factor (because the clinginess factor of your product is not doing me any favors and the rest of the world really should avert their eyes when they see me approaching) the one thing we DON'T need is a freakin' label on the back of the shirt.  You may think that peripheral-neuropathied-skin is only on arms and legs and perhaps you make your bamboo socks without any stitching along the toe line, and for this I applaud you.  But I have Sjogren's Syndrome and this particular disease just happens to affect the aforementioned skin waaaaaay beyond my legs and arms.  It affects my shoulders, back, lips, chin and tongue as well.  And I don't need the itchiness of a label adding to the burning, icing, zapping, tingling, numb feeling that already exists there.

Somehow the makers of BamBoody have gotten the message.  From the looks of Drip Dry's underwear, Fruit of the Loom is on board as well.

But you?  You have BamBoozled me.


Tuesday, January 23, 2018


If you ever told me years ago that I'd be posting about underwear, I'd tell you you were crazy.

Now it appears that I am.

In love with bamboo, that's what I am.  I can't rip it out of those panda's mouths fast enough!  this stuff is like silk, or satin, or - well - bamboo!  I now officially own five pairs of bam-boodys, two bamboo shirts, two long sweaters, and my bamboo reaping is not officially over.

I'm considering the sheets; although nothing may be able to compete with my satin coverlet.   But imagine if I could actually use a top sheet again without pain.

Without pain.

Bamboo - I'd eat it, smoke it, rub it on my face, make shoes out of it.  I bet those pandas don't have neuropathy. Look at that panda just sitting there: fat, dumb, happy.  And everyone thinks they're so cute.  They travel from miles around to see new babies named Ling Ling and Sing Sing in the zoos.  And what about the ones on loan from China?  They're bamboo snatchers, that's what they are - all of them.  They are eating up the world's natural resources when they should be put to work making bamboo bras, and bathing suits, and bam-mother-of-the-boo-bride dresses, and old lady bamboo nursing home housecoats.

They should keep ahead of the natural fabric technology, for God knows that the research community is not finding a way to stop my small fiber neuropathy.

Saturday, January 13, 2018

Alexa and Alzheimer's

We all know that I've become undun, or you wouldn't be here.  So it should not be a surprise to any of us that I've become insane as well

You've all heard of Alexa.   And if, by chance, you haven't watched this hilarious skit on Saturday Night Live, watch it now.

The problem is, I think I'm worse than the "silver" people they portray in the skit.

Yes, I've forgotten Alexa's name from time to time.  When I've had her set an alarm for me I've forgotten the word "snooze" and tried to use the words "rest" or "wait" or "sleep."   I've consistently messed up my request for podcasts, tune-in, or audible; but still I find her very useful - especially to reduce strain on my dry eyes.   I use her to read my books to me.  I listen to her cable news instead of watching it.   I have taken to using her music feature by creating many complicated playlists, and - when I wake up during the night - I always ask her what time it is.  (Now, I know you're thinking, "Why can't she just look at a clock?" But, sadly, she can't look at a clock because her eyes are blurry from the gel drops used at night and sleeping goggles placed on top of them.)

Considering all of this, is it any surprise to you that I made the following two mistakes?

  1. When attempting to call the dog inside, I reached my head outside of the door and called, "Alexa!"
     2. When attempting to ask Alexa a question, I yelled out, "Jesus?" 

Do you see anything odd about these two incidents?

Honestly, now tell me. . . .  Do you??????