Thursday, July 12, 2018

We had a seven-hour thunderstorm today. When the power went out my oxygen generator had a brain hemorrhage.

Hi-de-ho, everybody! It’s the crack of 9:30, and I woke up half an hour ago to discover that I never took Wednesday’s bedtime meds — including pills AND insulin — because I apparently conked out last night after I ate my Popsicles. Therefore I injected last night’s bedtime insulin (Lantus Solostar) and took most of my bedtime pills a few minutes ago … at least, the ones that won’t be duplicated when I take my Thursday morning meds. This is both irritating and depressing, however, because it’s not a unique situation. I’VE DONE THIS TWICE SINCE MONDAY … and now Sam and I have to figure out how to prevent it from happening again. I guess just kissing me goodnight isn’t enough any more. Now he has to sit down on the bench next to me … and watch me swallow my pills and inject  my insulin!

This is too fucking weird. I feel like an infant.

I’ll begin today with some general ramblings, okay? I guess the first item on my mind is … why haven’t I received the two bottles of GREEN RIVER POP that I ordered from Amazon back on July 3. Apparently it’s supposed to arrive tomorrow, and that’s a good thing because I want the “whole Green River experience” to go with it … either a hamburger with diced-up green olives OR a nice big grilled Kosher hot dog with fries. (The oliveburger I can make at home; Sam can buy the Kosher hot dog at Five Guys.) This is so damn exciting I can hardly stand it! Whenever I had a Green River — which was strictly a “fountain” beverage back in the 1950s — as a little girl it would be at PanDee’s (with an oliveburger) in downtown Skokie or at Paulson’s (with a big grilled Kosher hot dog) on Wabash Avenue in downtown Chicago. Please stay tuned for the big hoo-hah, okay?

For the time being, however, I’ll try to satisfy another childhood flavor craving today, which would be TOASTED CHEESE AND CHOCOLATE MILK. Mom used to make toasted cheese in the broiler of her stove … just slap ordinary American cheese on white bread and pop it in the broiler until the cheese turns black. You know, completely burnt. (Mom wasn’t really much of a cook, but I actually liked her food just fine … except for her beef stew, which was virtually inedible. But that’s a subject for another day.) As for the chocolate milk, we always had BOSCO chocolate syrup back in the early 1950s … now I’ve got sugar-free Hershey’s instead because I had no idea that Bosco was resurrected for needy Baby Boomers like yours truly. There’s even a Bosco website where you can buy a squeezy bottle of Bosco syrup in three different flavors (only chocolate is available sugar-free) for $2.49, which really isn’t too bad at all ... except these idiots are trying to add $11.95 for shipping. Holy mother of crap. THEY MUST BE INSANE! That’s $14.44 for one bottle … and the price isn’t any better on Amazon!

I guess I’ll do the Toasted Cheese and Chocolate Milk for dinner, because I just asked Sam to heat up a can of CAMPBELL’S CHICKEN NOODLE SOUP for me with a couple of canned Manischewitz matzo balls. Sounds good, doesn’t it? Woo-hoo!

Sam and I are working on a challenge today. We’re trying to ALLEVIATE PAIN for me. He’s always such a good problem-solver! Yesterday was miserable, mostly due to that gigantic dressing on the back of my left thigh. In case you haven’t been following along with earlier Howdygram posts, on Monday my hospice R.N. changed the dressing and pulled it off so hard it felt like she ripped off half the skin on my thigh at the same time. And because she covered it again just a few minutes later, we didn’t have a chance to use a topical anesthetic on my skin. It’s been agony for me since Monday. Sam and I will talk to my nurse when she comes back next week. I refuse to deal with this any more. Senior citizens have to take charge!

This afternoon we’re watching “AT WAR WITH THE ARMY” (1950) starring Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. Dean (as Sergeant Vic Puccinelli) and Jerry (as Private Alvin Corwin) are old buddies stationed at a stateside Army base during World War II. Holy cow, people … this is some of the funniest shit I’ve ever seen, with a couple of hilarious songs (i.e., “The Navy Gets the Gravy But the Army Gets the Beans,” “Tonda Wanda Hoy”) and situations, especially when Jerry shows up at the local watering hole in drag looking for Dean incognito and winds up singing a love song (“Tonda Wanda Hoy”) to his intoxicated Corporal, played by rubber-faced Mike Kellin, at the bar. (Hint: Make sure your bladder’s empty.) The entire movie is a tour de force for Jerry Lewis.

Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin in “At War with the Army.”

The Howdygram is pleased to award At War with the Army with its coveted four-star ★★★★ rating. Because, as I’ve said before, this is some of the funniest shit I’ve ever seen. Thank you.

I have to admit, it was a little difficult for me to award four stars to a Jerry Lewis movie after he died last year and spitefully left nothing from his unbelievably wealthy estate to any of his six sons ... even though several were living in poverty and one was even homeless. He left every dime to his daughter from a second marriage and cut off his six sons completely. Unbelievable.

There. I said it!

It’s a few minutes after 9 p.m., and I have to tell you, it’s been an insane day around here. We had a SEVEN-HOUR THUNDERSTORM that kept building up directly over Mesquite and included some of the loudest thunder I’ve ever heard … and some of the heavest rain I’ve ever seen! We also had multiple brief power failures — the first outage gave my poor oxygen generator a brain hemorrhage and set off a siren that woke me from a sound sleep — and we also lost our DISH Network satellite signal on and off practically all afternoon. I never got a decent nap, and I’m totally fed up. What’s a girl to do?! Oy.

On the other hand, you probably have five additional fingers.

Can we discuss depression for a minute? I think it’s only fair to tell you, my faithful readers, that I’ve been battling depression for the last couple of months, and I regret to admit that I might finally be losing. Chronic pain will do that to you. It wears you down, it exhausts you, it chips away at your soul, and you just want to give it all up already and have some goddamn peace.

For me, walking is an agonizing experience. I CAN’T MOVE MY DAMN LEGS ANY MORE. I frequently delude myself into believing that nobody knows how painful this is except me, but that’s not true at all, because Sam knows. Every day he watches me try to move three lousy steps from the chaise to the bench — crying, moaning, literally dragging myself — and it breaks his heart. (And it breaks mine, too.)

I HATE FEELING LIKE THIS. And I especially hate dumping part of the burden on you, because you show up here every day expecting a shot of comedy from this blog ... not tragedy!

Looks like I’ll probably need a session or two (or three) with a hospice therapist or social worker, because I can’t be the only patient who’s struggling with this kind of grief horseshit. Please feel free to offer some feedback via email or just leave a comment using the link at the bottom of this post, okay?

In the meantime … thank you for reading this and please remember the Alamo at least once a week between meals.

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