Pity parties, dogs, and car batteries—what a mix!

My tireless squirrel chaser

I threw myself a party today—a pity party. My annoying cold turned into misery in the middle of last night, and, after sleepless hours and wild dreams when I slept, I woke exhausted. Jordan and I were going with neighbor Mary to explore the HEB superstore in nearby Hudson Oaks this morning, but I cancelled. I didn’t have the oomph to do it.

That trip has become almost a joke. The first time we were to go, Mary was sick; then Jordan was sick; so today I said it was my turn! We will try to go Tuesday; pray God I feel better. I don’t feel bad, but I don’t feel good—ever been there?

Sophie, on the other hand, had a delightful morning. The squirrel population in our yard quadrupled overnight—they were everywhere, in the trees, on the roofs, darting here and there. Sophie could not contain herself. At first, I thought it was fine because she was working off energy, but that shrill barking became annoying even to me and I had no doubt what the neighbors thought.

Jordan and I both tried several times to lure her inside with cheese, usually a surefire solution, but she absolutely ignored us. I’m not sure she even heard us. In the late morning, I noticed her slowing down, lying on the grass to stare at the squirrels. At some point, she snuck into Jordan’s house and drank two bowls of water—which explains why she didn’t come to the cottage for water. That’s one way I often capture her.

Her morning workout was so strenuous that the sidewalk in the back yard is covered with muddy prints, and when she finally came in—after lunch—she panted heavily for a good twenty minutes. The rest of the day she’s slept, apparently tired out by it all. So am I, and I slept for two and a half hours this afternoon.

A bright note; the other day I set out to do some errands, only to find that my car wouldn’t start. The battery was dead. I am the original little old lady from Pasadena who only drives her car to church—I don’t even do that. We have tried to remember to start it occasionally, but apparently, we weren’t consistent enough. My insurance said they had a policy rider that covers that for only $6 a year—but I didn’t have it (I do now). Finally I called the folks down the street--J&N Auto Services. And yay for them!

I called one day when they were busy in the morning, and I was going to be out of pocket in the afternoon, so I said I’d call the next morning. I didn’t have to—they called me at 8:00 a.m. and asked, “Is this a good time?” I said “Of course,” and a young man was here within minutes. When I asked if I could call the office to give them my credit card, he said, “You don’t have to pay. It’s just down the street.” Wonderful neighborhood business, and I hope many will patronize them.

Tomorrow will be a better day! I just know it.

Having a pity party

It’s fashionable these days to style oneself as a victim—trump does it all the time, and so do his thug followers who are now crying about the process they wrote in the House rules. So I’ve decided today to call myself a victim, though I can’t quite identify the evil  villain.

Surely, it’s not the nurse who gave me two shots yesterday—flu and pneumonia. She’s someone I’ve known and respected for years, and her injections are always smooth. She said one in each arm, so I asked which one would get less sore. She said pneumonia, so that one went in the right arm. Wrong call.

About midafternoon both arms ached at the injection site, but by early evening those aches had faded, only to be replaced by severe pain in my right shoulder. I probably would have decided in a panic that my arm was about to fall off if it weren’t for the friends who had come by for a glass of wine. He said he’d had the same thing—and it was all in the shoulder, not at the injection site. Thanks to Phil for suggesting heat.

I’ve treated myself with short periods on the hot pad (my physician brother advises against extended heat) and Tylenol and wished I could take aspirin. I think I felt two tiny, tiny twinges at the injection site of the flu vaccine and nothing in the other arm. But my shoulder is still unbelievably sore and sensitive. Makes is really hard to function, so I just kept going back to bed. Perfect day for it, with the cold wet weather that makes you want to burrow in the covers. At least I don’t have to remind Jordan to water the new grass seed—that irritates her, and it’s getting watered by the heavens today.

One minute I tell myself I’m being a wimp and to straighten up. Then I remember that I was pretty stoic about severe hip pain before the doctors decided what to do about it, so my pain tolerance must be okay. Not my imagination--the shoulder really does hurt. I also tell myself I am not one to have those vague “I don’t feel well” days—going back to bed throughout the day is unusual for me, so my body must need the rest. Isn’t it funny that we feel guilty about not feeling well?

Sophie, probably affected by the weather and maybe sensing I’m not myself (dogs are pretty good about that), has slept all day, after one brief trip outside early in the morning. I just invited her to go again by opening the door, but she stood immobile and stared at me.

I am reminded of my sweet mom, who throughout my childhood had migraines—infrequent but severe. And she took to her bed for the day. When anyone asked about her, I would cheerfully tell them, “She’ll be all right tomorrow.” And she always was. So that’s where I am—I’ll be all right tomorrow and get back to the work I meant to do today.