Today is Mis Bette Davis’ birthday. Let us all raise a celebratory glass to the old dear, who, one is given to understand a glass, celebratory or not.
And while your glasses are up, you might as well join in a smallish toot for the author, because today is also mrpeenee’s 62nd birthday.
I write this with a mantle clock I got in New Orleans tick-tocking away behind me. One of the reasons I got it was its businesslike tick tock. No pussyfooting around for the baby. Tempis Fugit bitch, and this is one clock that wants you to know it.
I am more aware than usual of the time tonight because for once I have someplace to be far too early in the morning today. I have spent a lot of time around here complaining about my back and about how, now that the federal government is coming down on their heads about how much opiates they prescribe, my practitioners are suddenly terribly concerned I am getting to much of the old lotus eating. My cries that I like lotus easting are swept aside and suddenly I am being cleared for an ominous sounding procedure in which they cauterize the troublesome nerve.
I agreed with the whole thing even when they scheduled it for my birthday (at my age, it is the most exciting thing likely to turn up, god knows.) And then they officicously pointed me off to website where I was to answer all the tedious questions they use to deliver to you while you were shivering in an inadequate robe in a chilly ward. SO now I get to be both patient and data in putter. I considered filling all those blanks with the snarky answers you’ve been developing since your first innoculations, but somehow I knew that would come back to haunt me.
Also problematically, they won’t release me except with a responsible adult and the only one I know who resembles that, at least under a very quick glance, is Secret Agent Fred. Fred has agreed to help out and since the whole party is so very early said he’d spend the night here and we’d head out together. He also, very casually, mentioned he was going to take in a few drinks with boyfriend, who’s back in town and waiting tables at a schmancy bar.
I’ve actually been through this before, where Fred was temporarily pretending to be the responsible adult with a hangover so thick it hurt to look at him. Nurses handing me over to him would ask “This is your ride?” not even bothering to mask their conviction I would be better off in the arms of Jesus, and that I would be there soon enough. But I have always made it back, albeit with a driver who moans, softly.
So anyway, a surgical procedure for my birthday! It might lack the magic of a pony, but truth be told, ponies smell bad. This time tomorrow I should have three new little holes in my back and be pain-free. Ish.