Mister Ed Isn’t Available To Answer My Question, So I’ll Ask You

Yesterday afternoon I was driving home at about 25 mph through our subdivision when coming at me on the other side of the street were three people on three horses. Gorgeous horses. Big horses. Very calm.

Just walking along.  *clip-clop, clip-clop* 

Not knowing what to do when driving past horses on my suburban street, I slowed down to about 10 mph.  The people on the horses nodded, waved, but did not smile, as we passed each other.

Ever self-aware, I realized that I may have done something wrong.

So here is my question: when driving through city streets am I supposed to treat horses as cars and just drive on by;  OR am I supposed to slow down [stop?] when I see them?

Anyone got an answer?  I sure don’t.  This is all new to me.

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Fuzzy The Squirrel Finds A New Home In Tree #3479

{Subtitled: What the heck is that little bugger doing now?} 

ONCE UPON A TIME…

The Lady of the Suburban House looked out her kitchen window while she was drinking her morning coffee.  In a strange moment of self-awareness, she realized that she was not alone.  What she saw was her frenemy, a squirrel, who last year she had named Fuzzy.  [More about this squirrel here.]

Say “hello” to Fuzzy.

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Watching Fuzzy frolic outside in the trees that form the forest that is The Lady of the Suburban House’s backyard, The Lady of the Suburban House realized that Fuzzy, who never seems to leave her property lines regardless of the weather, had found a home of his own in a large tree back there.

Look! It’s the front door to Fuzzy’s home.

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Staring closely at this large tree, The Lady of the Suburban House noticed something that she had not noticed before.  Perhaps she had not been caffeinated enough when she looked out the kitchen window previously.  And this is what she saw: the large tree had a number on it.

Here is tree #3479.

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The Lady of the Suburban House could not explain why this tree was numbered.  It seemed peculiar to her, but then many things of late had seemed odd to The Lady of the Suburban House, so she shrugged.

 This is Fuzzy’s tree.

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And then she came to the only logical conclusion that one could come to: Fuzzy had put the number there on the large tree so that his friends and relatives would know where he lived in the forest, that is The Lady of the Suburban House’s backyard.

~ THE END ~ 

Sclerotherapy: Wearing Pantyhose, Feeling Pincushion-y

I’m writing this post as I sit here wearing, of all things, pantyhose under my jammies.  Not just any pantyhose, mind you.  No, I have on light compression pantyhose in a most peculiar, unnatural shade called, Suntan Beige.

The reason for this deviant pantyhose-wearing behavior is that I had sclerotherapy on my legs.   And once one has this voluntary, cosmetic, medical procedure, one must wear support pantyhose, of any color, for two weeks afterward.

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For those of you fortunate enough to not have pasty white vein-y legs, I’ll explain what sclerotherapy is.  You’ve probably never heard of it before.  Lucky ducks.

Sclerotherapy, which involves a trained medical professional with a  sharp needle + saline solution, is a way to permanently remove spider veins & varicose veins from your legs.  Doctors have done it since the 1930s, so this is nothing new.

WebMD describes the procedure thusly:

“In most cases of sclerotherapy, the salt solution is injected through a very fine needle directly into the vein. At this point, you may experience mild discomfort and cramping for one to two minutes, especially when larger veins are injected. The procedure itself takes approximately 15 to 30 minutes.”

While the above description is technically correct, what it fails to make clear is that sclerotherapy is not just one injection, it is many injections during the 15 to 30 minutes.  

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Meaning, quite simply, that one becomes a human pincushion during this procedure.  And while I’m the first to admit that it doesn’t hurt per se, it is damned annoying to be jabbed [oh say, 50 times] with a sharp little needle.

So it is at this point in my life that I find myself this morning.  I’m squished inside a hideous pair of pantyhose, wondering how long it’ll be before the memory of this procedure floats out of my mind.  And my legs look wunderbar.

Only time will tell I guess.      

But Tuesday Is My Favorite Day

I AWAKENED THIS MORNING thinking that today is Friday.  As it is Tuesday, I’m way off the mark with that thought.  I’m rather amused that I’m confused.  It’s like my subconscious is playing a fun little game with me called, “O Bean, Where Art Thou?”

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I HAVE NO EXPLANATION for why this morning my mind skipped a few days ahead, but it did.  I like Tuesday so it’s not as if I’m trying to avoid anything.

In fact, once upon a time there was a meme going around that asked specifically which day of the week was your favorite.  My answer was Tuesday.  An answer, as I recall, that made many people question my sanity.

Nobody likes Tuesday, they told me.  I like Tuesday, I replied.

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THEY SAID NOTHING MORE about my answer, but I was left with the distinct impression that I was a nobody, with no credibility at all, because I liked Tuesday .

People can be most peculiar.  N’est-ce pas?

And with that bit of wisdom, I’ll take my leave to fly away [so to speak].  Now that I’m awake, Tuesday is calling to me.  Catch up with you later, kids.

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