Apparently the answer to that question is yes, yes I do. Quite copiously.
I was washing the dishes this morning (after balancing my checkbook and paying the bills; it was an unusually organized way to start the day), and whilst giving a cocktail glass the first swipe of suds it disintegrated in my hands and slashed right into the back of my left pointer.
The cut, at first , didn’t seem so bad. As a matter of fact, it didn’t even bleed for 10 seconds or so, and I thought I might have gotten away with a near miss.
Oh, how wrong I was. Once that sucker got going with the gory emissions, it very much did not want to stop. Even applying pressure to the wound didn’t stop the leaking. This cut was trying to impress me with its exuberance, for it was perseverance itself in the ooze.
Application of a Band-Aid and Neosporin occurred, and not 5 seconds later the first bead of escaped blood made its appearance. Seriously, this was one enthusiastic cut. Not deep, not anywhere threatening enough to need stitching, but it was ready to gush like it was much worse.
Half an hour later, I ripped off the bandage to survey the damage underneath, and my goodness it did look icky. Once I licked-wiped off the dried gak, I could see the full extent of my little boo-boo. Yummy little disengaged skin flaps covering bubbles what will be scabs tomorrow, a thin slice going all the way across the back of the finger. Delish!
But hardly bad enough to have warranted all that bleeding. Sheesh!
Rode a bike for the first time in a long time yesterday afternoon. The downhills were as glorious as I remember them to be. The uphills, which hardly really qualify as “hills” but let’s just call them that for right now, were not so much with the glorious.
My GOD I’m feeble. Felt great though. Especially once I got OFF the bike.
I need to do a lot more “seat training” before attempting anything more than a 20-minute lollygag around the neighborhood. Even my amply-padded buttal regions couldn’t stave off the ouch for much longer than a short ride.
There is a Christmas tree in the living room of the Tiny House. It smells like I hope heaven will smell, all woodsy and fresh. All the decorations on it are new; the fallout of this year’s big life reorganization continues. The Things did their Mama proud and strung ALL the lights on the wee (a mere 6.5 feet) tree. One less job for me to do, and I’m happy to let it go.
As they were stringing the lights, and then hanging the new ornaments on the tree, I realized that I might have some OCD thing with Christmas trees and how they are decorated. Let’s just say that I started to piss MYSELF off with all the edicts I was handing down. It’s not my general habit to sound like a total bitchnag, but holy cats was I trumpeting out the instructions last night. Through a test of will and imbibation of 2 doses of bourbon I managed to just STFU about it and let things be as they were going to be.
I only had to move ONE ornament after the Things went to bed. We’ll see what happens after we get the last of the ornaments on, hang the garland, and perch our new angel up on top. This might be the year I learn to just let things be.
Then again, it might not. More news as events warrant.