Walter the gardening wunderkind, texted me at 7:30am to say that he could come and take care of the ivy and blackberries, that are invading from the weirdo neighbor's hedgerow. 

The weirdo neighbor will never take care of anything. 

It would be a fool's errand even to ask.

Walter and a boy, who might be Walter's son were out digging around when I left the house at 11:00.

I wanted to go thrifting on my day off and get a bit of lunch. 

That is about the most exciting thing I wish for these days.

I found an excellent tablecloth, with lace trim, and a big basket embroidered in the center.  I am using it for a curtain in the living-room, where the windows are an odd size, and the unfinished wood trim should not be covered up.

I also found a couple of other little dresser scarves, hand embroidered by someone's grandmother.  One had striking butterflies, and I wanted it for an end-table. 

I love old things, especially old handwork.

I have a lot of it here and there and everywhere around the house. 

It gives me great comfort and joy.

The July haiku dinner will be large with 14 guests, so I also picked up a couple odd wineglasses.  I haven't quite come up with a theme, but country picnic. 

A pate, a liver mousse, some salady things.

I have this week off.

My big summer break!

I've been working 60 hours a week since fall and I am tired.

I am mostly resting and doing a few essential appointments.

Two weeks ago, my beloved naturopathic doctor broke up with me. 

It came as an utter shock and made me feel completely unworthy of care and love and anything good.

My crime?

I asked if I could run my annual blood work for my thyroid medication through my primary care physician, rather than her private lab, which would have cost me well over $300, plus all the fees and supplements for an office visit out of pocket (over $500).

Her answer was NO.

She didn't contact me herself, she sent me a curt antagonistic certified letter, from her office assistant. 

It didn't matter that I had cancelled physical therapy for me knee, to be able to afford her treatment, and left messages saying so, I was already dead to her.

All of this would have been much less traumatic to me, had my prescriptions not run out.

The bottle of medications state very clearly "do not stop taking this medication abruptly". 

I was terrified, not just of dropping into a coma and dying, like the internet said could result in stopping the medication, but of feeling horrible and becoming severely anemic again. 

I went in on Monday and saw my primary care doctor, who is covered by my insurance.  She gave me a small hug and wrote me the prescriptions.  She ordered the blood tests and she told me that she loves seeing me, because I am so funny and she loves my stories about my preschoolers.

This small kindness nearly broke my heart, after being treated with such disregard.

She was sad that I had cancelled the physical therapy for my knee. 

I thought my knee was a lost cause, but it turns out that it's just over compensating for my bad back, and my bad back is a result among other things from my cracked pelvis, from  a car accident in 1998.

I will go back to the physical therapist in July.  I felt about a million times better after just one visit.

Noodles

I work four long days and take one mid day off, but this week I switched my day off to Friday, so I could spend some time with Mark.

On the way home I noticed the new Winco had finally opened in the food desert end of 82nd, ten blocks from my route home.

So I stopped.

The kids needed yogurt for lunches and there were bulk things I could stock up on.

I had, had high hopes that this mega store that took two years to open, would be nice, and maybe slightly more upscale than the ghetto Food 4 Less it was replacing, but no, if anything, if might be a bit worse, because of my expectations. 

The place is a windowless, eggshell-white, cinder-block box, with shelving that goes to the ceiling.

The kind of place that induces panic attacks in my mother.

The kind of place Mark refuses to shop.

I like to embrace my blue-collar roots and frequent this kind of place from time to time, just because, and there is often cheap rice.

As expected it was packed to the gills with shoppers. 

I wandered around and found the odd bulk items and the yogurt, and a few other odds and ends, and found myself on the one empty aisle. 

The noodle aisle.

I was busy strolling, thinking about noodles and sauces, when I knocked over a stack of egg-noodles.

I contemplated just leaving them there, but thought better of my wickedness, and picked them up. 

I picked them up slowly, one by one, because I was very tired, and lost in thought, about egg-noodles and beefaroni.

When I looked up, I saw a woman standing in front of me, doing that clenched fist gesticulating you do, to show that you are really angry and exasperated (I do it often, I should know!).

Then she made a little

Pfffft!

sound with her mouth, and arched her eyebrow at me.

So naturally, I said "you could have just said 'excuse me', or 'get out of my way', if you were in such a hurry."

"Why don't you watch where you're going C---!"

and with that, it was ON, as they say.

"What if where I am going is right HERE!?"

I said, straightening up, into what I hoped was an intimidating posture.

She looked at me, and more importantly, I looked at her, and reassessed whether being called the C word was worth getting my ass kicked in the pasta aisle of a big box store.

This gal was young, tough and most assuredly quicker than me.

Both my mother and Mark have been telling me for years that my mouth was going to get me killed one day.

So I untensed a bit and walked away, resisting the urge to throw a bag of macaroni at her.