and so it goes . . .

Remember the story of Squishy the Dragon? Now I have the saga of Squishy the 9TS to share, on this evening of fright and terror! Beware. It is a tale not for the faint of heart. A story born in the laboratory of the evil doctor ZEE. HAARRGHHH!

Last night as we lay in bed watching Amelia for the second time . . . the first being in the theater . . . the 9TS announced that he 'squishes'. Since both of us seem prone to uttering non sequiturs, I rather ignored the dear man and went on about my business. Again, I heard him complain. And finally during a commercial, he grabbed the remote, mightily pressed the mute button and began to press the skin around his latest incision . . . and my goodness . . . a rather loud and definitely wet squish was heard. He did it again, and again he 'squished'. Thinking he was pulling my leg, I made him come around to my side of the bed, where the light was better. He pushed and squished. Not subtly mind you, but rather like a child playing with a balloon half filled with water. Squish, squish, squish. We giggled. The 9TS seemed to be the owner of a rather musical and mercurial membrane. We giggled some more.

This morning, all giggling aside, we re-read all of his post operative instructions. Not one mention of squishing noises. Not even a side note. Nothing about concertos or cantatas, and while everything else seems to be mending on schedule, I knew the 9TS would feel much better if we called in the troops. After a few minutes on hold with Moffitt, a very polite surgical fellow from the cutaneous clinic, listened to the description of the water logged sloth. And to his credit not one ounce of laughter seeped into his voice which is more than can be said for me.

As it turns out, the 9TS has a seroma. It's an actual condition . . . look it up. And while it should resolve itself, it will certainly add to the spookiness of the evening when little trick-or-treat kidlets knock on our door. Whooooooooooooooooooo!!!!!!!!

EDIT: Compliments of our neighbors, here's a shot of the 9TS and moi!

in order . . .

Sometimes when you know you have to go through something unpleasant, the best diversion is something fun.exciting.supercoolio! Like say . . . . spend the day at

And so we did. On the way over to Tampa, we made a pit stop. A day long one. And the 9TS's eldest joined us.

and we rode on the Tower of Terror!!!!
EEK!!!!!!



and tried on demented mouse ears:

and hailed cabs:



and took a back lot tour and saw half of Herbie:

and watched Indian Jones in live action, and road along with Steven Tyler, which left my stomach a tad unsettled but was super fun, and we saw Kermit in 3D which is even better than his old prime time show which I adored and, and, and, and . . . too much. So I am going to leave you hanging until I start and finish a hybrid album of the day.

And then we went on to Tampa and Stacie headed back home. A good, good day outside of the cave.

out of order . . .

Thank goodness yesterday is O.V.E.R.   We spent the night in Tampa since we had to be at Moffitt at 7:15 for 9:15 surgery.  And because neither of us sleeps well anywhere other than home, there were sleeping pills and chill pills for after dinner snacks.  Better living through Chemistry folks.  Much better living. 

At 6 a.m. my alarm went off and I did my song and dance minus the help of three furry creatures who normally make my morning toilette a little more interesting.  Then I scurried down to a breakfast of yogurt and mango infused water.  Yummo.  The 9TS was pitifully left behind since he was not allowed to munch.

7 a.m., we relinquish the car to the valet . . . .  yep, there is one snazzy set up going on over at Moffitt.  I counted 15 runners at one time and that was only one of three entrances.  Cancer has its privileges.  Frankly, I would rather self park if that is the way out of this whole mess . . . 

Do I next have to admit that being groggy, we couldn't remember which elevator we needed to take.  I voted for B, the 9TS for C.  The nice lady at reception pointed out the error of my ways after the 9TS pointed at me and said I had voted for C.  He does that all the time.  Snort.  Up the B elevator we went.  He registered and we waited some more and then back into the bowels of the hospital we went. 

One thing about Moffitt, they don't stint.  They have the coolest new gizmo for keeping patients warm in pre- and post-op.  Their gowns have a little flap with a flat nozzle in them and an extra layer of fabric that covers the upper part where your torso is.  You just pop the vacuum looking tube into the nozzle and jazam!  warm air fills up the pocket and keeps you toasty.  And not that it is ever hot in pre-op, this being Florida and all, but you can fill the same pocket with cool air if you are warm.  I really wanted to take this system home . . .

After chatting with his nurse, an ancient anesthesiologist who could barely wobble on his feet,  the Amazing Dr. Z, and thankfully a young, bright, second anesthesiologist  . . . who would actually be working on the 9TS . . .  whew!  We waited a little longer and then off he went into never, never land.

I wandered back to the waiting room with a nice warm blanket compliments of our nurse.  Moffitt is a tad stingy with the heat and I know better but I forgot a sweater. 

Two hours later, the amazing Dr. Z came out and told me he did well and everything went as expected.  Hooray.   A couple more hours and they were pouring the 9TS into the passenger seat of his pride and joy while I slid in behind the wheel.  I must admit, the 9TS did his best not to growl at me as I hit the ignition. A quick celebratory stop for MickyD's and we were on our way home crumbs and all.

The 9TS is sore and exhausted, drugged up and safely tucked in bed.  All is well in the cave.

Squishy the dragon . . .

I was reading Sarah's blog this morning and oh, the memories that came flooding back.  When Katie was in kindergarten, the class mascot was a purple on purple dragon made of parachute material, who went by the name of Squishy.   Each and every weekend, he was sent home with a different child and a notebook.  It was the responsibility of his miniature foster parent to include "Squishy" in any and all weekend activities and then have mom/dad commit to writing the thrills involved therein. Our turn was late in coming . . .  it being March already.   I was so excited!  Maybe more so than my kidlet.

My excitement waned when Katie hauled "Squishy" out of a very warn and tattered brown paper bag.  After seven months of being dragged all over the southern half of these United States, the creature had considerably more filth than a couple of dirty knees and unclean finger nails if you get my drift.  The poor thing needed fumigation.

Much to Katie's, horror, the first step on Squishy's home visit was a rock n' roll good time in my washing machine with double rinse and high speed extraction of any remaining particles of whatever noxious-ness had clung to him.

Smugly patting myself on the back, for a job well done and well over due, I opened the washer to see the horror within.  Squishy and most of his contents were on opposite sides of the machine.  Shielding Katie's tender eyes from the debacle,  I moved the contents to the kitchen table, turned on the operating lights, donned a mask,  threaded a needle and went to town.  Soon Squishy was not only clean inside and out but back in glorious good health with a somewhat more sedate ride in the dryer.

But all weekend, Katie was upset that his "scars" would be visible come Monday morning and the tot set would be pointing fingers at her chanting, "Katie killed Squishy,  Katie killed Squishy",  and I admit, that thought was bouncing around in my skull as well.  Had I set my child up for derision that would haunt her for the rest of her life???

As soon as I could, with Squishy ensconced in a smart new paper bag house, I cornered Mrs. Hendren and explained the disaster of the last 48 hours.  She peered into Squishy's abode and pronounced him practically perfect in every way, smiled and asked if we had journaled about the escapade.  My chagrin was apparent when I told her there was no way I was risking being mugged by a class of tearful five year olds over the near death experience of their beloved mascot  . . .  retold in print no less, for all ages to come.  Not I, thankyouverymuch!

But now I need to go back through some 45+ scrapbooks and see if there is photo of the decrepit dragon . . .   and savor some more moments.  Thank you Sarah for that bit of morning sunshine.

pooh would be jealous . . .

Word trickled down about a mythical honey haven way out in the woods some 45 minutes northwest of here.  A roadside stand with fresh honey sold on the honor system . . . or so I was told.  First Rick, the floor man opened his mouth and popped out this little tidbit.  Then at lunch, it seems Joanie and Nancy knew about it.  After some more nosing around, it appeared that I . . . after some thirtysix odd years of nosing around back roads . . . was the only one in the dark about this eden of dripping, sticky, oh so sweet, goodness.  Tuck that one in the back of your mind.

And so yesterday, coming home from lunch and having picked up that nights dinner, the 9TS announced he did not want to stay at home that particular afternoon.  Where to go?  What to do?  and the Vette isn't quite as well as we first thought so that meant escape via jelly bean . . . top down . . . wind blowing . . . sun shinning . . . glory hallelujah . . . we were on the honey trail.

We headed up the inter-coastal through the basin,  around the corners, under the trees and finally up onto SR100 headed west toward Palatka.  Past the sod farms, rednecks and dead farm equipment.  Wafts of banjo music made me hit the pedal a little harder  . . . we were after all, in Cracker country!!!

Why when going some place new does it always seem to take forever, yet coming home . . . no time at all.  Finally, just this side of town, we saw a vision:

which we flew past.  A quick u-ey and we were settled next to the stand.  The choices . . . oh my.

I had to use my "phone a friend":  Orange Blosson, Wildflower or  Gallberry?  Honeycomb or no honeycomb?  After much mobile meanderings, a selection was made.  Thank you neighbor.  You know who you are.

Gotta love this place.

 

and so we did.

This place is the best.  Pooh would be in little bear heaven.  After paying for our honey, we loaded back into the Miata and headed home as the sun was setting.  Another good day in paradise.

But wait!  There is more.  Dinner:

missing from this shot is the cold shrimp appetizer and the hot from the oven corn bread.  Yes indeed-y, I do love this place. 

Come on Pooh, it's time to grab another fabulous day . . .

Grab it . . .

these are the days I love living where I do.  The ever present miasma of summer humidity has finally lifted and the temperatures have dropped out of the stifling cloak of the 90's.  The days are bright and clear, the nights cool and relaxing.  Windows are finally open again to the wonderful aroma of fresh air with soft breezes wafting along whispering . . . get up . . . get going . . . life is waiting.  And so yesterday, Joanie and I piled in her car and headed toward the sea to walk the bridge.  I would have posted pictures like this:

but A) you have seen this before and B), I didn't bring my camera.  Gasp.  And at the base, is of course, on Thursdays, the farmers market.  And the best?  Michelle was selling Pumpkin Nut bread.  Little loaves of delectable-ness  of the likes you have never put in your mouth . . . except maybe Nancy's zucchini bread.  Ah, a very close tie.  One little loaf was split with the 9TS for dessert last night, the other is in the freezer awaiting the pumpkin loving kidlet who will ferret it out as soon as she hits the door on her next visit down. 

What a gorgeous morning to walk.  The plan was to do the bridge twice . . . didn't fly.  While Joanie has been walking on a regular basis much as I used to do, I have been very bad for a very long time and I wimped out.  Sigh.  But I will get back in shape.  It is my October resolution. 

So get out there.  Life is good.  Grab it.

ramblings from within . . .

yesterday the 9TS and I ran errands in the afternoon.   First stop: the vet's.  Totally out of salmon dinners in a can. The pop top music of their lives . . .  their meal of choice . . . like a trip to McDonald's for felines, minus the overload in carbs and calories.  Ninj meanwhile has also been noshing on kibble.  Hers.  His.  Pip's.  She is a non-denominational nosher.  And she has blown up.  HUGE.  Fat cat.  She ain't cool.  As of this morning, there is a new regimen in the cave compliments of our vet.  The beasties get fed three times a day, a third of a can each.  Pip gets kibble too since she is still growing which is good . . .  Ninja growing is not.   I think there might be some grumbling rumble echoing around the depths of the cave . . .

On to Lowe's for a storm door/screen door.  A storm door in Florida you ask?  Why yes she replied.  But let's regress.  Growing up, our kitchen door, which led to a wooden flight of stairs down the back of the house, had a fabulous screen door.  You know, the type . . .  an old coil spring that made it slam shut with a resounding bang . . . a hook and eye latch . . . wood frame.  We would grab whatever treats were present in the kitchen, head for the door, listen to it clatter shut behind us, sit on the bottom step and devour the goodness we had absconded with.  No wonder I love the sound of a screen door snapping closed.  Also no wonder that years ago, I asked the 9TS for a similar screen door on the entrance to the cave.  He obliged.  I loved our screen door but alas, it has not aged well.  It is warped and does not close unless manhandled, the screen sections are no longer able to withstand the occasional inadvertent push of a hand or foot and finally, the 9TS noticed a tear at the bottom.  One that could be enlarged enough for the escape of one very industrious kitten. 

Now there are screen doors and there are screen doors.  Whoda' thunk there'd be so many choices.  But we settled on one . . . a storm door really.  One that will eliminate the cold whiffs of snappy air that weasel there way under and around our front door come winter.  Yep, we are wimps.  Anything under 70 degree's is COLD.  This particular model has a top glass and a bottom glass.  The top glass slides down to match the bottom while revealing a previously hidden screen on the top half.  Nifty!  So in the fall and spring, we will get a wonderful nice cross ventilation  . . .  once we replace the screen door on the slider in the kitchen, which is arriving at the same time . . . and the beasties will get a panoramic bottom view of the world outside.  Beautiful.  I will, however, still have my memories of slamming screen doors and oven baked goodies on the bottom step. 

And while I am rambling, a funny thing happened last night.  We were sitting in the driveway chattering back and forth, me imbibing, the 9TS abstaining and were presently joined by our neighbors Nancy and Jim.  Nancy being a third of our lunch bunch, Jim being a retired contractor.  Conversation led here and there and finally to a house in Tomoka Oaks, a nearby subdivision.  Jim had built a house there.  And so it seems, the very same house we tried to buy before moving to the cave.  It was a wonderful house.  Great bones, pool, river frontage.  Unfortunately, the previous owners had divorced and the wife, who had won the house, was losing it to foreclosure.  The unhappy woman and her son consequently motored on the assumption that if they could not have it, neither could anyone else and proceeded to wreck havoc all around.  Huge holes were punched in walls, spray paint was everywhere, tiles smashed, chair rails defaced.  The pool was full of black slimy water, cage screens ripped.  It was awful.  They even started a fire on the back wall of the home.  The good news was that it was mostly superficial and could be restored by the mighty 9TS.  It was up for bid.  We figured that if we could offer a low bid and win, the savings would pay for the restoration and we would still be on budget.  But alas, we were bidding against a local rental company with more resources and lost.  Sigh.  But on the upside, we love the cave and have the builder of that wonderful house as neighbors.  Funny how things turn out.

feed me, feed me . . .

We stopped at Ming's on the way home from Tampa.  Good Chinese restaurant on I-drive.  Yummy shrimp cakes, a little eel sushi and calamari for the 9TS, a little more sedate chicken and veggies for moi!  But someone forgot to feed these not-so-little fellows, so the 9TS bought a quarter's worth of fish food and almost got eaten alive.

And of course Orlando, being Orlando, there are always fun sites:

This being one of my favorites since it is the only upside down building I am likely to see.  Sorry Dorothy.

Oh, and we saw a pod of hot air balloons!!!

Otherwise it was an uneventful trip . . . travel wise.

In other news, the PET scan came back with two hot spots.  The leg, which we knew, and another on the surface, next to the incision scars left from the lung surgery.  Another aspiration biopsy was done and it too was positive.  They are thinking it is seeded cells . . . .  which in Jeanne speak means, that when they removed the cancer from his lung, some of Mel and Anoma's offspring broke off on the way out and started a new colony.  How enterprising of them.  Not!

We are waiting to hear when surgery will be scheduled and what happens next.   Looking at Thursday or Friday of next week.

Personally, I think the 9TS and I should just move into Ming's, stuff our faces with anything cooked in wine and garlic sauce and play caretaker to their over fed carp.  A much better proposition . . .

books . . .

My friend Marg posted an interesting tidbit this morning.  Since acquiring her Kindle in May of 2008, she has read 421 books.  She is my hero.  I hope I can come near her count . . .  not to be competitive but to find that many interesting books in which to submerge myself.  The thought makes me giddy.

And finally, after much trial and error, since acquiring my Nook in mid September, I finally nailed the connection to our local library.  Eureka!  Click, click and the book is mine for 14 days . . . or at least on my waiting list, until it becomes available.  And since I have this proclivity for reading everything an appealing author writes, I downloaded Swimsuit and 7th Heaven by James Patterson . . . which opens up the entire Women Club series to me . . .  Alex Cross having already been digested;  Sizzling Sixteen by Evanovich, makes me up-to-date on her books, and Downtown by Anne Rivers Siddens is number 17 of her 18 I have inhaled.  I'm  currently reading Careless in Red by Elizabeth George, the second or third of hers I have snorted.  Also downloaded U is for Undertow by Sue Grafton, leaving me four left in her series and Lowcountry Summer by Dorothea Benton Frank, a new author to replace Anne Rivers Siddens. 

Just before my Nook made its appearance, I read Kathryn Stockett's, The Help.  Excellent read. 

The only downfall of this madness?  Having to buy bigger purses.  Have Nook, will travel.  Perfecto!

across the state . . .

the kindness of the human soul amazes me.  We had not one, but two offers of cars for our trek this morning.  The thoughtfulness overwhelms me.  It humbles me . . . shakes my core . . .  moves me to tears.  Thank you Joanie and Nancy.  Thank you.

As it turns out, the 9TS received a call fifteen minutes before closing yesterday, advising him that his 'toy' was ready.  It is very happy to be back in the garage as is the 9TS . . .  happy that is.   But we had had a long conversation.  The 9TS asked if I would drive.  Not a small thing for him.  And when the question of which car to take arose, he chose the jelly bean.  It will be good for the car, said he.  He can sleep, he rationalized.  Take a tranquiler, he murmured.  What he didn't mention was that no amount of tranquilizing would calm him enough to ride shotgun with me at the wheel of his 'love'.  We tried that once.  It ain't gonna happen again.  Ever.  Snicker. Snicker.

And so I gassed up my little red Miata, crumpled up the 9TS like an overly large sardine into its tin and headed across the state.  He slept.  I gripped the steering wheel until my knuckles were white and my fingers cramped. Why do I hate interstate driving so much?  But, we are here . . .  he wrapped in the cocoon of the MRI, I in the waiting room amusing myself with crosswords and my laptop . . .

When he is done, we will repeat the process and head for home.  I like the sound of that.  Home.

updates . . .

tomorrow we leave for Tampa for the 9TS's PET and MRI.  Monday, we will head back to see the amazing Dr. Z. and get the results.  Pins and needles, pins and needles.

when I left for yoga, my toilet was sitting in my bathtub and a very nice man was pulling up the old linoleum.  When I returned after lunch, my new floor was sitting in the driveway.  A few hours later and it was finished and oh my, my bathroom makes me happy. I did have to do a quick bathtub scrub.  The ewww factor was a little too thick for even me to ignore. 

the vette is still ailing, hopefully to return by 5 tonight.  Otherwise we will be puttering over to Tampa and back in the jelly bean, which was so never designed for highways and at eleven years of age . . .  slightly akin to 103 in people years . . .  that is expecting a lot. 

my purple crop pants arrived in the mail.  PURPLE folks.  PURPLE.  and I love them.  They came in a gorgeous rust brown that I couldn't resist and so purchased from Coldwater Creek a few months back.  They are linen but don't wrinkle into nothingness and they are totally comfy with big pockets.  What more could I ask?   At the time, I eschewed the same version in puce.  But then one night, while scouring their website under the 'outlet' section, there they were.  Deep lavender at its finest.  And only $11.74.  Yep, with tax, shipping and handling; $11.74.  Who cares if they are mulberry . . . plum . . . pomegranate?  And as it turns out, I do have matching tops.  Doing my thrift happy dance.

i have been looking for a little triangular table to put between the two leather chairs in the living room.  As of now, the lamp has been balancing on a rusted antique milk can . . .  gee, if I remember these, does that make me a rusted old antique too?  A light bulb went off a month or so ago about a table up in the attic.  It was my parents.  Moved to Florida years after I did.  Has a triangular base-round top.  Extremely abused.  Kept for sentimental reasons.  I looked at the 9TS with glee in my eyes.  Could it be restored?  Could the top be cut to a triangle?  He is at work as we speak.  Everyone should have their very own 9TS.  Just not mine.  I don't share well.

was it a full moon yesterday . . .

*everyone was upset

*the cats would not eat

*i burned the carrots . . .  charred actually

*publix was out of roaster chickens

*moffitt canceled the newly made appointments but rescheduled


today will be better . . .

*yoga

*lunch with the girls

*a new bathroom floor

*hopefully the return of the vette

*a new downloaded book

*a kitten asleep in my arms

ut oh . . .

It has not been a good week for the 9TS.  

Last night, as we were headed to Carrabbas for our ritual Friday night dinner, the 9TS backed his 'baby' out of the driveway and into the cul-de-sac and there it died.  Unable to shift gears, it would not even start.  Think doornail.  Dead.

We pushed it back toward the house only to discover that the only hill in central Florida is the lip at the end of our driveway.  We grunted and groaned and heaved to no avail.  More troops were required.

The unsuspecting Joan and Eddie moved into the neighborhood (yay!) shortly after Paula and Dave  departed (boooo!)  I think they would have been friends . . .  but they'd be occupying the same house      . . .

Anyway, I wandered over and knocked on their door.  They should know by now not to answer my rapping     . . .  last time, we needed help digging a hole for the newly departed.  This time I was enlisting their brute strength.  Soon, Joanie, Edd and I were all grunting and pushing on the Vette's tender gray rump.

Success was had  . . .  many, many thanks to our friends . . . and much to the 9TS's dismay, we arrived at the restaurant in my little red, eleven year old, jelly bean. 

Luckily, by only a few miles, the Vette is still under warranty and was hauled off to the dealer this morning compliments of triple A.  The 9TS is not a happy camper at the prospect of a weekend+ with no Vette.  But as Joanie so aptly reminded us, at least we have a second car.  Food for thought.

CANCER SUCKS!!!

I have taken a little break from blogging since the 9TS found another lump in his leg two weeks ago.  Until we knew what it was, everything else I normally blather on and on about just seemed so petty and obnoxious in the scheme of things . . .  I just cut us all a break and stopped.

Tuesday, we went back to Moffitt to see Dr. Z. before we headed to the CRU (Clinical Research Unit) for his trial vaccines.   Dr. Z, ordered an aspiration biopsy which proved inconclusive and scheduled surgery for today as prevention in case those two little bastards  (can I say bastards on my blog? Well, I guess I just did.  Sorry if I offended anyone except those to whom I was referring.  To them I am not the least be sorry.)    really were back in residence.  Dr. Z. is a very suspicious dude.


Yesterday afternoon, we received a call from Dr. K.  Unfortunately, Mel and his cousin Anoma are back . . .   the gruesome twosome seem to think the 9TS is a time share unit they can crash in every six months, party, destroy the joint, and wait to be evicted.  I hate them.  HATE, HATE, HATE them.

The full blown lab pathology of the aspirations was positive.  Until they can get him scheduled for a full PET scan and brain MRI, to see if the cousins are partying anywhere else in the 9TS, surgery has been postponed.  Oh, and he has been scrubbed from the trial since it obviously was not working.  We are waiting for the phone to ring . . .

And now after that outburst, we are back to regularly scheduled blogging inanities.

Katie's room contains the only remaining carpeting other than the stairs in the entire house.  And it is stained and miserable.  Poor Snoop was so sick before he left this earth that he made more than a few mistakes not to mention the episode with Katie's wisdom teeth . . . you get the idea.

Anyway, Wednesday, I finally called Rick, our flooring guru, to come measure for hardwood.  While he was here, I asked him about linoleum for the upstairs bathroom . . .  both the carpeting and linoleum being 22 years old, the linoleum was curling up around the edges.  Rick did a little digging and handed me a fistful of sawdust and said, don't worry, you don't have termites or rodents. It seems the builders used particle board instead of plywood and splashes from the tub have rotted the particle board over the years and in case I want to wake up with my tub in the downstairs hallway in the middle of the night, I need to cease use of the tub asap.  ACK!

Tuesday, Greg will come and remove the toilet, Rick's guys will fix the floor and lay new linoleum, and Greg will return to reset the toilet.  And I will have newness in the palace!  YAY!!!

Thanks for sticking around while I was gone.  I appreciate it.