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.