All of it. The clean underwear and the dirty underwear. The bad underwear and the Calvin Klein favorite underwear. Last night we came home and he had gotten into the trash and looked like this (Kevin stand in because he now has more hair and his eyes are much prettier and amber which makes it harder to scold him). I had a thought for just a second - Kevin might get into the trash if you leave it there but then I was trying to help mama out the door to the football game with her purse, her secret bag, my purse, and so forth and that's just more commotion than a brain can manage. I left the trash. I came home to this. But this is nothing compared to the destruction of my underwear.
You would think if you are down to two pairs of underwear and there is a pattern that you would recognize it and not do this again but not so. My life seems to run at LUDICROUS SPEED. Yes, ludicrous speed! So when I suddenly need to lock rescue dog Kevin in my room because he can be whack with his little odd wire loose and there is twenty seven and half people in the living room and some of them are small children screaming and running around with sharp things part of my little brain says - you know - it'd would be a good idea to lock Kevin the rescue in your bedroom. So I run upstairs with him and do that. The part of my brain that says - You know, he has eaten ten pairs of your underwear so you might just want to close your closet or move that basket of clean clothes somewhere else. NO! That part does not speak at all as I am running back down the stairs. It kicks in when I go up to let Kevin out and all the wild little wolf pack are gone and he is standing on a mountain of rags that were previously underwear with all the important middle parts in tact.
I want to yell BAD DOG!!! Very BAD Dog! But Kevin the Rescue has heartworms and is going through treatment and supposed to be taking it easy and I don't want to give him a heart attack even though right now he is sitting in the middle of all the destroyed underwear like he is Jackson Pollock and has gone on some wild, artistic binge liberating me from all my contraints and is darn proud of it - so I say, Yes, of course, this is all my fault. I should have prepared better for this moment.
Which led to the GRANNY PANTY incident.
I had a doctors appointment to follow up with my real doctor because I had gone to the local clinic when a forty eight hour virus tried to kill me and take me out of this world by making me throw up my toes while at the same time make me feel that eight gorillas were playing ping pong with my body as the ball and I went to clinic and climbed up on the table and the nurse turned the light out while I curled up on the table. She said she was keeping it out of my eyes but I think she was trying to ease the moment the doctor walked in and saw me so he didn't scream. So he says - Oh, MY! And I grunt something. And, he says when is the last time you felt this bad? I say Sixth Grade because It wasn't hard to remember the last time you felt that bad. And he says you are very sick and I'll give you a shot so that you can keep from throwing up your toes and send you home. And oh, by the way - you have also caught Bronchitis from taking care of your Mama so I will give you some horse pills. Just see if you can keep those bad boys down. Then I fell off the table and left my car in the parking lot because sister got off work and came to get me because I couldn't drive home.
Then I went to follow up with my regular Doctor like I was supposed to and I was getting dressed and went to get UNDERWEAR but they were all rather artistic at that point and since I wasn't trying to go on some kind of radical match.com date I thought I'd just go downstairs and borrow some clean undies from my Mom so I say Hey Mama - Kevin ate my underwear and she says AGAIN? and I say yes, and I think she is trying to tell me, You should put up your underwear . . . when I grab an old pair of hers that is white and stretched out and come up to my arms pits. And Then I go to the doctor on my lunch hour so they can pat me on the head and send me home.
The doctor says, I see, when I tell her about the virus and the bronchitis and the coughing and she says now - take off your clothes -all but your underwear and get on the table. I try to tell her this is not important and she just acts like a doctor and leaves the room like I will do what she says. So I take off my clothes and put on the paper and climb up on the table while she talks in the hall to a nurse about another patient for a looongggg time which she doesn't normally do but I keep thinking - well, that person must be very sick and even though I am on my lunch hour and really in a hurry I will be patient so I sit on the table cross legged Indian style with the paper around me and I realize at that moment I am wearing white granny panties that come up to my armpits and bag around my drethers and that I want the doctor to not think I just don't care anymore that I haven't given up all hope of romance. But then she comes in with her scope and tells me to breath and breath some more and in and out breathing and I almost pass out so she says - Let's take a break. So I stop breathing. And then I breath some more and she tells me I have Pneumonia and she is giving me STRONGER HORSE PILLS. And because I find out that I have PNEUMONIA which my grandmother always said - then you will get the Pneumonia and die. No one in my grandmothers lifetime ever seemed to get the Pneumonia and survive I realize that I could die with my mother's granny panties on and it's all because I rescued Kevin and he eats all my underwear.
And I was late for work so I forgot to tell my doctor about this and I'm sure now she thinks I just don't care.
I'm back. And my brain feels both blessed and a bit bruised maybe from the recent SIBA trip. (See Radio page) I have had the extreme honor and privilege of interviewing - which for Clearstory is more like chatting with good friends with authors attending the SIBA trade show. The list is too long to type here without running out of time. It included some of my all time favorite authors like Elizabeth Gilbert and Lee Smith, favorites for a number of reasons like Joshilyn Jackson who has known me since college and the beginning of good words, and great new discoveries.
But - right now looks like me staring out the window at the rain and thinking - I need to make a doc appt for a check up. I need to write 5000 words today. I need to edit interviews from SIBA, upload, check social media to check on a the illness of a friend's husband, make professional appts about professional things, write a friend, call my Mom and walk her through using her smart phone, pick up medicine for me and the dog, cook dinner, blog, and pray and walk and breathe, and plan my funeral. (I'll save that for an upcoming blog but I'm not dying any faster than I know of - it's just a southern thing.) And complete a few interviews about an upcoming event in Panama City Beach next week. Which means I need to pack. Which means I need to shop because I am out of decent clothes to wear in public and my jeans from Walmart most likely won't cut it for this event. (I'm not a shopper unless it's for tech toys, purses from Italy, or Channel perfume. And the rest of my fun shopping is from flea markets, yard sales and Goodwill.)
Why are we all so crazy busy? Because I know it's not just me. It seems to be everyone I know. But the fact is - as Celia Rivenbark says, I'm living the good life, baby - because I am. I get grand baby hugs and kisses. And I get to talk to you, and to authors I love and you love, and to promote their work. And on my very, good days I work in a letter to a friend, a little treadmill time, and I write a few 1000 original words.
On my worst days where I don't meet any of my lofty goals, overdraft my checking account by 32 cents, lose something important on the way to the coffee pot (who can do that!?!) and be a total mess all day, I still manage to say a prayer for a stranger that crosses my path. An imprint of a face, of a name, of a something about someone that I may say nothing more to than How are you? But by God I mean it. And I think in the end - that's what makes all the difference in the world.
Peace to you as you go about living your sloppy, beautiful, messy life. We're living the dream, baby. Living the dream!
Thanks so much for reading, liking and sharing with friends.