How is it that when I leave Florida I always get sunburned? Isn't it supposed to be the opposite? Doesn't one come to Florida for a sunburn? Yet I seem to get them when I go north of Jacksonville.
I've been wanting to write a treatise on the fun I had in Chattanooga and the resulting sunburn, but I just can't seem to get myself together to do it. Here's the reduced version:
Went to Chattanooga for major scooter rally. Fun time had by all but parking attendants. Sunburn. Bought amazingly fast, heavy, and lethal scooter. Car trouble at U-Haul trying to load lethal scooter. Christine breakdown. Demanded new car. New car was had. Surgery. Outpatient orthoscopic. Little preparation made because of Chattanooga and new car procurement. Painkillers. Horrid, horrid painkillers. No painkillers. Annoying, nagging pain. First bath. Tired. Typing this.
And now I want ice cream and chocolates. Preferably a crate of Klondike bars. The problem of having surgery and little on-hand support network is that you can't call your father and say "Please bring me as many Klondike bars as you can carry. Hurry." Because he'd totally do it. He understands the need of a Klondike bar. "What would you do-o-o?" Not much to be done, in my case.
Where is husband? Telling me I'm fine. Maybe I'm more fine than I'm afraid, but I'm not as fine as he seems to think. He's forgetting the no painkillers part. Ugh. How can people be addicted to those terrible things?
Reduction sauce of Christine. So many things to tell, so many little fingers not wanting to type.
Love,
Your Friend
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment