You'd Think I Was a Busy Person

How I managed to squeeze five hours of actual work into yesterday, with all the running around I did, I don't know. As a matter of fact, I am going to recheck my addition, as it hardly seems possible.

My trusty hairdresser is taking a month holiday starting next week, which meant getting my do done before she leaves. (Have a wonderful holiday, Sandy!) After that, a trip to the doctor's office was on the agenda. I felt a woodtick under the upper ridge of my right ear on Monday morning — felt it when it bit in. Gross little bastards! The ear has been swollen, red and itchy, so I thought antibiotics might be in order.

This is the waiting room, which never seems to be busy. I wonder why they added onto the clinic recently.

Instead the doctor prescribed an antihistamine and a cortisone (?) cream.
"Come back in a few days if it gets worse," he said.
"Okay," said I. "This means I can still have my beer and wine."
"Yes," he replied, winking, "Medicine is an art, you know, not a science."

So it was off to the drugstore, and making a few quick stops in other places while waiting for my prescriptions. I picked up a foot-high stack of library books, got a refund for a flower arrangement purchased for a funeral but accidentally undelivered, purchased some gauch, stopped at the post office, and perused store shelves for a new notebook, as the current one is nearly full. Then back to work and settling in for mere moments when I received a text from Charlene:

"Just a reminder: 4 o'clock appointment."
And out the door I went for another hour.

This might be the first time I've had my bi-weekly, now monthly, shiatsu treatment without any tender spots in my lower back and the soles of my feet. Could it be that after three months of daily hatha yoga, things are happening that ought to be? My nose still won't touch  my knee, though it will get there eventually. As we get older the muscles and tendons take longer to come around, or something like that. (Thank you, Charlene; truer words may never have been spoken.)

When I got back to work, there was a text from Karen. She'd been in town for a funeral (which I didn't know anything about or would have gone) and wondered if I had time to meet for coffee or supper. I would roll naked over pointy pebbles to spend five minutes with either of my sisters, but yesterday I just couldn't manage it. There was work to do and if my employer had a mean bone in her body, which she doesn't, she'd have been bending her eyebrows in my direction. I texted Karen back that unless she could meet me in an aisle of the grocery store in about half an hour (we were getting company overnight and needed a few things before the store closed at six), I couldn't make it.

"That's good," she returned my text, "because I'm already on my way home."

A mere half-hour at my desk and I was off to the store. When that last errand was done and the bag of groceries was tucked into the office fridge, I sat down at my desk with a sigh of relief. Everyone but Alison and I had gone home for the day. The phone wasn't ringing; it was nice and quiet. I read through an opinion piece, picked out some photos, scoured an article about a local event, and Alison and I looked over the page layout and made some changes, fitting stickers denoting articles and ads onto the blank sheets, like a jigsaw puzzle.

Then Scott called on my cellphone.

"What are you doing?"
"Working. What are you doing?"
"Doc's arrived. We're just having a beer. Do you have a plan for supper?"
"Bringing pizza fixins home."
"Anything you want me to do?"
"Chop up onions and peppers."
"Okay, see you in a bit."

That was at seven o'clock. I figured I'd better be a good host and so called it a day and got on the road home.

Two beer and two slices of pizza later, and after a couple hours of gabbing at the kitchen table, I got my pyjamas on, did my yoga, and said goodnight.