Pete fenced in the garden, then installed crooked gates, which beat all to hell last year’s arrangement where my gamey hip and I were intended to climb over some chicken wire because HAHAHAHAHAHA. Now I have gates. They were on sale, for some reason.
Tomorrow, I start bicycle commuting again. It’s a huge step forward and I’m very excited about turning up at work, flushed and sweaty, on purpose!
Uh…okay.
Mom’s having more surgeries. I am sorry to be so scarce, but a gal can’t be both fresh air and Times Square without tearing her dancing shoes to shreds.
So busy I went to physical therapy an hour after my appointment. Genius!
Adjust your seat belts, passengers. I am cleared for take off.
At today’s appointment, the doctor was happy about how far I’ve come, happy about how good I feel, happy about how easily Pete’s knee can be fixed next month, happy about Pete’s long experience in professional kitchens, happy to talk about Anthony Bourdain and Eric Ripert, happy about how long it might be until Pete’s knee eventually needs resurfacing, happy to hear about how our visits are really exotic excuses to get to Veselka for borscht. I wrote down the address for him: 2nd Ave. & 9th St. and told him to get the challah.
Tonight, we rode two laps around the park by our house that felt like a victory parade without a horn section. I have to look into that.
We’ll be lucky to find ourselves in the doctor’s office tomorrow, wearing at least some pants and murmuring, “Lovely to see you again. We left the mime and all three penguins at home this time. Hard to tell them apart after parties. You don’t mind, do you?”
Just kidding!
In other news: Poor Impulse Control is nine years old. Guess I should quit drinking its college fund, huh?
WordPress wrote me a little thank you letter for sticking with either blogging or WordPress for three years, which would be hilarious if Blogger hadn’t tossed me the hell out. Siobhan and I spent two months in a glamorous panic, trying to put down our adult beverages long enough to move Poor Impulse Control. Thing is: we actually have poor impulse control. So WordPress? Don’t take this the wrong way because you’re nice and only go through our wallet for loose bills now and then, but we’re only with you because our ex was a real bastard. Happy anniversary. Let’s order a pizza or something. You pay.
In other news: tomorrow is Pete’s and my fourth wedding anniversary, which is sure to surprise everyone who’s ever met me. Certainly, Mr. DBK will be surprised by all these pronouns. Pete and I will celebrate this by – we don’t know. We had to look at the marriage certificate to figure out the actual date. Romance is in the air – or pollen! Either can make you sneeze.
In even more news: Wednesday, Pete and I have appointments with the same doctor. I have reached three months post-surgery and hope to be allowed to bicycle and use the rowing machine. This is important because I am decadently fat and must change that immediately. Pete is seeing the surgeon to determine if and when he should have a torn ACL repaired. Naturally, all this involves celebratory borscht. Things may be looking up, if the trees overhead aren’t filled with poop-squirting birdies.
Photo: Bob Hosh
Photo: Bob Hosh
Photo: yep, Bob Hosh. That guy can take a picture that makes you smell the summer sunblock.
It’s just a small pile, but these asparagus and those green onions grew in our garden and I love the little guys. Later, I’ll hold them like puppets and act out La Boheme.
Today, I had a fender bender I didn’t realize I’d had until someone else broke the news. Didn’t hurt my car a bit, but I scraped a bit of someone else’s paint. Thus, I am somewhat bummed.
Raised bed from which you can practically hear seed potatoes howling with laughter.
In related news: last time a crowd looked at me like that, I left that backwater hellhole and never looked back.
The garden, cleaned out and ready. Today, I planted potatoes around the sage bush at left. Though my own personal potato blight two years ago hurt my delicate fee-fees, I’m trying again.
Poor Impulse Control 