Have your doctor ever yelled at you? “You’re overmedicated!” said a sleep doctor I saw last month. “Who gave you that stuff?!”
“Duh–my local drug lord did. There is a rampant sleep meds delivery system available in our small, dull New England town.”
Did someone he saw at eleven o’clock make him irritable at eleven thirty? I defended myself and my GP and he finally came around. I told him how I’d lost weight when I heard my cloresterol was up, and, earlier, how I’d quit drinking when I began thinking of having a drink at three: Hell, it was only an hour earlier than the regular cocktail hour. As though we observed those hours.
But! He wasn’t the real sleep doctor, the one who would treat me.
To be continued………
I’ve got a red nose. A very very red nose. Is it the color of a strawberry. No, it’s more as though a strawberry is lit up from within, a bright red.
And the nose is covered with a band-aid. I don’t want to frighten small children and dogs.
My dermatologist told me to put on–five nights a week-a white liquid I squeeze through a pin hole from one of many packets of Imidquid… whatever. Six weeks I’ve been doing that. So that my poor nose looks like it has been set afire.
There’s a basal cell cancer there. That’s why the redness. I won’t provide the rest of the gory details.
Poor nose. All it did was sit in the sun, poking out from my face. I’ll take good care if it now. (Thought I was taking care of it before.)
It has its charms, but also its horrors. But all the writers I read–those willing to comment on writing–say Yes! You (I) must do it. If you think you have nothing to write, sit and pick up your pen or turn the compter on. Bring up that blank sheet whichever way and go.
All those writers who advise you to do it say things like, “…human talent can only be developed through an expenditure of effort.” So says Jonah Lehrer, quoted in The Week, 4-16-12.
Even I gave that advice when I was interviewed by a local television station about All The Way Round, my book about caring for my parents.When asked what I would say to anyone who wanted to write, I said, “Put your bottom on a chair and do it.”
At any rate, I’ve filled my page, haven’t I? I do love to write with my fountain pen: heavy, but not too heavy, a lovely line of black ink on the page. Who knows, a beautiful Waterman’s pen might inspire you to write!
Having a blog is like always having a friend in my room. Anytime I want to talk to her, she’s there. It’s very cozy. Usually when I have something profound to say, there’s no one around. My husband’s hearing aids are often on the blink. And, besides, he’s not a female. It’s a woman I want to talk to.
For example, I just bought a CD of Frank Sinatra, “Sinatra with Love.” I love the songs and the way he sings them; each one a different interpretation. I particular love one called “Wave.” I don’t think I’ve heard it before. It’s a Latin rhythm. But it’s particularly a line in which he sings, “Don’t be afraid of loving me,” that somehow touches my heart. How many people are there who are afraid of loving another in a romantic way?
I often fall in love with a song, or a piece of a lyric. I love Brooks Benton’s “It’s Just a Matter of Time.” Or Jerome Kern’s song, sung by Margaret Whiting, “Poor Pierrot.” I can’t listen too often or one of those songs turns into a music worm. ? No, that’s not it. You know, when you can’t get a song out of your mind. Friend, i just need more music!