She's Alive! She's Alive!

Just popping in to let you all know that I came through the hip replacement with flying colors.  The only side effect seems to be cotton in the brain.  I was able to hold onto my outpatient status - in at 5:45A and home by 4P.  I had excellent care and can't say enough good things about the surgeon, staff or facilities.  They proclaimed me their star outpatient case, which puffed me up no end.  

I was walking and able to go up one step about two hours after coming to.  I can only complain about one thing.  My sister cooks too well.  And she is too compassionate and thoughtful.  Boohoo, poor me.  The night before surgery, she made squash tumeric ginger soup and mushroom cheese risotto.  When I got home, she had made a chicken tangine with rice.  Yesterday, she made roasted duck with orange balsamic sauce, mashed potatoes and steamed broccoli.  And a cranberry pie.  Today is salmon with pea shoot salad.  I don't think I can stand it, but I'm going to try.  She has also vacuumed the house, cleaned all the kitchen countertops, cleaned the Cat Cave, and and is contemplating the inside of oven door.

I'm being handed off to my second sister on Sunday, who will continue the queen treatment for yet another week.  How will I be able to survive on my own after all this wonderfulness?

The JimJam Conundrum

 For as long as I can remember, I have been a JimJams for sleepwear proponent.  JimJams, pjs, whatever one calls them, allowed me to blur the line between inside and outside wear.  Of course, that was BL (before livestock), when all I needed to do on a weekend was to make a bagel/Sunday Times run.  I could literally stay in my JJs from Friday night to Monday morning.  It almost makes me weepy to think about it.  Even now, when the likelihood of doing barn chores in my JJs is slim to none, I tend to stay in my sleepwear for as long as possible.  Then the hip gave out.  Suddenly, the mere idea of having to put on/take off JJ bottoms can have me thinking of going au natural in the middle of winter.  I have - very begrudgingly - turned to nightgowns.

Having not given a thought to them for decades, I had to do some research.  I knew I did NOT want flannel. I am not Laura Ingalls and, by the time I am done tossing and turning on my fleece or flannel sheets, I would be bound as tightly as a geisha's foot.  And was I ever shocked at the prices!  I much prefer natural fibers - cotton, wool, linen - so I bought one cotton and one cotton blend.  On sale.  With free shipping.  When I slipped on the cotton nightgown, I was immediately reminded of Uncle Fester.  Or, Uncle Fester joins the Army, as it is an Army-like green.  It went from neck to toes in a long, shapeless green tube.  But it is comfy and the dogs could care less about my lack of fashion sense.  The second one was tres chic and I had an overwhelming desire to sashay all over the place.  Until I realized that my present version of 'sashay' is more of a slow, crablike gait, entirely lacking in graceful moves.  

I am not sure that this switch in my nightwear allegiance will outlast its present convenience.  It is awfully nice to be able to get ready for bed in minutes, rather than 10s of minutes.  And there is a little Gloria Swansonesqueness (whoa!) about the idea of sashaying around in a nightgown, when my sashay comes back.  Plus, I can always pull on a pair of jeans under the nightgown and go do chores!  Woot!  Woot!

Older, yes, but wiser?

 There appears to be a cutoff date for age=wisdom and I have arrived.  Before you contest - "Oh, no, no, no, no.  You're such a smart cookie" (you were going to say that, right?) - let me lay out my case.

My sister provides a wealth of chicken goodies every visit.  I decided, in my 'wisdom', to put it all into a small, covered bucket with handle, so it's easier for me to manage one-handed (second hand has a death grip on my cane).  So far, so good.  I also have to carry a bucket of water in the same hand.  Hmmm.  Light bulb! (and what a dim bulb it was)  I will float the smaller bucket in the water bucket, thus having one bucket to carry!

Off I totter to the chicken yard, practically glowing with smugness.  Until I discovered that the covered bucket had small holes drilled around the bottom for gawdknowswhat reason.  Soggy treats and flavored water.

My neighbor, bless him, continues to make sure that all snow is shoveled off deck and paths.  With our wacky weather (rain/snow/rain/snow), most of the walkways have developed a treacherous layer of ice.  As I prepared to make the daily trek to the mailbox, I briefly thought about footwear/ice.  Then, poof, it was gone.  Out I went.  If I could have clocked my progress, it would have been about 1 mile per 2 hours.  I minced my way across the yard as far as I could go - heading toward grassy/crunchy spots.  Then there was the driveway - a virtual river of ice.  I ratcheted down my progress and contemplated levitating.  I eventually made it to the mailbox and then had to make my way back.  Yak-Traks for cane bottoms should be a thing.

Let me add here that I have Yak-Traks.  And they are conveniently set out by the boots.  However, I thought it was wise to set off over the tundra in my moderately skid-proof boots.  I rest my case.

To add insult to injury, I was recounting my adventure to the mailbox to my sister, comparing my progress as the graceful gait of a three-toed sloth (trying to smooth over the lack of sense by focusing on a much nicer visual aid), when she said, "Oh, I think it's creepy the way they move."  Okay.  Sloths are creepy, snails are slimy and hermit crabs move faster than I do.  Any suggestions?