It’s my Birthday Month!

I don’t know when I decided to celebrate an entire month for my August 8th birthday, but I’ve loved doing it for a long time now. This is Day 1.

This year, I’ve decided to do something that I “should” do every day of the month. Now, I make the rules here, so I get to decide what I should do. If I miss a day doing something I should do, so what? I do not have to do penance, or extra, the next day. No, it’s all my call. What?????? It is MY birthday month!

Today, I threw out some clothes. I’ve been losing a little weight lately, one whole size now, so I have some things I can alter and some things I can’t. I should throw out the ones I don’t want to alter! I started the process, and I have a stack in my bedroom.

I really should get my hair done. See, my birthday is August 8, and I want my hair to look, well, really good. And then, I’ll need to get my hair done again before a trip to Las Vegas in September, so the timing is right. I called Tuesday and moved my August 13 appointment to today!

My hairdresser Amber and I share a birthday. She told me today that her friend from Florida is coming to Tennessee for her birthday. They’ll go to lunch at some wonderful place (there are a lot of those in Nashville) and they’ll visit and laugh and laugh. My hair turned out pretty good.

I should take Mom grocery shopping today. It’s a regular Friday occurence. So we made the trek to Wal-Mart, Ace Hardware, and Piggly Wiggly. It’s exhausting.

Mom picks up prescriptions from the pharmacy, loads up in the bakery and deli, and then waits for me on a bench in the valet parking area. That’s right, I said “valet parking”–at Wal-mart. It’s the only one I know of. We know the attendants well and they give us special attention.

It took almost three hours to fulfill Mom’s list and pick up what i might need, too. This place would not be my choice but I’ve learned to do it well. Then to Ace Hardware for turnip seeds.

Dad planted turnips–for seed– and we harvested a couple of weeks ago, my daughter-in-law Vicky and I. After we mowed down most of the leafy greens, the resident groundhog (Gordo, we named him) gleans and cleans the remainder. I’ve called him every vile name in the book, yelled at him, and baited a live trap almost every day with over-ripe cantaloupe, but Gordo is too smart for me. So far, he eludes capture.

I should set the trap again tomorrow.f

Every morning, Gordo–and another smaller version of Gordo–graze in the back yard. I just looked out and Gordo is still eating. It’s 7:30 P.M.I wonder if he will ever fall for my garden-fresh cantaloupe. He likes it, but he pushes the trap in complete circles to try to reach the ripened fruit. He doesn’t go in the door. Damn groundhog!

I intended to weed the second half of the front beds. I finished the first half yesterday.

Dave watered it all down so that the ground would be soft. It’s going to have to wait until tomorrow. I’m too tired. Wal-Mart has done me in.

Here’s the thing: If Mom didn’t want to shop at Wal-Mart, I don’t think I’d set foot in the place ever again. It’s exhausting.

In the fabric department, I chose some lining and interfacing for purses my friend is making for her online shop. I’m managing the online shop. Was there anyone there to cut fabric?

I nabbed a young man in a company shirt as he walked by. I heard him call “…..associate needed in fabric department.” No one came. I saw a “Co-Manager” coming with someone else looking for something else. I nabbed him in a moment when no one else was asking him anything and he promised to send someone pronto.

It wasn’t pronto, but a woman finallly came and cut the three pieces of material that I wanted.

After checking off every item on Mom’s list, and most of what was on mine, I headed toward check-out. Uh-oh. I forgot to get Cesar dog food, so before I brave the hazard of the check-out lane, I traverse the store to lay in the supply of twelve little Cesar cartons with names like Filet Mignon with Potatoes and Gravy and Senior Chicken with Rice and Herbs.

Murphy had surgery a few weeks ago, had her ACL’s replaced. She’s getting special treatment around this house. It’s debatable if she will ever go back to dry food. At this point, who cares?

As I was choosing the flavors to complete the dozen, a blonde-headed woman (who, at the time, appeared to be about my age) informed me, “I’m so mad at my fiancee, I could wring his neck.”

My reply: “Hmm.”

“We just bought a new car, alright? It’s a [I’ve already forgotten what it was]. Now, I had to lay out the downpayment and now, he doesn’t want to pay wunnnnnnn little bill of mine??? You know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“I told him, ‘Listen, you SOB, if I leave, I’ll take the car AND the baby.'” I noted that she mentioned the car before the baby. I also observed that a sixty-five year old woman would probably not be having a baby. I’m still in a quandary as to what I should have said to her.

It’s okay that I am sixty-five. Today is my first day of Medicare. I signed up for one of those fancy Advantage Plans.

And I’m glad I’m not having a baby.