Day after Thanks

Now that everyone is stuffed to the gills (a saying that is rather weird unless one considers that we as humans reportedly had gills in the olden, olden days), we can sit down, loosen our pants and think about whatever it is one thinks about when stuffed to the gills.

I am glad to report that the wife's family once again PASSED on the tradition of sobbing while trying to spit out for what one is grateful. This is two years in a row, so I'm hoping the time of this tradition has passed. There's nothing wrong with stating words of gratitude while sitting in a circle for two or three hours, but they take it to a whole 'nother level which keeps Kleenex in business. This year, the wife's dad cried at every given moment, as he is grateful beyond compare for quicker-than-anticipated recovery from a recent accident. I don't even know how the guy ate dinner, 'cuz every time I looked at him, he was crying. I think he made up for everyone, so they really didn't need to have the circle of thanks.

The wife is out Black Friday shopping. I would rather poke my eyes out with the bones of the turkey drumsticks than join her. The dogs and I are enjoying the comforts of our home. She sent me a text of a proud purchase. It's a sport to her. I am much more the computer-shopper type. Give me a charge card and a computer and I'm good to go.

I'm rather worried about Lucy, as she hasn't eaten in 24 hours. Of course, I'm always worried about Lucy, so this isn't a very unusual thing. The other day, she and I had a talk. I asked her to hang in there until after Christmas, if she could possibly do so. Of course, god knows Freckles has been at three "this is her last Christmas" dinners, so I shan't worry too much. This is Lucy's "first-last Christmas" dinner, per my declaration, so Lucy will probably have several more last Christmases, too.

I make fun of this because to actually not make fun of it would let my heart be crushed. I don't have time for such nonsense.

Lucy and I are taking a trip to the vet on Monday...she has to go because she can't get groomed anywhere unless she is up-to-date on her stuff. I'm not thrilled about having her get shots when this is her first-last Christmas but she needs to be groomed, so charge card, here we come. One must look spiffy for the holidays, especially for the first-last Christmas.

I had a good laugh at work last week when I was talking to a co-worker about Lucy's tumors and how  it had grown and how I was worried. She interjected, asking, "Isn't this the dog that's been dying for the past three years?" I couldn't help but to burst out laughing. I explained that no, that's the OTHER dog that's very much alive and on her way to her third-last Christmas. This is Lucy's first-last Christmas. I'm telling ya, we laughed for quite a long time.

Changing subjects...I went to the dermatologist the other day because I had this really itchy, never-healing thing on my chest near the collar bone. It's been driving me nuts for months. The thing has been here for years--I think it was a skin-colored mole but it might have been a scarred pimple or an age spot or some alien life form. Whatever it is/was, it itched and itched and itched, even waking me up at night. Several times, I had to put a band aid on it, lest I scratch it in my sleep or let my shirt make it even itchier. I finally decided enough was enough and scheduled an appointment.

I have no idea what it was because my appointment was short and the doctor never said anything about the actual mole/spot/alien life form. I didn't even have to take off my shirt.

Dr. Skin (bursts into room, obviously irritated and definitely quite done with this what must have been a very long day): "What is it you want me to look at?"

Me (Pull down the collar of my t-shirt): "This thing. It itches like crazy and doesn't heal."

Dr. Skin (scowls at my t-shirt, which happens to be an Oakland Raiders shirt): "Oakland? Why are you wearing an Oakland Raider shirt? I lived in Oakland. I didn't like it. Those fans are crazy."

Me (still holding down collar of shirt, silent, hoping she'll look at my spot instead of my shirt...I'd like to make small talk but decide I'd rather get this thing taken care of....Oakland shirt be damned)

Dr. Skin: "Don't wear band-aids. You're allergic to band-aids. No more band-aids." She took a no-more-than-two-second gander at the spot, held up a can of something (where the hell did she get that?) and then sprayed the piss out of the spot. She sprayed like there was no tomorrow. She sprayed until she was done spraying.

She stood up, handing me a piece of paper (where did she get THAT?--this lady is full of surprises), opened the door--can in hand--and barked out, "come back in eight weeks. No more band-aids."

With that, she was gone. I sat there for a second or two and then squeaked out a "thank you." I was left in the room with my sprayed mystery spot, obviously with no band aid covering it. Guess it wasn't something serious.

I now have this gross-looking thing on my chest, trying to heal with not a band aid in sight. I am quite thankful it was determined to be nothing more than something to freeze off in a huff. I'm thankful that I know I am allergic to band aids.....um, I've worn band aids all my life without issue, so this is a bit confusing to me, but I'm going with it. I glad the itchy spot probably wasn't an alien life form (I think she would have said something about that if it were).

Today, the Day after Thanks, I give thanks for many things, of which I shan't list here. Instead, I'll go finish the Christmas cards, eat cereal with chocolate chips tossed in for breakfast and go buy Lucy a hamburger from the place of arches Gold and see if she'll eat that. I will think happy things of all of you and I will continue to make fun of the Farewell Tour. I'll get ready for Sunday Service (that dang Baby Jesus thinks it's an important time of the year) and I'll probably do some work. I won't wear a band aid. I'll prepare for tomorrow's day of thanks with my family of origin (read: buy some potato chips and chocolate) and I'll do some laundry. And, I will be very thankful for all of these things, just as I am grateful each and every day. I will enjoy every minute of the first-last Christmas. I will shop on line while Doctor Who plays in the background. I have nothing of which to complain...

....except for the itching. Oh, the itching of a healing sore! I fear there may be some whining about that.

I'll scratch and I'll whine and I'll give thanks for you. Kiss kiss!
***************************************************************