CaveMyotis of Bloom
Jun. 23rd, 2018 09:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
ismoFeeling a powerful need for some act of rebellion, all I could come up with was refusing to floss my teeth. Which tells you something about where my head is at. To make it even more pathetic, I had no sooner made this decision than I found I was already halfway through flossing them anyway. Because it's a habit now, and I just forgot not to.
We thought we had come to a meeting of the minds with the nurse manager at my mother's place, two days ago. She vowed and declared that she was strictly following the doctor's instructions for care, and we were happy to hear it. But that was before we found out that she had replaced the compression stocking prescribed by the doctor with an Ace bandage, and started anointing Mother's wounds with OTC silver nitrate. Silver nitrate is not harmful per se in the concentration being applied--BUT it was NOT prescribed by the doctor, and it does interact negatively with other treatment Mother is receiving that was prescribed by the doctor. This afternoon, the Duchess called to tell me of this latest perfidy. So now Mr. Science is having to write an admonitory email to the nurse manager's supervisor. This is an endless headache.
I dreamed I was on a TV show, and Michael Shanks was the guest star. When he showed up for his scene, I was wearing underpants and an old t-shirt, and there was nothing in the refrigerator but celery sticks. I said "OH THIS IS JUST TYPICAL." He said "What? What's wrong?" in that adorably bemused way of his, and I growled "Oh never mind. It doesn't matter." I was so pissed off at the scriptwriters for not giving me a better scene to play.
When I woke up this morning, I had another sentence forming in my mind: "Restoration is my dangerous philosophy." I wrote a poem about it when I got up. So that's something. We were just having our morning coffee, and I had just completed my poem, when there was a knock on the door. The Sparrowhawk put some decent pants on and answered it. It was the Jehovah's Witnesses. He was polite to them, while I paced back and forth barely out of sight, restraining myself with difficulty from bursting on the scene to yell OH FUCK OFF at them. I probably would have if I'd had been clad in something other than sweats and my failed suicide cult t-shirt, size XXL. I've joined several cults already, if you count my family of origin, and the JWs' namby pamby little outfit has no appeal for the likes of me. But it's unseemly to use my Barbarian Voice to intimidate a couple of hapless middle aged men with pot bellies who just want to sell lottery tickets to the New Jerusalem.
Actually, though, today was better than yesterday. Besides the poem, I spent an hour weeding and took a walk, and had a lively discussion with the Sparrowhawk about double entendre in folk songs, which resulted in much hilarity. He grilled us some delicious dinner, while I turned the squashy bananas into banana bread. Restoration continues, slowly. A pity Michael Shanks didn't come back.
We thought we had come to a meeting of the minds with the nurse manager at my mother's place, two days ago. She vowed and declared that she was strictly following the doctor's instructions for care, and we were happy to hear it. But that was before we found out that she had replaced the compression stocking prescribed by the doctor with an Ace bandage, and started anointing Mother's wounds with OTC silver nitrate. Silver nitrate is not harmful per se in the concentration being applied--BUT it was NOT prescribed by the doctor, and it does interact negatively with other treatment Mother is receiving that was prescribed by the doctor. This afternoon, the Duchess called to tell me of this latest perfidy. So now Mr. Science is having to write an admonitory email to the nurse manager's supervisor. This is an endless headache.
I dreamed I was on a TV show, and Michael Shanks was the guest star. When he showed up for his scene, I was wearing underpants and an old t-shirt, and there was nothing in the refrigerator but celery sticks. I said "OH THIS IS JUST TYPICAL." He said "What? What's wrong?" in that adorably bemused way of his, and I growled "Oh never mind. It doesn't matter." I was so pissed off at the scriptwriters for not giving me a better scene to play.
When I woke up this morning, I had another sentence forming in my mind: "Restoration is my dangerous philosophy." I wrote a poem about it when I got up. So that's something. We were just having our morning coffee, and I had just completed my poem, when there was a knock on the door. The Sparrowhawk put some decent pants on and answered it. It was the Jehovah's Witnesses. He was polite to them, while I paced back and forth barely out of sight, restraining myself with difficulty from bursting on the scene to yell OH FUCK OFF at them. I probably would have if I'd had been clad in something other than sweats and my failed suicide cult t-shirt, size XXL. I've joined several cults already, if you count my family of origin, and the JWs' namby pamby little outfit has no appeal for the likes of me. But it's unseemly to use my Barbarian Voice to intimidate a couple of hapless middle aged men with pot bellies who just want to sell lottery tickets to the New Jerusalem.
Actually, though, today was better than yesterday. Besides the poem, I spent an hour weeding and took a walk, and had a lively discussion with the Sparrowhawk about double entendre in folk songs, which resulted in much hilarity. He grilled us some delicious dinner, while I turned the squashy bananas into banana bread. Restoration continues, slowly. A pity Michael Shanks didn't come back.
restoration!
Date: 2018-06-24 05:45 am (UTC)i have a sign on my front door: NO PREACHERS.
if anyone rings the doorbell after that, i ask if their church prohibits reading. and then i ask if their church has a list of houses not to bother. without waiting for an answer, i tell them to Put This House On That List. good day.
that usually keeps them away for about six months. then i have to do it again, to the next hapless cohort.
i am so glad you got a poem, and so enraged by the nurse manager's perfidy. you're a saint not to go all medieval on their asses.
no subject
Date: 2018-06-24 06:40 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-06-25 09:16 pm (UTC)Two friends grew up in the Witnesses, and wow howdy that is scary. Their parents felt that going door-to-door was more important than school, since the End of Days was coming right up anyway.
I have two JW-reaction scripts:
if adults, I say "I'm queer so there's no hope for me" and close the door.
if there's a kid, I speak directly to them. "Hi! I'm glad to see you. There are many ways to grow up. If you want to learn more, you can contact me."