A VERY belated thank you to Dimple for this lovely award:
The rules state that I have to tell you a few things about myself. Since I've been rather remiss in keeping you all updated lately, I'm going to tell you some recent things.
1. My Basement Oasis: I've spent a bit of time every day turning my grungy, unwelcoming basement into a place I want to be. No more dog hair tumbleweeds floating all over the place, or Hoarders-style piles of junk everywhere. I've moved the treadmill so it faces the TV (though oddly, no actual exercise has ensued) and begun the process of making my sewing and craft area a functional space. My basement banishment is a success!
2. Just Call Me "Sporty": I believe I might be the very first person on earth to have sustained a sports injury without actually engaging in any physical activity whatsoever. 2 weeks ago, my left arm started hurting for no apparent reason. At first I ignored it, and then, predictably, fell into my old habit of letting my overactive imagination start making diagnoses. Yesterday I felt it was time to go see a doctor. You know, just in case it needed to be amputated. The doc did some bending and twisting and poking and prodding and then asked "Have you opened any particularly stubborn pickle jars lately?" to which I had to admit that most pickle jars (and jam jars, and even the pull-tab cat food can) are a bit of a challenge for me. How embarrassing.
He diagnosed an inflamed wrist tendon similar to what you might get with tennis elbow and the like, and suggested I go get myself a sports wrist/hand wrap thing and wear it until the pain goes away. You might think this is the end of the story, but unfortunately, I ran off to the pharmacy and bought the first thing I could find, only to have to skulk back in 5 minutes later and admit shiftily that I'd accidentally bought a right-handed one when it was actually my left hand that needed help. I'm pretty sure everyone in town groans when they see me coming.
3. Country Girls Don't Scream: I've had to admit to myself that despite loving where I live and never wanting to leave, spending the first 32 years of my life in a city has left a permanent imprint.
On Monday, I backed out of the garage to take Firstborn to his martial arts class in the city. When I got out of the car to close the garage door behind me, I made a gruesome discovery. A few feet away was the stray cat that had been hanging around our place for a few days, laying on his side, dead as a doornail. I have no idea how he died and I don't want to speculate. The only dead things I have ever seen are mice, rats and birds, along with the odd bit of road kill. On finding a pet-level animal (that I'd been very tempted for days to bring inside and start feeding) checked out on my driveway, I should've just gotten to work dealing with it, like a proper country-dweller. Instead, I let out a scream. You know at the beginning of Law and Order when someone finds a dead body and starts screaming? It was that kind of scream. The Captain came out to find out what on earth was going on, rolled his eyes and went for the garbage bags. So at least one of us has some rural-person instincts. I left him dealing with things, drove to the city, and had a half-fat latte to calm my nerves.