In the middle of the week I went to the dermatologist to get a five year mole patrol check-up. I’ve already had one cancerous growth removed so when I got the letter suggesting a full body check, I said to myself, what the heck, why not. But later when I visualized stripping naked in their exam room I decided I was going to resist taking off my underwear unless the doctor was willing to strip, too. The last time I was there (for chronic hives) my goose bumps got goose bumps in their meat-locker-cold room. Maybe if the doctor had to sit naked in that exam room they’d turn down the air conditioner. I was actually disappointed when his nurse told me I could keep my underpants on because I was ready to fight and she didn’t even give me a chance to put up my dukes. Boohoo! The doctor could have played connect-the-dot with on the moles on my back but he says they’re all benign. No biopsies for me.
At the end of the week, I took a ride out in the country to another lake, this time to a cottage that my husband’s nieces rent each summer to have family reunions. They are all such good cooks that I gain five pounds just thinking about being exposed to their culinary achievements. But my reputation for bringing weird stuff is one I’ve never lived down. After the first few years of being part of the family they started assigning me things I could literally pick up at a Stop-and-Go Store. My theory, back then, was that large family get-togethers were the perfect time to experiment. If a dish failed, it was no big deal because there were tons of other dishes and no one would notice. But they did notice and it was three strikes and you’re out of the kitchen for Jean. So here’s a tip to anyone who wants to earn a place on the bring-easy-stuff-list, just cook up a batch of something pink that shouldn’t be. You’ll have to take some kidding and a few pats on the head with their, “that’s okay dears” but the following year you’ll be bringing chips. In my defense, what young person just learning to cook would know that potatoes and beets breed in the darkness of the refrigerator and everything turns pink. Oops.
Even though I had a few interesting things to do this past week time seemed to drag its butt like a dog curing an itch across the carpet. Woo is me. The fourth of July caused me to lose the rhythm of my upward projection in the class of Widowhood 201. But I was comforted by the fact that other widows blogged about the same, being-at-loose-ends feelings that came with the long weekend. The past is past and next week I have two gorgeous, hunky tree climbers coming to remove one giant dead pine and two chock cherry trees that have split their crotches and are in danger of invading my house some dark, stormy night. Everyone tells me these guys are like monkeys in the trees as they cut tree sections and use pulleys to drop the sections to the ground. I hope it’s hot so they won’t be wearing shirts. If you’re in the neighborhood, stop by. I’ve stocked up on pop and I’m thinking of video taping another Coke commercial. Hot guys and women watching them from the window---it might have been done before but not here on Widowhood Lane. ©