The Hospital Experience

Posted on October 5, 2020 by Sheila Moss

surgeryYes, even surgery is something to laugh about after you know you are okay. 

I always figured I would end up on the orthopedic surgeon’s operating table sooner or later, but I thought it would be for a knee replacement, not for a cervical disc fusion. But here I was, asking — actually begging — to have my neck slashed. Shows what pain can do to you.

On the big day, I checked into a tiny room that was as cold as a freezer locker and received a hospital gown and a blanket so thin I could see through it. Eventually, a stretcher arrived for me and I watched the ceiling squares fly by as I was wheeled down long halls and onto an elevator.

The anesthesiologist put an IV hookup in my arm. I was given meds that were supposed to relax me, but didn’t. “Don’t worry, you won’t wake up during surgery, we monitor your brain waves,” he said. What a relief. I hadn’t considered the possibility before that. I wished they would turn up the drugs.

I was wheeled into what I recognized from TV as an operating room where masked figures in blue garb hovered over me fiddling with various monitors. I felt a hot sensation in my arm and my wish for drugs was granted.

“Where am I?” I asked.

My eyes burned like fire. I had a large collar around my neck to support my head. Various medical people came in and out, checking monitors and doing whatever it is that medical people do to see if you are still alive.

My chest was congested and I couldn’t breathe. “Cough,” they told me. So, I coughed and coughed and nothing happened except it made my sore throat even sorer.

When I eventually woke up completely, I felt great except for blurry vision. I was ready to be discharged and go home. It wasn’t until later that I found I felt great because I was receiving morphine in my IV. The sneaks.

Breakfast was served — bacon, eggs and a biscuit. I wondered why they didn’t realize my throat was too swollen to eat. The nurse’s aide came and bathed me with what smelled like Lysol.  I wondered if she was using mop water. I was too weak to protest the burning disinfectant, but if there is ever a next time, I intend to be a hippie and refuse baths.

By evening, it was time for my first walk. I was afraid my head would fall off and go rolling down the hall. Two nurses dragged me and the IV stand down the hall and wheeled me back when I nearly passed out. By the following day, however, I would be able to walk up and down the hall with assistance and without mooning anyone.

I continued to cough. I’m not sure how long you can go without sleep until you become delusional, but given a choice between breathing and sleeping, sleep does not seem important.

I wanted to go home. Finally, on the third day the doctor came and discharged me. A mere five hours of paperwork later, I was able to leave. I was much weaker than I realized and fell on my knees trying to into my house.

Welcome home.

The bad news: the doctor forgot to put a date on the prescription he wrote for pain meds, so the drug store wouldn’t fill it. The good news: I had pain meds left over from pre-surgery.

I slept setting up in a chair for the first week after surgery, if you can call it sleeping. Nights were hell, coughing all night and trying to breathe. I called my primary doctor  and found that I had bacteria in my lungs transmitted by the tubes in my throat during surgery. I wondered why someone didn’t think of that sooner.

Not fully coherent, I took pain pills along with other medications, which must have been too much sedation as I dreamed of being three people, one who slept, one who floated around the room on sparkling fireworks, and one who coughed.

Surgery is gross. I do not recommend it. Pain is worse and I recommend it even less. Next time, I intend to find an easier way to get material for a column.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss
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Here Come the Mules

Posted on October 1, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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“So, what’s the big deal about mules,” asked my grandson, as he skated in circles balancing himself on the heels of his wheeled tennis shoes, a new skill he was  beginning to master.

We were trying to get ready to go to Columbia, Tennessee, for the annual Mule Day parade. Not that I’m crazy about mules, or anything else equine, but it was something different to do, and a chance to get away from the omnipresent computer games that consume a child’s mind these days.

We were running late again. We always seem to run late. It was further than we remembered and we didn ‘t know our way around town. The streets were closed for the parade and the police flaged us away. Finally, we followed a group of motorcycle riders that seemed to know where they were going and ended up about a block from the parade route.

At first my grandson ignored the endless procession of mules and wagons, still more interested in endless stretches of sidewalk where he could test his balance by doing wheelies in his tennis shoes. But eventually curiosity got the best of him and he turned his attention to the reason we were there.

We pushed him through a crack between people in the crowd, up to the front where a kid could see. Later on, I sneak through to the front myself and set on the curb where I snaped pictures and pondered his question, “What is the big deal is about mules?”

Mules are a big deal to the people that own them and apparently to a lot of other people too. About 125,000 people, from all over the South turn out for the parade and festival. Tennessee folks like things plain and simple and what could be less pretentious than mules?

Columbia is widely known in these parts for its celebration of everything associated with mules. In early times, the story goes, Columbia was a commercial center for the mule market trade. The mule, produced by cross-breeding a horse and donkey, has traits from both animals but cannot reproduce, which creates a constant market for mules by those who appreciate this animal. This mule market eventually evolved through the years into a week-long celebration.

Mules are as varied in type as horses, but show the donkey side of their breeding with their long expressive ears, donkey tails, and quirky traits. Mules are often believed to be stubborn, but those in the know believe they are actually highly intelligent. They sometimes arouse the ire of their owners who say to handle them they must first learn to out think them.

Mules have a strong sense of self-preservation and refuse to endanger themselves by continuing to work when tired, sometimes a source of great aggravation to owners. Mules are especially known for their great strength and endurance, which made them popular with pioneers and farmers in the early days before machinery took over agriculture and wheelies took over sidewalks.

My grandson was getting into the spirit at last and adjusted his baseball cap to watch as the mules clopped by. There were all types of mules, from miniature animals bred for their tiny size, to huge magnificent animals with fancy tack and flamboyant riders in dusters. The wagons that were pulled by the animals were decorated in their parade finery.

I don’t know how impressed my grandson was, but usually kids like almost anything that is outside of their usual routine of life. Amusement parks and computers are okay to a point, but kids need to see and do different things and to have a variety of experiences, especially in this time of electronic everything. At least that’s my theory.

However, my grandson was back to doing wheelies by now, whizzing across the asphalt, hands in his pockets and toes pointed upwards, carefully avoiding the deposits left in the road after the parade was gone.

“How did you like the mules?” I asked hopefully.

“They’re okay,” he responded, “Can we get pizza now?”

I guess kids nowadays just can’t understand a form of transportation that doesn’t do wheelies.

DSCN0016DSCN0034DSCN0028Copyright 2008 Sheila Moss

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Call Me Later

Posted on September 28, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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I am amazed when people try to stop teenagers from talking on cell phones while driving. No talking on cell phones? Why you might as well try to stop them from downloading music. Who in the world can stop a teenager from talking on the phone, or doing anything they’ve got their mind set on doing?

It makes you wonder if some adults were ever teenagers or if it has just been so long ago that they no longer remember?  The best solution these days seems to be a hands-free option for phones — but cell phones can still be a distraction.

Back when I was young, cell phones and even cordless phones did not exist. (I’m telling my age here, so just forget this part after you read it.) We had only the good old, standard telephone fastened to the wall with a 15 foot cord so that it could be stretched to the closest closet or bathroom where the door could be closed and we could engage in our private conversation away from the prying ears of parents or (ug!) siblings. We spent marathon hours talking on the phone to friends and it was all part of becoming socialized, feeling accepted, growing up.

Maybe some people never had the thrill of talking on the phone for hours unending, while lying on the floor with feet on the furniture. Maybe they never spent infinite hours just waiting for the phone to ring. Maybe they never called a friend and then held on to the phone for ages talking about nothing, just because they wanted to feel a connection.

The love affair between teenagers and telephone is a long-standing, time-honored tradition. Of course, phones in past times were not mobile and did not have the option of texting. Cell phones are the modern day replacement for the 15-foot cord.

Try to take away the kids cell phones? Why they might as well take away the senior prom, rock music, or the Friday night football game.  We try to teach kids to use responsibility. What sort of mixed message do we send when we hand them the car keys with one hand, and take away the cell phone with the other?

If you want to be fair, admit that adults on cell phones are not safe drivers either. So let’s not pick on adolescents and blame them for the ills of the highway. If the kids are considered old enough to drive a motor vehicle in the first place, then they should be considered old enough to have the responsibility that comes with it.

I’m not opposed to safety on the roads. If we really want to be safer, why not lower the 70-mph breakneck speed limit? Why not crack down on the driver’s license test that, as every one knows, is scarcely a test at all. Why not post some public service messages to educate the general public on how to drive without tailgating and how to using signal lights.

Why not encourage courtesy to other drivers on the roads instead of a competative “watch out for the other guy” mentality. Why not install a hands-free option for the cell phone? Like everyone else, teenagers may not always be able to pull to the side of the road or re-enter traffic safely when the phone rings. How many people have never used their cell phone while driving?

Phones are a convenience, a way to keep in touch when we are away, a way to get information, a way to say we will be late for an appointment, a way to let people know where we are, a way to be available if someone needs us.

The absurdity of saying someone is responsible enough to have a license to drive a high-powered, fast-speed machine but not responsible enough to use a cell phone safely is simply ludicrous. Does anyone besides me see the paradox?

Copyright 2001 Sheila Moss
Edited 2020
Posted in Automotive, Humor, Rants | Tagged , , , , , , , , | 8 Comments

Fleeing the Flu

Posted on September 22, 2020 by Sheila Moss
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Photo by CDC on Unsplash

Are you as tired of hearing about seasonal flu shots as I am? All right already, enough is enough. For some reason, everyone seems to be concerned about getting flu shots. We have flu every year, but this year the pundants are going into overdrive about it.

“The most important way to keep from getting any virus is to wash your hands, wear a mask, avoid crowds and remember to social distance,” say the health experts. So, why are we being beaten over the head with helpful hints about staying healthy? Because getting flu and the Coronovirus together would be a double whammy. But, habits are hard to change. People pretty much want to do what they always do.

This year’s panic is because of the pandemic, or Covid-19 if you want to be technically correct. Because of Covid, suddenly everyone has become aware of how dangerous seasonal flu can be. Maybe it took being hit over the head with a pandemic baseball bat to wake people up to the flu risks.

Funny, I don’t remember flu ever being called seasonal flu until this year. Suddenly plain old regular flu has gone fancy. They don’t want us to get the two mixed up and get the ridiculous idea that regular flu shots will protect us from that nasty old Covid-19 bug.

Hello, operator … the message isn’t getting through. Because of the Coronovirus people will get shots who never, ever had a flu shot before. There are many official statements saying the seasonal flu shot does not protect anyone from Covid. We will need to get two shots, not one — maybe even more, depending on what they come up with for Covid-19.

Due to the lack of availability, the government could set priorities on who can have the Coronovirus vaccine. Kind of scary when the government starts saying who can be protected from an epidemic, isn’t it? But obviously health care workers have to be first in line when/if a Covid vaccine is available.

I presume there will eventually be sufficient vaccine for all who want it to get it. Meanwhile, I will get my seasonal flu shot as usual this year at my friendly neighborhood drugstore.

Some people, however, have decided that the flu shot is more dangerous than the flu. And they are probably the same people who will think a vaccination is more dangerous than Covid. Lucky for them, if the rest of us get the shot, we are not spreading germs around to infect the protesters who don’t; thus, the infamous “herd immunity” we hear so much about.

Personally, I’m a believer in getting vaccinated. If everyone decided they didn’t need to be immunized, we would still have horrific preventable diseases like polio — diseases long ago abolished thanks to wide-spread vaccination programs.

So, all you folks that don’t want the vaccine get out of my way. I’m not in one of the priority groups, but when it is available for me, I’m darn sure going to get it. Call me brainwashed, a cow following the herd, a lemming, but I still think shots are a good thing.

You can wear your tin foil hat as far as I’m concerned and wait for the mothership. I’ll take my chances with the vaccine. Maybe, just maybe, there will be enough people that think like me to get this pandemic under control.

Now excuse me while I wash my hands again, put on my mask, go get my seasonal flu shot, avoid crowds and remember to social distance.

Copyright 2009-2020 Sheila Moss
Revised and Updated

Dear peeps, Remember I am supposedly a humor writer, not a healthcare expert. Please check the CDC Website for the latest information on Covid-19 and/or seasonal flu. I love all my readers and want you to stay healthy and alive. 

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Remembering Autumn

Posted on September 18, 2020 by Sheila Moss

leaves

I want to go backwards to the autumn of my childhood. I want to see piles of pumpkins at roadside stands.  I want to drink apple cider that doesn’t come in plastic jugs.  I want to feel crisp air in the morning as I walk to school. I want to see a hint of frost on the ground that tells me the season is changing.  I want to observe the glorious riot of color as trees try to outdo each other. I want to gather leaves in hues of red, orange, and yellow.

I want to visit a pumpkin farm and select an orange pumpkin to carve into a jack-o-lantern. I do not want to go pumpkin farms that have turned into commercial enterprises with hayrides, corn mazes, and petting zoos. I believe the selection of a pumpkin should never be a secondary thing.  An artificial pumpkin from Walmart with a plastic smile that lasts forever can ever replace the real thing.

I want to celebrate Halloween the wat it was before it lost its innocence. I want to play pranks, soap windows, ring doorbells and hide without ending up in Juvenile Court. I want to dress up like a ghost or a scarecrow instead of a Disney princess or a superhero. I do not like store-bought costumes where creativity isn’t necessary and there is an endless selection of the same thing.

I want to go to a party in the high school gymnasium, bob for apples, take part in a cake walk, and enter a contest where the costumes that win are homemade. I want to be able to call a Halloween party a Halloween party instead of a harvest festival.  I want Halloween to be fun instead of being associated with evil.  I do not want to watch horror movies that are way too realistic in their depiction of guts, gore and death. I want to be afraid of imaginary spirits and not even know that there is such a thing as devil worship.

I want to go back to the time before razor blades in candy took the fun from little goblins who run from door to door to trick or treat.  I want popcorn balls and peppermint sticks.  I want to live in a world where candy is not eyed with suspicion, checked for tampering, and often thrown in the trash.  I want to live in a world where kids don’t have to worry about falling victim to some sick person’s idea of a joke.

Somewhere in time I grew older and wiser and society became hardened.  What used to be fun is not any more. I want haunted houses where guts are spaghetti and spider webs are fish nets.  I don’t want houses of horror of  where the depiction of violent death and untold evil is way too real and imagination is no longer challenged.

I want October the way it used to be. I want chrysanthemums to bloom. I want to jump in piles of withered leaves. I want to go on a hayride, have a bonfire, and roast wieners on a wire coat hanger.  I want to burn my marshmallow and eat it anyhow.  I want to have a real jack-o-lantern on the doorstep with a real candle burning inside.

I want to know what happened to take the innocent joy out of the fall season. I cannot help but believe that it is not fall that changed, but people.  Like the leaves of autumn, we have lost our vitality, and now have only our withering memories to carry us backwards in time.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss
Posted in Holidays, Rants | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , | 7 Comments

Luv a Clown

Posted on September 12, 2020 by Sheila Moss

levi-saunders-m_PB-FYlR_Q-unsplash Continue reading →

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Battle of the Bush

Posted on September 9, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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The holly bush grew larger and larger, the wild sprouts taller and more difficult to reach. Each time I seemed to have to climb to a higher step on the ladder until there were no steps left, at least none that could be navigated safely.

It started a few years ago when I had new landscaping done around my house. Most of my bushes were old, overgrown, and not the right kind of shrub anyhow. The new shrubs were small and beautiful. My house looked like new again. But the landscape guy left a few of the older shrubs that were established and fit into his plan.

One of the older shrubs was a large holly bush at the corner of the house. The shrub guy trimmed it and it looked very nice with the new ones – except for one thing. After being trimmed back, it developed the tendency to get unsightly tall branches springing straight up out of the top. These sprigs seemed to have a mind of their own and developed much faster than the rest of the shrub.

The holly bush became my nemeses. I would get the trimmers and cut off those shoots – in a month or less, they were back and had to be cut again. They were worse than weeds.

But the really terrible thing about this bush was that it was a holly bush and had thorns. If I get too close while trimming, it bites back. Every work session became a cat fight. Regardless of gloves and sweatshirts to protect me, I came inside after a gardening session with claw marks all over me.

In the battle with a thorn bush, the bush always wins.

The bush grew wilder and I became more depressed. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I got out my sheers and duct taped broom sticks on the handles so I could reach the tall sprigs. I’d show that bush who is boss!

But when the shears opened, the sticks were so wide apart I couldn’t manage them. I got my daughter to hold one pole while I held the other. It didn’t work. We couldn’t see the top of the bush and coordinate enough to trim off the sprigs.

Finally, my daughter had to tell me, “Mom, this isn’t going to work. Let the landscape guy come trim them.” She was right. I put away the stuff and went inside, hating to admit I’d been beaten by a bush.

But the lawn guy thought the weather was too hot for bush-trimming and suggested we wait until fall and do all the shrubs at once. That made sense, but what about the ugly bush?

I thought on it for a while, then I remembered – tree pruners. I needed a tree pruner! I checked online and Home Depot had one that was lightweight and 12 feet long. That should do it.

The next day I was off to the hardware store to buy the tree pruner. It was twice as much as I wanted to pay, but I justified it to myself by saying the bush is an ongoing problem and I would be using the pruner often.

The thing was so big it barely fit in my car, but I put part of the pole between the front seats and finally got the hatch to close.

“You are going to love my new trimmer,” I told my daughter.

“Mom, I thought you gave up on that idea,” she said.

“Give up? Me? I never give up. I refuse to be beaten by a bush.”

So, we went outside and tried it. The new pruner worked great. I lobbed off those ugly sprouts in no time, and didn’t get close enough to be scratched by the holly thorns.

So, I now have a new weapon in my arsenal of lawn tools.

Don’t ever tangle with a determined woman, especially when she is armed with a tree pruner.

Copyright 2010 Sheila Moss
Posted in Humor, Plants/Gardening | Tagged , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Backseat Driver

Posted on September 4, 2020 by Sheila Moss

backseatIt’s getting harder and harder to back seat drive these days, but I get a lot of practice with life in the fast lane while commuting to work every day. The speed limit on the Interstate is 70 miles an hour, but that seems to be merely a suggestion. The actual speed limit is as-fast-as-you-can-go-without-hitting-the-car-in-front-of-you. This offers excellent backseat driving opportunities.

When I see red tail lights coming on, I somehow have the idea that our car should be slowing down instead of accelerating. Mentally willing the car to slow down doesn’t work well, and we fly up on the car in front of us before screeching to a stop. Sudden braking episodes make me draw in my breath quickly and nearly choke, just one of the hazards of backseat driving.

People from out of the area seldom drive fast enough. They probably think the speed limit is actually the speed limit. I hold on the seatbelt with one hand as it hurts my shoulder when it clinches. I’ve not figured out what causes it to do this, but it seems to have something to do with fast braking.

My backseat driving skills are challenged the most when brake lights on a car in front come on, and I’m not sure whether they intend to stop or are just aggravated because our car is too close. Usually a car will pull over and get out of the way. A few of them refuse and have to be tailgated mercilessly.

I really hate it when the brakes on my side of the car don’t work, probably because there aren’t any. I’ve tried stomping the floor with both feet and nearly standing up, but the car just keeps right on going. Backseat drivers are so powerless.

I try to concentrate on something else: the lines in the road, the trash along the highway, the cloud formations, anything other than how fast we are going and how quickly we could stop. I try not to grind my teeth, but the tight muscles in my shoulders give me away. I look into the right side rear-view mirror and watch the car behind to see how far away it is. Not many cars can keep up with us.

Then there is passing. The idea is to get as close as you can to the car in front and swerve suddenly into another lane, narrowly failing to hook the bumper of the car while holding your breath. That should be a familiar move to any backseat driver.

Playing the radio is another good way to keep a backseat driver annoyed. Preferably the radio should be a rock station so that the steering wheel can be used as a bongo drum. After all, if you have to be in the car for 30 or 45 minutes while commuting, you might as well enjoy it. If the radio is loud enough, it will cover up the backseat driver’s screams of terror.

I am absolutely certain that the only thing that has saved my life so far is holding onto the car door as tightly as I can. If they ever find me in the wreckage of a terrible accident, I’m sure they will say, “If she had only been holding on to the car door tighter, this wouldn’t have happened.”

Another challenge for the backseat driver is waiting until the last minute to get over to the exit lane. Moving over into tight spots between speeding cars in time to get off is really harrowing. I have practically passed out many times. We probably save a whole 2 or 3 minutes by not getting over ahead of time.

I’ve tried to keep my eyes shut as a way of blocking it all out, but somehow that just doesn’t work. As soon as I feel sharp braking, my eyes fly open. I guess if I am going to die I want to see it happen. Backseat drivers don’t like surprises.

Another day, another commute — it couldn’t possibly be as bad as I think it is. I haven’t died yet, so I have to think my backseat driving must be better than I think it is.

Copyright 2010 Sheila Moss
Posted in Automotive, Humor, Travel | Tagged , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Soapy Sunday

Posted on August 23, 2020 by Sheila Moss

bubblesMornings! I hate ’em. I headed for the kitchen for a cup of coffee, hoping it would help open my eyes so I could see how to brush my teeth.

I stopped at the kitchen door and rubbed my bleary eyes. Bubbles drifted in the air and my daughter floated by. I must still be asleep.

I rubbed my eyes again, but she didn’t go away. She was in the kitchen dancing with the mop. Why anyone would be mopping at this hour, I wondered as she and the mop danced by again. Why are there bubbles in my kitchen?

“What’s going on?” Obviously something was. My kitchen doesn’t suddenly decide to take a bubble bath.

“You should have seen it before,” she sobbed, in tears. “I walked in this morning and it was sea of blue soap. It came rushing at me in a big wave, like a tsunami.”

A tsunami in my kitchen? Surely, I must still be asleep, I thought. Unfortunately, I was not.

She continued the story. “It was the cat — the stupid cat. I’m going to kill it!”

It seems that we had left the brand new 60 oz. bottle of liquid laundry soap setting on the kitchen counter when we unpacked the groceries. Somehow, the cat had managed to knock it off and when it hit the floor, the bottle split and a flood of liquid soap flowed out.

“There was too much soap to mop up,” she sniffed. “I had to shovel it up with the dust pan. I’ve been shoveling for an hour. When I started mopping it only became worse,” she continued. “The more I mopped, the more bubbles there were.”

So she looked on the Internet to see what to do.

You mean this happens to other people? People besides us spill entire bottles of liquid detergent? It’s on the Internet? By now the bubbles were starting to subside a bit and my daughter was only up to her ankles instead of her knees.

“It said to add cooking oil.” she said. “I was a little bit leery but figured what could be worse than this?”

What could be worse? Maybe an oil spill? I can’t believe it, a tsunami and an oil spill in my kitchen on the same morning. Is this a disaster movie?

But the oil worked and the bubbles were finally contained. She and the mop skated away on the oily new skating rink I used to call a kitchen floor. “Do you need some help?” I asked. I guess I didn’t sound too enthusiastic.

“No, I’ll do it. It’s my cat.” Glad she remembered that. Speaking of the cat, we never did figure out how he escaped from the kitchen without even getting soap on his feet.

Eventually most of the soap was gone, but the floor remained sticky. Our shoes clung to the floor with every step. “How can I get rid of this stuff?” She asked.

Good question. Maybe vinegar? Vinegar will clean just about anything, Actually, I wasn’t sure if it would work on a tsunami, but we were desperate. So, she tried vinegar and finally was able to get rid of the last of the mess.

I have the cleanest kitchen floor in town now, and it smells wonderful. Something about that oil and vinegar smell makes me hungry for a tossed salad, though.

Copyright 2010 Sheila Moss
Posted in Creatures, Home, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | 4 Comments

Afflicted by Arthur

Posted on August 20, 2020 by Sheila Moss

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I used to think my mother-in-law was crazy when she talked about her friend, Arthur. But I was young and that was before I met him for myself.  Arthur is quite the character. He loves to play pranks. He thinks he is hilarious, I suppose, but the objects of his little practical jokes do not always find him so amusing.

I first met Arthur several years ago when he hit me in the shoulder so hard that it hurt for a week. That was when I first began to suspect that Arthur might be a problem if he stayed around very long. I rubbed some liniment on my sore spot and in a few days it felt a little better. Boy, I hoped I never saw Arthur again. What kind of a prankster is he anyhow?

Well, Arthur just kept coming to visit whether he was welcome or not. I had heard other people talking about him, how he jumped them when they were not expecting it, leaving them stiff and sore for days.

Arthur has become a terrible nuisance, but there doesn’t seem to be a way to get rid of him. He just keeps nagging and nagging once he finds a target for his little gags. The only way I can get any relief from his antics is by hiding in the shower. Of course, I can’t stay in the shower forever, and as soon as I am out, he is ready to strike again. I wish I had a hot tub. I would drown that pest if he didn’t leave me alone.

There are pills available that help with the soreness a little bit, and even cortisone shots for the really bad periods. But they are only a temporary help. Arthur always returns, and usually with a vengeance. He seems to especially like cold, damp and rainy weather, the times when you least feel like fooling with him.

Here lately, Arthur has taken a special interest in my knees. He ties my legs in knots when I’m asleep. Sometimes I can hardly walk in the mornings until I stretch my sore muscles. Arthur is falling all over the place, rolling on the floor laughing. Frankly, I do not find this sort of stuff funny at all.

People everywhere are suffering from Arthur’s little tricks, some more severely than I am. One sweet lady told me that she used to love to dance, but now Arthur won’t let her. Arthur has no mercy. His favorite victims seemed to be older people. The more you hurt, the more hilarious he seems to think it is. What a creep.

Folks tell me that if you exercise on a regular basis, it will help build up your resistance so Arthur can’t bother you as much. But it’s hard to exercise when Arthur is constantly pulling on you, trying to do something to make you miserable.

He won’t let tennis players play tennis, golfers golf, or runners run. The more agony he can spread around the happier it appears to make him. He somehow affects the immune system of your body and makes it difficult for you to resist him.

Somebody needs to do something about Arthur. Maybe one of these days he will get slapped with a restraining order and thrown in jail. The world would be a better place if there was a magic potion that could make him disappear.

But until that happens, I guess we will just have to keep putting up with him. Arthur befriends a lot of people. We all know him well. I hope you never meet him, but if you do, keep smiling and try not to let him get to you.

One of these days maybe there will be a way to get the best of Arthur — Arthritis, that is, of course.

Copyright 2009 Sheila Moss
Posted in Health, Humor | Tagged , , , , , , , | 2 Comments