The Daily Bug

My assimilation into the Borg Collective continues

By: palmettobug53, 1:29 AM GMT on September 23, 2013

It's time for step two in the process of becoming One with the Hive.

My second cochlear implant is scheduled for Wednesday, Sept. 25th. I report to the hospital at 12:30.

If the second procedure takes the same amount of time as the first, I won't get back home until sometime between 6:00 and 7:00 Wednesday evening.

I'll have plenty of time to play on the computer before going in Wednesday morning but I doubt that you'll see me again after that until Thursday morning.

I'm not nervous at all. I dread the first three days. I know what to expect this time. Ignorance was bliss, last time.

The pain isn't the issue; it's the protective cup they put over the surgery site for the first 24 hours. I understand the reason for it but that doesn't mean I have to like it. It was extremely uncomfortable. Even with the pain meds, I didn't do much more than doze off and on all that first night. I was up at 5:00 a.m., ripping that thing off.

The second worst part was not being able to do a good shampoo for 3 days. The antibiotic rinse that was liberally doused over my head several times during surgery left my hair a stiff, sticky, snarled up mess.

I'm really looking forward to looking like the Bride of Frankenstein again.

The best thing I can do about the hair is pull it back the best as I can and avoid looking in any mirrors.

The vertigo is no problem. I just got dizzy getting up out of bed, out of chairs or when I'd move my head suddenly. No nausea; just dizziness. I just have to be sure that I move slowly and deliberately. That wore off in about a week.

The tongue numbness and coppery taste in my mouth wasn't that much of an issue and it gradually wore off.

The larder is stocked. The house is cleaned. I will stop after work Tuesday and pick up a good supply of fresh fruit.

I'm ready to get the show on the road.

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Updated: 1:53 AM GMT on September 23, 2013


Getting Old Ain't for Sissies

By: palmettobug53, 3:49 PM GMT on September 15, 2013

"Getting old ain't for sissies." That quote by Bette Davis has been coming to mind more and more often in the past few years of my life.

My doctors have started to demand my presence in their office more often than the usual once a year checkup I've been used to. They tell me that I'm now over 50 and need closer attention. They insist on prescribing medications to treat 'age related' conditions.

Ridiculous! Me? Getting old? Nah......

Or am I?

I'll admit I'm no longer the slim, svelt size 4 I used to be. Various body parts have started to sag and wrinkle. Mysterious aches and pains beleaguer me, from time to time.

I've found that I want to grow up to BE Maxine. That fact, alone, is enough to tell me I am getting older.

It's either laugh about it or cry and it's much more fun to laugh. Besides, you can claim they're laugh lines, not wrinkles!

So, without further ado, here's a little something to get us started:


This is a heads up to those friends who haven't experienced it yet, and an explanation to those friends and family who have. Most of you have read the scare-mail about the person whose kidneys were stolen while he was passed out. Well, read on. While the kidney story was an urban legend, this one is not. It's happening every day.

My thighs were stolen from me during the night a few years ago. It was just that quick. I went to sleep in my body and woke up with someone else's thighs. The new ones had the texture of cooked oatmeal. Who would have done such a cruel thing to legs that had been mine for years? Whose thighs were these and what happened to mine? I spent the entire summer looking for my thighs. Finally, hurt and angry, I resigned myself to living out my life in jeans and Sheer Energy pantyhose.

Then, just when my guard was down, the thieves struck again. My butt was next. I know it was the same gang, because they took pains to match my new rear end (although badly attached at least three inches lower than my original) to the thighs they stuck me with earlier. Now, my rear end complimented my legs, lump for lump. Frantic, I prayed that long skirts would stay in fashion.

It was two years ago when I realized my arms had been switched. One morning I was fixing my hair and I watched horrified but fascinated as the flesh of my upper arms swung to and fro with the motion of the hairbrush. This was really getting scary. My body was being replaced one section at a time. How clever and fiendish.

Age? Age had nothing to do with it. Age is supposed to creep up, unnoticed, something like maturity. NO, I was being attacked repeatedly and without warning. In despair I gave up my T-shirts. What could they do to me next?

My poor neck disappeared more quickly than the Thanksgiving turkey it now resembled. That's why I decided to tell my story. I can't take on the medical profession by myself.

Women of the world, wake up and smell the coffee. That really isn't plastic that those surgeons are using. You KNOW where they are getting those replacement part, don't you? The next time you suspect someone has had a face "lifted", look again. Was it lifted from you? I think I finally found my thighs...and I hope Cindy Crawford paid a really good price for them!

This is not a hoax. This is happening to women in every town every night. WARN YOUR FRIENDS.

P.S. I must say that last year I thought someone had stolen my breasts. I was lying in bed and they were gone! As I jumped out of bed I was relieved to see that they had just been hiding in my armpits as I slept. Now I keep them hidden in my waistband.

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By: palmettobug53, 5:27 PM GMT on September 01, 2013

My acquaintance with cows dates back to my childhood. We spent numerous weekends at Granny and Papa's farm. Mama and Daddy would usually send me up for a week or two in the summer, as well. Papa's Herefords figure prominently in my memories of those days. Those Hereford calves were so adorable, with their little white faces.

Though Papa didn't name livestock, Mama dubbed his Hereford bull, Ferdinand, after Disney's animated bull. Ferdinand seemed to be pretty laid back. I don't recall ever being warned to stay away from him. There's even a picture of me, somewhere, perched on his back, with Papa standing by to make sure I didn't fall off. I must have been about 5 at the time.

There was a homemade, wooden crush in one of the pastures. The Herefords were really prone to pink eye and Papa would usually enlist Dad and my uncles to help him treat infected cows for that, as well giving them shots for various other conditions or treating minor wounds.

It was always a big hullabaloo getting those cows in the crush. There would be lots of tail lashing, kicking and bellowing. Very exciting for us kids, though probably not so much for the cows.

I don't ever recall seeing a veterinarian out at the farm but I'm sure one did come by, on occasion to inspect the herd. Papa obviously would obtain the required medicines from the vet but administered most of the treatments himself. I think that was probably standard procedure back in the 50's and 60's. Farmers were pretty self sufficient in those days.

I loved walking down the road to see the cows. I'd climb the fence into the pasture and it wouldn't take but a few minutes for them to notice me and start ambling over. The next thing I'd know, I'd be the center of attention. Literally.

Have you ever been encircled by cows? It's quite the experience. Lots of very wet, snuffling noses and long, raspy tongues. Not to sound disgusting but there's lots of snot and drool. Cows snort and bump at you.

Papa's cows loved to be rubbed and petted and scratched behind the ears, down the back and to the base of their tails. So much, that they'd start leaning on you to the point that you'd fall over, unless there were more cows behind you waiting their turn. Cows, even small ones, are HEAVY! I'd gotten smashed between a contented cow and a fence post or gate more than once.

All that rubbing and petting of cows sent me home with a case of pink eye all my own on more than one occasion.

At some point, I'm not sure exactly when, Papa replaced his Hereford bull with an Aberdeen Angus. I recall hearing Dad say it was because that breed was fairly resistant to pink eye. Papa was getting tired of dealing with it.

I didn't receive warnings about that bull either but he didn't seem to be too interested in visitors when I'd go down to the pasture.

When the Hereford cows started having calves by that bull, there was a mixture of colors. Some looked like Herefords; red and white. Others would be marked the same but in black and white. Then there were some that were solid black. They were all cute but the black and white combination was as adorable as the red and white. There was just something about those little white faces.

Over the years, the Hereford strain was mostly bred out and the majority of his herd was solid black, with the occasional black and white throwback.

When Papa turned 80, he sold off his herd. There was no more going down to the cow pasture and petting the cows and calves.

My only option since then has been the county fair and the livestock barn.

Hubby hates the livestock barn. What is perfume to me, is a horrendous stink to him. It also embarrasses him that I talk to the animals. In their language. I'm fairly proficient in Cow and Pig but I'm especially fluent in Chicken.

Hubby: "Will you stop that? People are staring at you!"

Me: "So?"

It won't be long before it's time for the fair. I can't wait. I need a cow fix.

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Updated: 4:35 PM GMT on September 02, 2013


The views of the author are his/her own and do not necessarily represent the position of The Weather Company or its parent, IBM.

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About palmettobug53

WU member since Oct. 2005. I enjoy reading, crafts, crosswords, puttering in the yard, old movies and hanging out with my friends on WU.

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