Nina's Kids

Nina, my adorable Tuesday night coworker in X-ray, is a fellow dog freak. Hey, don't look at me like that--I mean that with the greatest affection and respect. After all, there are three kinds of people in the world:

1. Dog people.


2. Non-dog people.


3. Dog freaks.

We belong to the last group. One of the nice people from an email loop of dog freaks sent out this link to an absurdly sweet dog commercial. Yeah. We're freaks. But how cute is that????

Anyway. Nina worked with me last night and was delighting me with pictures of the kids. The conversation went something like this:

Nina: And here's one of Mr. Bean.
Me: Ooo! Send me that one!
Nina: And here's Annie, after chasing the ball.
Me: Ooo! Send me that one!
Nina: And here's one of Jazz, digging.
Me: Ooo! Send me that one!

I think you see how it progressed. Because of things involving networks and coverage of smart phones that make absolutely zero sense to me, the pictures arrived this morning. Out of the three million pictures Nina so obligingly forwarded to me, only four were upright pictures. Gah! I know there's a way to fix that, but I can't seem to manage it.

My friend Matt, a computer geek, calls me a Mennonite because of my lack of e-ability. I resent it. I'm not that flashy a dresser. But this isn't my point. My point is, Nina's furry children are freaking adorable. Okay, they're not all hers; a big chunk of her family lives close together so all the babies in the family get to play together.

Yeah. Ridiculously cute. And speaking of...these furry people are Annie and Mr. Bean.I imagine Mr. Bean has no idea where Annie's hiding that ball. Poor Mr. Bean. Sweet boy. Not too bright, but sweet.

Here's the baby, GusGus, with Annie and Mr. Bean. I know. I know! I made the same noises.

Did I mention that Nina's mom has horses and ponies, too? It's a regular dog-and-pony show there.

Evidently, the pony goes into the house to Skype with relatives in Denmark. Seriously. You can't make this stuff up. I assume someone types for the pony. Otherwise, that'd be a huuuuuuuuge keyboard.

And don't you just love babies snuggled up together? Oh. So tired. It's hard to be a baby and play and play and play. Sometimes, you just need to snuggle with a best friend and take a nap.

I know.

A bit of baking.

Dearest invisible friend, I must apologize for this post. I have no pictures to share with you. Of course, given my photographic ability, or lack thereof, this may not be the disappointment I am assuming it is. This may, in fact, be a small treat.


In which case, you are welcome. No, no. Don't gush. I understand.

Anyway. Fabulous Neighbor Robin stopped by for tea on Friday! A couple weeks back, FNR had popped over and after being offered a cup of tea, announced that she wanted a real tea. As in the meal, not just the beverage.

It was music to my ears.

Despite the suddenness of this, I was able to put together a tolerable spread, but it wasn't all that I might have wished. We had a pot of tea, muffins, toast, jam, lemon cookies and a banana-apple cake. It wasn't terrible. But...you know.

This time, however, FNR and I planned to have tea. And as if by some miracle of heaven, Roommate left work two hours early and was able to join us!

Okay, join us, set the table, tidy the kitchen and make herself cocoa, as she doesn't care for tea.

FNR came over with roses and goodies and the teensiest baguette you've ever seen! For a split second, I thought it was too adorable to eat. Then I got over it.

Oh! We had cookies and pear-almond scones [a very successful experiment] and cucumber sandwiches and thin slices of baguette with salmon spread and a Madeira cake and three pots of tea. Once again, I was able to use pretty china and a nice teapot and one of my favorite pieces of Depression glass. It looks a little like this:

But it's green and the center handle is a fleur-de-lis. So pretty.

We ate the scones. We finished the cucumber sandwiches. We devoured half the cake.

I have to say this. It didn't suck.

I love FNR. She's good. We shall keep her.

Critical Space.

I'd heard of the necessity of awareness in regards to punctuation, but hadn't thought too much about the importance of proper word spacing.
I don't think I'll forget this now.

Not the therapy I'm used to.

Physical therapy for my [ahem] runner's knee has begun.

When I made the appointment, I was asked by the very nice ladies in reception if I had a preference of therapists. "Somebody not perky," I growled.

After the giggling died down, they looked at each other and said in unison, "Josh."

So yesterday, I met Josh. He's a fairly pleasant fellow, and despite my fear that he is one of the dreaded Morning People, I wasn't filled with hatred and loathing. Well, not much.

Anyway.

After an initial assessment, in which I discovered that I really do not know how to "activate my quadriceps" without getting other muscles involved, Josh gave me homework.

Sigh. I shall forgive this only because Josh is a hockey fan.

[NB: If one wishes to skeeve out a physical therapist, one should bend one's less-that-well-behaved knees slightly until a loud popping or cracking noise occurs. Seriously. That's all I did. Josh looked like I'd just dropped a spider down the back of his shirt. Okay, not a spider. Maybe an ant. Heh.]

Now I have to go to physical therapy twice a week for four to six weeks. I can handle this. I think. No, I'm sure. I'm sure I can handle this. I'm just not sure I can handle...

...LaDonna.

See, Josh isn't available for all of my appointments. I'm fine with this. I'm not COTFU in this situation. Some of my appointments had to be scheduled with the PT assistant. I'm fine with that. But when I looked up the information on LaDonna, PT Assistant, I was less fine.

LaDonna is blonde and [shudder] perky-looking. She's a former competitive gymnast. She states in her bio:

I believe the most valuable gift I can give a patient is the knowledge and
tools needed to manage their symptoms and rehabilitation program independently,
at home. I also focus on caring for the whole person, not just a body part.

Gah. I have no idea if I can deal with this.

Damn perky people.

Condolences

My dearest invisible friend, I have sad news. I have mentioned esteemed blogger, The Caked Crusader, before, and it was with surprise and great sorrow that I read her recent post of her mother's passing. Please join me in keeping The Caked Crusader and her family in thoughts/prayers.

Because it's spring. Yes, it is. Ignore the snow.

Another winter has come and gone, and as with any passage of time, we leave behind hallmarks of the season. Like Soup Day.
Remarkable amounts of whining on this, btw. Remarkable. And I have loved the combination blank stare and stammer.

Me: Last Soup Day, this Wednesday.

Random Coworker: Last Soup Day?
But...but...whyyyyyyyy?

Me: Because it's spring. This is a winter thing.

RC: Well...what happens after Soup Day ends? Salad Day?

Me: No. You just have to feed yourself.

RC: [inarticulate keening]

Me: Oh, for heaven's sake. I'll bring in baked goods, as
usual. You won't starve.

Honestly, you'd think these people didn't have access to Safeway. Anyway. Here's our last Soup Day of the season:
The salad Smooth and Groovy Steve made didn't make it in this shot. Suffice to say, it was a salad worthy of Steve, even at the height of his smoooth-and-grooviness. That's right. It was quite the salad, my friend.

Since it's so close to St Patrick's Day, my wonderful coworker X-ray Vicki brought in colcannon with corned beef. Mmmmmmm!

It's divine. It's cabbage-y and potato-y and corned beefy and good. I'm certain it's low in dreaded Weight Watcher points, too. Heh. And Wendy the Wonder Nurse brought in some gorgeous artisan bread. Of which I do not have a picture. Because it's gone. Yeah.

I do have a picture of the very Irish bread that Nicole, the float, brought in!

Okay, it not Irish. It's just green. But it's cute! Cuteness always makes bread taste better. Not as efficiently as butter, mind you. But a bit better.

And I brought vegetarian potato soup. In case people don't eat corned beef.

Oh, don't be silly! Of course I brought bacon! Crumbled and on the side. Nothing worse than depressed pork-eating carnivores.

I've had my bread and butter. I've had my soup with bacon. I've had a BUNCH of colcannon.

I need a nap.

Injury Du Jour

Darling invisible friend, remember when I told you that I ran--ahem, attempted to run a mile? Remember how I said everything hurt after that? Remember the whining?

Okay, okay. I should be more specific, you're right.

Anyway. I conferred with pal/coworker/knee injury sufferer Connie about the way my knee felt post run. Knee had been cranky for a while before the run--and yes, I use the term "run" loosely--but after the run, Knee had turned downright vitriolic. I told Connie that I didn't want to go to the walk-in clinic; Knee's behavior, while unpleasant, was hardly emergent. I certainly didn't want to see my primary care physician; not only am I not terribly delighted with my PCP but I don't know that she is all that well-versed in sports medicine.

Sports. Heh. Yeah, I'm all about sports, aren't I?

But as I was saying. Orthopedics seemed the way to go, but...come on. It wasn't that serious. So I presented my thoughts to Connie.

"How long has it been hurting?" she asked.

"Mmm...a while now, maybe a few weeks."

"Go to ortho," she replied.

"But it's not terrible--"

"Go to ortho."

"I don't want to be one of those morons--"

"No. Go to ortho."

So I did. I went to ortho, prepared to have the PA look at me and roll his eyes and show me something stupid that I was doing, or not doing. I got ninety-five billion x-rays [okay, maybe six different views] and then met a fairly pleasant fellow who looked at my pictures and said, "Okay. Well, you have..."

Wait for it.

"...Runner's knee."

No, no. Go ahead. Laugh. Everyone else has. And who can blame you, really?

Evidently, the width of my sizable hips and lack of inner thigh strength have conspired to yank my kneecap out of alignment, thus irritating the crap out of Knee and causing its lamentable behavior and foul language. Solution to this problem? Physical therapy. With a non-perky therapist named Josh. And in the meantime. No lunges. No crouching or kneeling. And...

Wait for it.

No running.

Hi, Cloud. Meet Silver Lining.