A couple months ago we were in a plant nursery and came across a rain chain that we just had to have. Fifteen-freakin’-pounds of iron fish leaping open-mouthed up the links that would go perfect off the porch roof next to our little crop of black bamboo. Plus, it was a great price; much less than the copper rain chains I’d been wistfully passing by for the last couple of years. We made the purchase and toted it home to wait until it was actually nice enough for Joe to go up on the roof to see where he could make a suitable drain hole in the gutter. Only, when he finally did, he discovered a rotten board above the porch and that the gutter would most likely not support the weight of the fish. Professional help was required. We had a roofer friend come out and assess the situation, and he was able to make a brace for the chain, cut a nice hole, replace the board and oh, hey, you’ve got some rotten wood under this other section of your roof, too, because the eejits that made the addition didn’t put any vents in, so no moisture could get out between the old roof and the new roof, blah blah blah $$$$$$$$$$$. We also had to get a ceramic pot filled with gravel for the chain to flow into. When all was done, our total cost was about six times our great deal on our weighty-but-cool fish. But they look great, and made me feel a bit of a witch when they were finally hung and I made the comment, “Watch, it will never rain again now we’ve got these up!” and the Seattle area proceeded to have something like 30 days without rain from the moment I uttered the words…I feel grateful my husband was the only witness, and that it wasn’t a couple hundred years ago – “Burn her!!”
I’d thought it had been only a year and a half since I had an annual medical check-up, but turns out it was two and a half. Feeling guilty, (and nauseously nervous, because you just never know, do you?) I made an appointment and went in. I’m sitting on the exam table in nothing but an open cotton gown, some sweat, and my freshly pointed toenails, and the building’s fire alarm goes off. An alarmingly loud alarm. Loud like the air raid siren in the original movie The Time Machine. My doctor runs out to see if it’s real, comes back and tells me to get dressed quickly. We’re the last ones out the door, our hands clamped over our ears, and as we stand milling on the sidewalk I’m surreptitiously checking out to see if I’m dressed right–nothing’s missing or inside out or backwards. The nurses all joke that I was lucky I wasn’t in the middle of the physical exam, heh heh. Always glad to be the butt of the joke, heh heh. As a result of this appointment, I had to follow up with additional blood work, as my liver count was double what had been higher than normal a couple years ago. Then, a few days ago I found myself in a dimly lit room at the hospital having my belly rubbed with warm lubricant and a sexy wand as I have an abdominal ultrasound. It’s early, I’ve been fasting, and the machine hums and beeps, so I’m lulled into drowsiness, and as I’m watching the big screen display of my insides I see something shaped like a pork chop, and then later, a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Now, as a result of my guilt-induced physical, I have to have a gall stone removed. Apparently common in white middle-aged females of the plumper persuasion with a passion for buttery cream sauces. Oh! Crap. It’s funny how one thing leads to another.