This is a mixture of useless recent information about my boring life. Any resemblance of the title to a once-famous advertising slogan is strictly coincidental.
Just call me “Dolly!” Ever since my defibrillator went in, I’ve noticed that I’m growing man-boobs. The appearance is cause for enough concern to an ex-logger like me, but I’m getting REALLY tired of saying “ouch” every time I roll over in bed. About a month ago, I asked my regular doctor about my meds causing it and he said that I wasn’t taking anything that should have that effect. I’d already looked things up and knew better, but I thought I’d give him a chance to redeem himself from my opinion that he’s as worthless as certain female appendages on a boar hog. Unfortunately, he didn’t.
As it is, four of my seven prescriptions have caused man-boobs in at least some of the guys in the studies, though in a couple cases, the percentages were extremely low. I suppose it doesn’t matter if you’re not in that percentage. Still, it looks like a perfect drug cocktail to give guys of Bruce Jenner’s ilk. The main culprit, I believe is Spironolactone. Since I’ve already got a chest reminiscent of my poorly-endowed first wife, I quit taking that drug today before I began to look like Dolly Parton. Since my regular doctor can’t be trusted to know anything, I’ll call my heart doctor’s office Monday and see if there’s an alternative, or even a need for one. I didn’t take the drug until the implant went in.
I got the lawn fully mowed yesterday for the first time this spring. Still not trusting the riding mower not to break down, I started out mowing close the house and worked my way toward the road. It took about twice as long as normal due to high grass and a few leaves still remaining from winter, but it’s done now. During the process the wild turkey hen made her daily jaunt across the yard. Due to me making so much noise, she was in over-drive. Also, the guy across the road, who already mows about every couple days, decided that if I was going to mow, he was too. I finished before the rain came, but he mowed on in the rain, clumping up the grass as he went. I guess it must be an obsession for him.
I came across the straggly iris growing in the poor soil next to the woods where someone dumped some flower bed material many years ago. After seeing what my night-water did for the iris I brought from my old home place, I decided to put a half gallon around the straggly one. I’ll give it some more as time goes on. It would be something if it would bloom after all these years. I have no idea what color it would be, of course.
I went out to start my truck this morning to find that it had magically developed a miss overnight. Like the folks on Hee-Haw sang, “If it weren’t fer baaad luck, I’d have no luck at all!” The worst thing is that the post office is taking forever to get my check to me, so we’ll be staying home until it arrives and I’ve got some repair money.
Poverty, like old age, ain’t fer sissies! © 2016