I cannot believe that in order for me to have any peace and quiet whatsoever, I need to be in an MRI or chair for chemo.
We caught whatever rodents took up residence under my kitchen sink cabinet- two in a span of an hour. There are some in my attic that run around above my kids’ rooms but even that wouldn’t make hubby move.
Our refrigerator’s motor stopped working and hubby said, “if the rats chewed the line, put the house on the market,” so apparently, his tipping point is the Sub Zero going down.
My new laundry room that happens to house a couple of vanities and shower is laden with filthy piles of clothing (and dryer lint balls), waiting to be washed at my earliest convenience.
The MRI on my shoulder shows bursitis and tendonitis- which means my range of motion is nil to none, but that’s fine… since hubby has our machines on gigunda platforms, I can’t reach to see if I’m even pouring the detergent in the right slot.
I will begin radiation tomorrow and Thursday in the cast that was formed three weeks ago and I still cannot get comfy with my ass situation- I suppose farting in the tight space would create a problem and that is unfortunate for me… given that the cabbage/spinach/celery/tumeric sewage that I’ve been juicing every day for two weeks is finally brewing.
And other than that asshole Murse giving me a number to the image I see unabashedly in my 14 ft x 5 ft mirror every day en route to change loads, I’m good.