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We’re experiencing record setting temps here. Flowers are blooming, lawns are being mowed and the windows are open.

And, for the first time in his life, Mr. Kewlstuff appears to be suffering from seasonal allergies. He stops whining just long enough to sneeze. To impress me with how gravely ill he is, he actually went back to bed, not once, but twice last weekend.

Having suffered from allergies most of my adult life, I can say, without hesitation – welcome to my world wuss.

It’s been discussed ad nauseum, but I’ve yet to hear a plausible explanation as to why the world stops revolving when a man isn’t feeling well; but when a woman has similar symptoms it’s business as usual.

You don’t have to be a bra-burning feminist to see that women take a back seat when it comes to being sick. I can’t prove it, and I’m sure they’d deny it, but even the medical profession is guilty of treating ailing men with deference. Don’t believe me? Read on…

Mr. Kewlstuff had his gallbladder removed just two months before I did. After surgery he was taken to his room where his very attentive nurse poked her head in every 15 minutes, checked his vitals every hour and even fluffed his pillows. Fluffed. His. Pillows. He was served a light lunch and released.

Fast forward to the same hospital two months later. I wake up after surgery right back where I started; in a pre-op cubicle made of curtains. Even though the surgery had been scheduled eight weeks in advance, I apparently took them by surprise, and there was no room available.

They finally moved me to a room later that afternoon and told me I’d be discharged after dinner. A couple of hours later, someone from dietary presents me with a plate of mystery-meat swimming in gray gravy. Seriously? Gravy? For a post-surgical gallbladder patient? Hey, did you notice I haven’t mentioned a nurse yet? That’s because not one nurse had entered the room.

Another hour passes. Finally a nurse comes in… but it turns out she’s not there to see me. Nope. She’s there to take my ambulatory IV pole for another patient. Faster than I can object, she hooks my IV bag to a stationary pole attached to the bed and leaves.

Now I’m trapped in the bed, and my Type-A personality, which had been sedated all day, woke up in overdrive.

So, despite Mr. Kewlstuff’s protests and face-palms, I took the IV out of my arm, got dressed and said “You need to go tell the first nurse you see that they’ve got five minutes to get those discharge papers in here, or I start pulling IV’s out of everyone on this floor.”

See, I can say stuff like that and he only half-believes me, so that was not the message he relayed. But he still had a nurse in there, papers in hand, in about 30 seconds. Because he gets me. Which is the only reason I don’t kill him when he’s sick, no matter how much he whines.

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It made me smile when Groovin’ was playing on the radio when we got in the car this afternoon. The sun was shining and the temps were mild and I really, really needed to get out of the office for awhile. So we headed for this little greasy spoon just west of Rochester. (And by greasy spoon, I mean you don’t even want to touch the plastic mustard and ketchup bottles. That greasy.) It’s a 50 minute drive one-way, but the Angus-burgers and onion rings are well worth the trip… even if I can’t finish the whole burger.

I’ve been working ’round the clock and barely noticed we’d made it through February and into March. But there were subtle hints; the days are finally getting longer, my African violets are blooming and I’ve even heard rumors of daffodils popping up here and there. If the temps hold in the 40′s through the week as predicted, the snow should be gone by next weekend. Not that we won’t get more snow, because winter never leaves willingly around here. But what we do get will be short lived. I just keep telling myself that in less than sixty days the hummingbirds will be back in town, and that means we can finally go outside unencumbered by thirty additional pounds of winter-weight clothing, sweaters, scarves, gloves, coats and boots.

Things should be winding down in the office over the next couple of weeks, and I can get back to my regularly irregular posting schedule. Although it seems I’m more popular when I don’t post than I am when I do, because my feed subscriptions have almost doubled since January. Go figure.

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I woke up in a great mood this morning. It lasted about 20 seconds; then I realized I have to work tomorrow too, so it really won’t be Friday until Saturday for me. Crap. My date with a hangover will have to wait another twenty-four hours.

My schedule was insane yesterday. I keep the office door closed to prevent the dogs from wandering in and molesting clients, so unless there’s a loud crash, I’m fairly oblivious to what’s going on in the house. I had no idea that at some point yesterday afternoon the pup got bored, stole the cushion off the back of the love seat, managed to unzip the cover and chewed through the inner liner.

I would have given anything to have seen the look on Mr. Kewlstuffs face when he came through the backdoor and discovered stuffing strewn from one end of the house to the other. For a second it looked like we’d just been robbed… then she greeted him, smiling, with the evidence still hanging from her mouth.

He did a decent job of re-stuffing the cushion before I got out of work, but I find the whole story hard to believe, because this is how I found the little angel when I finally emerged from the office.

Anyway, it could have been worse. She might have chosen one of the *non-removable* cushions from the back of the leather couch instead.

Oh, and to whoever is bombing my kewlstuff mailbox with pharma offers, listen, if you’ll stop spamming me, I pinky-swear that if and when I find myself in need of Vicodin/Percocet/Viagara, I’ll let you know. ‘K?

Hey, I just realized Sunday is VDay. You know what that means right?

More wine. (WTH did you think I was going to say?)

Have a great weekend everybody.

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I can’t see the top of my desk at work, so kewl stuff updates will be regularly irregular for a couple of months.

Here’s a fun fact for you; if, from lack of sleep, you attempt to make breakfast with your eyes half closed, you’ll find that chili powder does not taste at all like cinnamon when sprinkled on your oatmeal, even if they do both begin with the letter “C”.

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It’s been crazy busy at work the past couple of weeks, but I’m finally caught up for awhile, and preparations for our Christmas Eve gathering are now in full swing.

I spent yesterday with this bowl of cookie dough. Believe it or not, that bowl holds enough dough to keep me busy for 8 hours. It’s an old German recipe, and it’s difficult to work with, but it makes the most amazing pillow-soft melt-in-your-mouth cut-out cookies you’ve ever tasted.

This before picture of the cookie project is all I’ve got. In an attempt to create gold frosting I experimented with some food coloring, and the bulk of the cookies look like they’re covered with French’s mustard. So I won’t be sharing any after pictures for fear they’ll end up on a website that is the cookie equivalent of Cake Wrecks.

I’m going to blame it on my Twisted Transistor state of mind. I was too lazy to transfer my Christmas music to my Zen, so instead of Bing Crosby and Burl Ives, I did my baking, wearing an apron over pink flannel PJ’s, while listening to Korn. By the end of the day I’m pretty sure I looked like a deranged Energizer rabbit covered in flour and bright yellow frosting.

This afternoon will be spent making hundreds of meatballs which will simmer in a sauce of pineapple juice, green peppers, sugar and white wine vinegar.

But, before I go, I’m going to give you the link to Santa Sez again, in case you lost it. When you’ve had enough of the lunacy and ugly sweaters that come with the holidays, you can have Santa knock the tree over for you.

Santa Sez

I wish you all the Happiest of Holidays!

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Today I bake the pies and do as much prep as possible for tomorrow’s feast. There will be more food than we can ever eat at one sitting. And though I’m grateful to have a warm home and food on the table, tomorrow I will be surrounded by the people that I’ve no doubt will always have my back, and for that I am truly thankful.

And listen, I know you don’t need reminding, but I’m going to say it anyway; it’s been a tough year for many. So if you haven’t had to go to bed hungry at any time this past year, please think of those that have, and do what you can. The food banks are strained and the shelters overflowing. This is not the year to sit back and assume someone else is taking care of it.

I hope you all have a safe and wonderful holiday!

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I could write volumes about the challenging week I’ve just had, but I’m pretty sure nobody gives a shit, so here are just the highlights…

Saturday – Mr. Kewlstuff finds a pitifully small, half frozen kitten alongside the road and brings it home. Apparently no one has told him we are dog people. You can imagine the chaos that ensues when you bring a kitten into a household with three dogs, one of which has no manners.

Sunday – Greta, one of the nine year-old dogs, yells like she’s being hit with a hammer if anyone touches her head. She and the pup had played hard Saturday afternoon, so I figure she’s just getting too old for all the roughhousing, and I start her on baby aspirin.

I begin to reply to emails I’ve received from people responding to the ad I placed on our local CL about the kitten.

Monday – Greta looks and acts like a dog with a head injury. By 8 am we’re on the phone with the vet. After a preliminary exam, he decides to keep her for further evaluation.

Then my mother calls. I’m pacing from room to room while talking to her when I realize I hear the pup running, full speed, up and down the hallway to my office. She’s snatched the tablecloth off of the dining room table and is running with it flying behind her like Superman’s cape. I am not amused.

The vet calls. He knocked Greta out, ran blood work, xrayed her head and checked her teeth. $300 later and there’s still no explanation for the pain she’s in. He gave her a shot of cortisone, in case there’s some undetected inflammation, and sends her home with a precautionary antibiotic and not one, but two different pain pills.

My parents both had appointments for eye exams and needed a driver, which is why my mother called earlier. My Dad comes out from his exam with a referral to a retina specialist, whose office is 40 minutes away. They schedule the appointment for Wednesday afternoon.

I continue to weed through emails about the kitten. So far nobody has asked the right questions.

Tuesday – Greta’s now refusing to walk. Mr. Kewlstuff is carrying the 66 pound dog in and out of the house, because thankfully, she still remembers she’s housebroken. When she was spayed, she had a difficult time with the anesthesia, so I figure it’s the same deal and we’ll give it another 24 hours. Trying to keep the pup away from her is a full time job.

I finally get an email from someone who is serious about giving the kitten a permanent home.

Wednesday – We slept for what seemed to be 20 mins all night. I had to keep getting up to comfort Greta, who was whining on and off, but, by morning, her eyes look better and she’s standing on her own.

The kitten goes home with its new owner and I’m left wondering if a) I’m really as good at judging a persons character as I think I am or b) this woman has a hungry python at home.

I won’t bore you with the details, but my father’s 3:30pm appointment with the retina specialist was five freaking hours long. All I’d eaten all day was a bowl of cereal and a handful of raw almonds. I’m quite certain I could have eaten one of my own fingers if we had been there another five minutes.

Thursday – Greta greeted me at the bedroom door when I got up, like nothing had ever happened.

After running a couple of errands I came home and changed into sweat pants and a thermal Henley. It was a cool, rainy day and my curly hair was getting bigger by the minute, so I clipped most of it up on the back of my head. I threw the ingredients for homemade soup into a pot, shut off the phone, turned on the music and planned on doing ab-SO-lutely nothing the rest of the day…

…when I hear a knock at my locked office door. The dogs never barked, so I assumed Mr. Kewlstuff had accidentally locked himself out again. I whipped the door open and, to my horror, there stood a client of mine. To his credit, he never raised an eyebrow at my appearance, although he did apologize twice for showing up unannounced.

Friday – It’s past noon, and so far the day has been uneventful. I’m guessing the universe has had its fun with me and is now looking for someone else to focus on. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

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