Casita Klatsch

Back from the Dead

After five weeks of bronchitis, or six--I lost count after a while, and nine days of diarrhea, a trip to the emergency room, a fistful of atomic antibiotics, and a fair amount of bedrest, I am tired and weak.  And behind.  But that's enough complaining.  I am back, and that's good enough for me.

I have this notion of morning therapy.  For as long as I can remember, I have made sure that I take the time to engage in something just for me, before I begin the workday.  (Or school day, if you want to go back that far.  As it's my birthday very soon, I have no desire to, but go ahead.) 

My morning ritual, to which I am very happy to return in better health, is pretty simple. Get up at least a half-hour before anyone else in the house.  Void the bladder, wash the face, check the wrinkles.  Stagger to kitchen, drink water, make coffee (a ritual of its own), and head outside.  In the limitless expanse of our backyard, I do things like sweeping the patio, checking the pool and gathering dogtoys.  

The pool wearing its winter cap

Mostly, however, I potter around with my Coffee-From-Hell mug, checking out the plant life and watering as needed.  I'm not a true gardener, but my rural Southern roots are surprising sometimes.  I like to play in the earth.  Having said that, I am mindful of the fact that we live in the desert and limit my play to that with drought-tolerant plants, or reserving those that need a bit more water either to pots or very small spaces.   The trees were already here, and I do what I need to to keep them healthy on as little water as possible.

One of these days I'll have the time to research what type of tree this is.  (Anyone care to save me the suspense?)

I have plans for this little piece of concrete-locked earth.  Zinnias.  Lots and lots of zinnias.

Baby zinnias (which you could see better if there weren't so many dead olive leaves)

More babies on the way, of many kinds.  (The previous tenants left a small greenhouse behind.  They're nice guys.  I have met them before and am pretty sure they will be happy that it's getting some use until they come to collect it.)

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In other news, I am singing a bit this weekend.  If you're local and up for some interesting choral music, jump here for more details.

Vroom

And so I begin week 4 with the dregs of the cold that has slowly migrated from my head to my chest, leaving me with one of the worst cases of bronchitis I have had since childhood.  I am so tired of coughing, I could scream.  But that would just make me cough more.  Last week, a couple of people in the dog park were telling me that they know many who are sick with what sounded like the same thing.  Sounds like it's a nasty bug that hangs on for weeks, even without bronchitis. Great.  And just when I have some singing to do soon. 

On the brighter side, the weather is finally cooling down a tad.  I haven't really felt much like getting out, but I have taken some bike rides with Zane and Mark over the past few days.  At some point, I'll remember to take along my camera.  As much as I love it, my iPhone just doesn't hold up to the Ixus when it comes to taking shots for the blog. 

Speaking of riding on two wheels, my motorcycle riding class is coming up in a couple of weeks.  No, there's no mid-life crisis here.  (I don't think I am due for another one of those for a couple of years.)  I simply need to get a motorcycle endorsement on my license, in order to ride our scooter to and from the above-mentioned rehearsals, the venues for which are quite far from our house on decidedly bike-unfriendly roads and not very public-transport convenient. 

The motorcycle class saves me from having to memorize the operator's manual, which apparently is what you have to do to pass the knowledge test. Yes, I sauntered into the MVD a few weeks ago, having skimmed the photocopy of the manual angrily hurled at Mark by one of the MVD staff after he threw a tantrum at them for not having the manual available either online or in their offices (apparently it's under revision...beats me how a person is supposed to be expected to pass the test if the study materials aren't available, and haven't been for months).  I had sailed through all the sample questions in the manual and the 5-question online practice test.  "Puh-leaze Mary, piece of cake," I said to myself and Mark.  I was ready for my license now.  Not. 

Up to that point, I hadn't failed a test, well, ever.  But there I sat, only minutes into the exam, blushing under the ugly drop ceiling, looking at an outmoded monitor displaying a large red "F" that was decked out in what appeared to be Comic Sans font, by far the largest insult.  I hadn't even finished half the test, but I guess I had already missed enough questions that it didn't take a very complicated algorithm to work out that there's no way I could pass.  I ashamedly returned to Large Marge at the counter and said I'd be taking my manual back.  (She had confiscated from me as I entered the exam room.)  In addition to my photocopy, Marge gave me a print-out to sign and bring back upon my next attempt.  As if it weren't etched into my retina enough, I looked down at the piece of paper and saw the same offensive "F" staring back at me.  Nice touch.

About three weeks later, after the sting of my first failing grade had eased and I could again entertain the notion of a retake, I did some research and found that taking (and successfully passing) a 17-hour motorcycle riding class would waive the need to sit the MVD test and provide me with my motorcycle endorsement.  And they provide the bikes.  It will be a hellish way to spend a weekend, but way better than having to look Marge in the eye again.