My massage therapist is very unhappy with me. She will continue to be unhappy with me tomorrow, when we meet for another session of elbows-on-back, yank-the-leg-into-weird-positions massaging and stretching. I did yoga this week, and refrained from lifting heavy things over and over, and I was still flat on my back on the floor for most of the day today thanks to that sweet guy in the surgical CCU. He was very apologetic about making me grab him around the waist and swing him into a chair at the very last second.
Uh....updates. Yes. IbidKitty is coming around nightly to eat her chow, though I rarely see her now, as it's getting dark later and later. Max is lovely, thanks to my brother-in-law's suggestion that what I thought was a seizure was maybe old-dog farting-with-bonuses, and perhaps lentils would help. The Boys are dangerous and deadly, and would like all of you to be very, very afraid. And then give them belly-rubs and head skritches. Attila is in California at a yoga class and will be gone until after I have surgery.
I still have not been able to watch any of the Dr. Who episodes involving the Weeping Angels after the first one ("Blink"), which means I'm missing a lot of River Song history, which is frustrating. But the Angels are scary.
The Powers that Be have implemented three new daily audits that must be done on every patient every day, adding to the two that we already did ibid opcit, and making our lives that much harder.
The house is still standing despite the baseball-sized hail that fried my Interwebs connection and dented the siding (all but one dent popped out the next day). Surprisingly, I didn't have any roof damage. I think that was primarily due to the fact that the fucking hail was coming down at a 35-degree angle thanks to the 70-mph straight-line winds. After the power went out, Max went to the Disaster Closet, opened the door, and went straight in. He knows what's right.
I have a new bottle of metallic robin's-egg blue nail polish. It's posh, rathah.
And that is all.