Okay, awright, awready!!! I was on a sabbatical, of sorts — not of my choosing by any means, and I will make a disclosure as to what was going on … whether you want to hear the gory details, or not.
Three weeks ago, I awoke with a terrible OUCH pain in my right knee, so off the Warden drags me to the ER, only to be told after an ultrasound that I had a Baker’s Cyst in back of my right knee — and I couldn’t remember when the last time was that I had spent any time in the kitchen baking. A week later, the dumb thing ruptured and it oozed down into my leg where it disguised my leg as a great big huge balloon. I could’ve printed “HAPPY BIRTHDAY” on it, then stick the leg up in the air — it was supposed to be kept elevated anyway. Anyone stopping by would’ve wondered who sent me that?
So it wasn’t the Gout as one Doctor (?) kept telling me, and still maintaining it was last week. My very own wonderful Doctor kept maintaining it was NOT the Gout. We went along with her thoughts since I didn’t have any painful big toe, or any other joints, and I’m going along taking a wonderful antibiotic — and you know what that means. No Tequila for me. Oh, dear! What will my body do? It’s been going along quite well, thank you. No Tequila since the 9th, when that Doctor (?) said it was definitely the Gout.
My favorite Forster family of all the Forster families inSan Juan Capistrano— they pay lots more attention to me, and I have them snowed into thinking I am very wise. (If they only knew!) My brothers offspring — Niece-in-law Anita (widow of dear, dear Mickey) and her brood: Michael, Michele with grandson Josh, daughter-in-law Kathy whose hubby, Robby, had to slave away and couldn’t make it, then Roberta who is probably Chief Organizer of the entire bunch.. All this gang surprised me on Sunday, the day before my birthday. So there was not one person, not even the Warden, who thought I shouldn’t have my usual Tequila on the rocks in salted glass, and lemon squeeze (the Mexican lime tree is busy making some new limes for me, not quite ready, but the lemon tree is filled to overflowing, thank goodness.) I was so happy to have them arrive, and they brought me gifts, and the real fun one is a tee shirt which says: “Out of Tequila. Life is crap.”
It’s been quite stressful around here. “It’s 5 o’clock inPhoenix” has been forgotten. The 5 o’clock clock is not in sight. The Warden is taking all this to-do very serious.
Now I want to tell you what I had planned for the past 3 week ends here in theCoachellaValley. Every year there is the Coachella Valley Music Festival, and this year they devoted 2 weekends for it, then after that there is the Stagecoach Music. They are presented at the huge Empire Polo Grounds. Hordes of music(?) lovers show up, maybe 95,000. These so-called concerts bring folks from everywhere.
One day while standing in front of the mirror, rubbing wrinkle cream on — this particular wrinkle cream does not take away the wrinkles, it just adds more —I decided that I show a resemblance to Willie Nelson, so I tied a bandana around my wispy, barely-there head of hair, and found a very small guitar to finish off the “Willie Nelson” look. Then the Warden clicked a picture of me in my W. N. disguise. Do you see the resemblance in the accompanying picture?
I was going to amble over to the Polo Grounds where the 3 up-coming concerts are heard, very deafenly (I know that is not a word, but it works for me.) I would leave the hearing aids at home. They would let me in at the Performer’s Gate, thinking I was ol’ Willie himself. I shouldn’t call him “ol’ Willie,” he’s probably at least 20 years younger, but then he IS ‘ol to all the younger set. So there I would be wending my way through the mob of music (?) lovers. They would be clamoring for my autograph. They would ask about the teeny weeny guitar, and I would say “ All the easier to get through the madding crowd so everyone had a chance to even just get a glimpse of me.”
All my plans went bye-bye when the fat leg arrived on the scene. I couldn’t walk, and if they saw me with Traveller — the wheels that get me around — they would know I was just a fake Willie.
There’s always next year.
THANKS to all of you who missed my stories, and were concerned about my well-being. I love you all, Melitas