By A Bamboo Fence On A Rural Route

Yesterday at work, I wrenched the muscles and so forth attached my left hip, which was so exciting I forgot my right hip has been giving me trouble. Every time I moved yesterday it was like lightning striking inside my brain, and driving home was almost impossible, what with each pothole sending vibrations through my hip to my brain like small explosions. Walking from my car to my front door was an act of supreme determination, and once inside the apartment, I couldn't sit, stand or lie down without suppressing the urge to scream. All this was terribly entertaining but even more so was this exchange the night before.

Pete: What's wrong with your left leg?
Tata: Nothing. It's the right one bugging me.
Pete: The left one doesn't hurt?
Tata: Dude, I have an almost magical ability to recognize pain. The left doesn't hurt.

Twelve hours later -

Tata: So. My left leg couldn't hurt more if it were in flames.
Pete: Is it? Check!
Tata: It gives every appearance of not being on fire. No smoke. Few embers.
Pete: Do you want me to give you a massage?
Tata: More than life itself.

That I can stand today without passing out is exciting beyond belief and a tribute to Pete's skill as a masseur. To celebrate my good fortune, let's check in with Karama Neal at So What Can I Do? Why? Here at Poor Impulse Control, one person's problems are hilarious but we take the common good seriously.

You're going to shop. Buying gifts online and having them shipped to people you adore but don't actually want to see is a fantastic use of modern technology isn't it? It is! I'm about to buy Siobhan a present, and as Karama suggests, I'll buy it at an online charity mall. Not only am I the bestest BFF of all time - especially if really nice people don't count - I'm contributing to the happiness of people who won't embarrass me with thank you notes.

I can't give blood because I dated everyone and possess the blood iron count of a palid Mediterranean princess. Not kidding. We used to get tested, donate or try very often when Grandma Edith was a dialysis patient. The techs used to ask me why I was still conscious with an iron count that low so now I worry in rooms with sharp corners between my noggin and the floor. Anyhoo, Karama reminds us that blood banks are always short but especially short on supplies in the summer.

On a personal note: I apologize, I should have mentioned this months ago. When Dad was dying, we were utterly helpless for a while, bumbling about trying to find our way. One person who helped us and asked for nothing in return was Bud Royer of Royer's Round Top Cafe. He shipped us pies - incredible pies - and puddings and delectible stuffed quails. His generosity bowled us over time and time again, and we can never repay him for his support for us while his friend, our Dad, was dying. I will never forget that Darla couldn't be persuaded to eat a bite but tucked into a custard pie with a spoon and the closest thing to contentment was saw those dark days. Of course, she growled if anyone made for the flatware. Darla's no pushover and we're talking about pie, folks. Anyway, if you have occasion to ship pies, you will not regret ordering from Royer's. I'm going to do that myself this week. I thank you for reading this far.