My shoulder has improved a bit, but is still painful to use, and my left arm is still considerably weaker. I need to go back for a recheck and to discuss surgical options, but I really do not feel like being hacked open. If only I were a Lego figurine, the doctor could just snap a new arm on and I would be on my way. Oh, to be shiny and plastic . . . oh crap!- now I’ve got Aqua’s Barbie Girl stuck in my head. Damn damn damn! If it’s going to be Barbie, I’d rather have John Hiatt’s Wreck of the Barbie Ferrari mushing up my mind.

Speaking of mush, here’s what has been on my mind of late:

Our sheep are so good. We went away for eight days, and they waited until our return to start popping out more lambs. We’ve now got five new bundles of wool and stick-like legs racing about the paddock, getting lost and crying for mom.

I will post pictures eventually, I swear. We visited friends and family, wandering from Connecticut to New York to D.C., getting rained on, throwing up and having a grand time. The family consensus is that we will never again visit Manhattan, but want to get back to D.C. as soon as possible, assuming we drive there rather than fly. Neither Jennie nor the boy-child will willingly board an airplane again.

Until I get pictures up, here’s the summary of our trip:
Day 1: Flew, Jennie went clammy, couldn’t talk and had to be led off the plane. The boy-child developed awe-inspiring flatulence and dealt with his fear by gassing the rows around him.

Day 2: Spent time with Erik and Deb and their kids, lots of mud, fun. Oh, and the Mark Twain house.

Day 3: Drove to upstate NY to spend time with my aunt, uncle and cousin there. The boy-child decided it was time to start vomiting. We had a wonderful lunch, some conversation and rested, then drove into Manhattan.

Day 4-5: Wandered about Manhattan, getting rained on. Constant haranguing by people trying to sell tours. The boy-child continued being ill for a while. Central Park in the rain is not a pleasure.

Day 6: Walked through more rain, then boarded a bus to D.C.. Not a bad way to travel, although it would have been better if we hadn’t all been soaked. D.C. is sunny, our hotel rooms are large, and we all are much happier. Jennie, Vally and I go walkabout and end up with Greek for dinner, then ice cream. Hopefully the kids found their way to the buffet at the hotel.

Day 7: Vally and I power-walk to the National Mall and check out the monuments from end to end. We make it into three of the Smithsonian buildings before meeting friends and family. Jennie and the kids move at a bit more sedate a pace. Definitely better than N.Y..

Day 8: We hop a train, then a plane, then another plane, and it is plain that it is a pain for the boy-child and Jennie. We’re home. The horses escape twice in our absence, and the house-sitter has left a trail of destruction behind her. And two pizzas. We prefer the pizza to the destruction. And one of the cats is splattered on the side of the road. We’re ready to go back to D.C..

Okay, enough summarization. I need to work.

Oh yeah, and in case you wondered why a white-bread honky like be would care about immigration reform, it is because of stupid crap the INS does, like this. These people are productive members of Coeur d’Alene society. They are serving delicious food, paying taxes, and making our city (okay, the city right next to me) a little better. Having your family torn apart because of a forgotten form in our immigration process is pretty sucky.

So, health care reform passed. My daughter’s civics teacher is going to be ticked. She (a public school teacher, her salary paid for via taxes) feels that her taxes shouldn’t be spent to help other people. Not very civic-minded . . . I’m not sure why the TeaBag Army, or whatever they are calling themselves these days, as so upset — we are still letting insurance companies extort their customers and there’s no public option. Still, I suppose the President is still black, so perhaps that is their primary complaint. Poor Baggers. Is it too early to start pushing for an updated HCR with the public option?

I really expected this health care thing to fail. I even planned out my giant Democratic Waffle Breakfast, in honor of our giant Democratic Waffling. Instead I am dining on Hope and Change (and a shrimp omelette with rosemary potato wedges). It will be interesting to see how this plays out here in Idaho. Our dimwitted governor has already promised to fight health care reform, suing the federal government and throwing a giant hissy fit. I assume he plans on holding his breath until he passes out. Idahoans are not a very health-oriented lot. We would rather keep our heavily-leaded lakes and gorgeous phosphate and heavy metal polluted streams, trusting that the brain damage from all of the toxins keep the populace from thinking about silly things like their health. It is beautiful up here, but for those of us who feel we should be working towards a common good, rather lonely.

So, now that there is some sort of health care reform, it’s time to get all Hopey-Changey on President Obama’s immigration reform pledge. After months of hearing how all of us libs are ramming health care down the throats of the cons, I am ready to ram something new down the throats of the Screeching Minority. Why do I feel tingly all of a sudden? . . .

I discovered a dark secret last night. My son, at age ten, is living up the blogger stereotype. He is unemployed, living in his parents’ basement, and wears sweatpants all day. And has his own blog, which he updates more than I update mine. I should buy him a bag of Cheetos so he can stain his fingers and keyboard and perfectly round out the image. Imagine, living the dream by ten. I need to teach him to type in all-caps and get him on Wonkette next. I guess I have one more website to monitor every day. Sigh . . .

Oh hey, I’ve found god! It turns out he was busy making podcasts and kind of tuned us all out, which explains why everybody keeps searching so hard for him. His creator, apparently, is a former Mormon. Trippy, man (yes, I am high on stress and lack of sleep).

Okay, that’s it. Hopefully the boy-child will forget to post today and I can pull ahead in the great blogger wars.

I can hear the chocolate calling me. I’ve given in, sucking down a dozen dark chocolate, cocoa-dusted almonds over the last hour, and still they cry out to me. Jennie claimed that urges are your body telling you you need something. Does this mean I am low on dusted chocolate pleasure?

Not speaking of which, I have been thinking of earlier days and phone calls I had received while working in a veterinary hospital. And still wondering how a person could possibly discover that she is allergic to guinea pig semen. I wouldn’t think that your average person, allergic or not, would ever discover said allergy. Now please excuse me while I go bleach my brain again.

Fucking hell. I’ve missed two days of exercise, and I feel like crap. I wrenched my left shoulder on Sunday, moving the pool table for Vally’s Valentine Party. Dramatically increasing my chocolate and sugar intake while eliminating exercise does not seem to have fixed things. I can barely move my left arm, and typing is now a one-handed affair. I think I need either more alcohol or more muscle relaxants and anti-inflammatories. Too bad I cannot work or think when I’m medicated enough to be pain-free. This is going to be a fun week.

So we did a blind taste test this weekend: Four whiskeys, no clue. Ballantine, Knob Creek, Buffalo Trace and Maker’s Mark. Ballantine, a true Scotch, failed quickly. Harsh, with no depth, it had no chance against the three bourbon whiskeys. Surprisingly, Maker’s Mark, which I figured would be the champ, was also a wash. While slightly different, we haven’t decided which we like better of Buffalo Trace and Knob Creek. (with many apologies to my 1996 GMC Sierra…) We may not be able to make a reliable automobile, but America can craft a decent Whiskey.

Oh hey, it’s finally starting to look like winter out here. The one night I don’t bother to park my truck in the garage, and it snows “wicked hahd” (We’re heading over the the East Coast is another month or so and I had to get some Bostonian out of me. So sorry). I’d snap a pciture, but I don’t feel like getting up right now.

So, I’ve found the perfect balance of exercise and gluttony: If I only eat and drink to excess 4 days a week and live well the other three, I continue to get fit. As long as I can exercise heavily for 2 hours every day of the week, I can have my ice cream, scallops and 5 glasses of wine 4 days a week. Yay. I’m really f***ing tired. There’s no way this plan can fail, right?

Actually, it’s kind of fun seeing how hard I can push myself. Being somewhat sparse in the meniscus department thanks to a couple of knee injuries, I haven’t really run in 20 years or so. Now I’m doing 8-9 miles a day, brace-free. Even better, I no longer end up curled up in the fetal position afterwards, holding my knees and moaning. Life is good. As long as we don’t get snowed in.

Jennie picked up a box of Meyer lemons the other day. This may be the end of my latest fitness kick, as they (the lemons are still the subject. Pay attention, damnit!) make the most amazing Lemon Drops. Oh well; at least I managed to drop 35 of the 75 pounds I wanted to shed. Damn you, tasty booze!

A Lemon Drop is much more enjoyable than a six mile run any day . . . Besides, with the whole fitness thing, my center of balance is completely out of whack. It’s much better to have all the weight at your middle rather than in your chest and arms, right? I’d make a lousy weeble right now.

Hmmm . . . I think it is time for another Lemon Drop. I feel almost coherent.