It was a Bad, No Good, Rotten, Stinky Week

And It Was My Own Fault

It was a rotten week

Oh, what a week! It was, in fact, a no good, rotten, stinky week. I was supposed to be in NYC for the first time since the pandemic. I was supposed to see two Broadway shows. Supposed to see an exhibit of theater memorabilia. Supposed to see one of my best friends. And most important of all, I was supposed to attend my niece’s graduation.

I was supposed to do all that and I couldn’t. The worst part: the reason I couldn’t travel was my own fault.

You see, I am my mother’s daughter. Not only have I inherited her bad back, but I also have acquired her monumentally bad habit of moving furniture and heavy objects, of never being satisfied with how things “look.” This habit further ruined her already bad back. And now, I’m the same way. I constantly push and pull furniture and other bulky items.

Bad, No Good, Rotten, Stinky Week

And that’s what I did last week. There was a flowerpot that “had” to be moved. I could have waited for Handsome Hubby to do it later, but no, no, no. It “had” to be done right away.

The instant I bent over, I felt that old familiar ping and pinch of pain in my back, but I was committed (or should have been) to the task. I hauled the blasted pot across the room and, of course, having picked it up, I had to put it down, which meant, bending once more and repeating the ping-pinch cycle. But this time, the pain was amplified sixfold.

I knew I was in trouble.

What I didn’t realize was that I was in double trouble.

There was the pain problem, of course. But also, unexpectedly, a marital storm brewing.

HH walked into the room just as I attempted to straighten up. He looked at me. He looked at the big yellow flowerpot in its new (lovely) location. Then, he looked at me again … and not in a loving way.

If it had been a cartoon, you would have seen the steam erupting from his ears. Instead of offering words of sympathy, my normally kind, sweet, sensitive man lost his cool and utter these heartless words: “Well, I guess you’ve not only blown out your back again, but you’ve blown the trip to NYC.”

I scoffed through my pain. “Oh, that’s days away. Of course, I’m going.” Then, I limped/lurched to the medicine cabinet for my trusty muscle relaxers.

Little did I know that HH was a prophet because seven days and an empty bottle of muscle relaxers later, I canceled my airline ticket, gave away my show tickets, had several good cries, and was relegated to watching my niece’s graduation on Zoom.

Meanwhile …

Life in Reno was no picnic either. There was a massive multi-front ant invasion in the kitchen and family room. The Sunday New York Times was not delivered for the third Sunday in a row. (Yes, we live in a barbarous remote, God-forsaken hamlet where getting the Times delivered is not an inalienable right. And yes, I know I can read the paper online. But no, I do not consider it “the same thing,” thank you very much.)

And finally, in the biggest assault on my delicate sensibilities, we discovered a second pest infestation.

When the exterminator came to annihilate the ants, I pointed down to the ground outside the front door and said, “See all these mouse droppings.”  He looked down; he looked up; then he solemnly declared, “Bats. It’s bats. That’s bats’ guano. And see here on the walls here. There’s bat urine.”

And so, while I don’t have bats in my belfry (yet), we do have them flying around under the front door entranceway. Now, we’re waiting for a special type of exterminator to come deal with them! And apparently, the wait will be long. This is the busy season for bat exterminators. Who knew?

A New Week

Yet, things are looking up. Thanks to physical therapy, and some TLC from our extremely talented and kind masseuse Lizzie, and HH (once he calmed down), I feel better.

Even the stormy marital seas have calmed. HH downloaded the music from the two Broadway shows I missed out on seeing and I’ve promised not to move any more flowerpots or furniture.

And while Zoom wasn’t as much fun as being there, it was a joy to watch my amazing MD niece Leesa add an MBA to her long list of credentials. She is an astonishingly talented, accomplished, and energetic woman.

🪴 🪴 🪴

As a final note: The recently moved plant is thriving in its new location. So, there’s that too! All’s well that ends well.

2 replies
  1. Barbara
    Barbara says:

    Sure, never again. I too am a mover and lifter. I live in NYC and have to walk 10 blocks to the supermarket. Do I take my shopping cart? No. I take 2 big shopping bags, one for each shoulder, and can’t straighten up when I get home. I am 81 and don’t think I will ever wise up.

    • Karen Galatz
      Karen Galatz says:

      Oh, the infamous NYC grocery bag schlep! I am guilty of that crime too! As if the store doesn’t offer delivery service. Am I right? But think of yourself as a “mover and a shaker” and it sounds so much better … even if its your bones that are the items getting moved and shook (shaken?).


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