Where in the World is Bemused Boomer?

Have you noticed that when you're on a roller coaster, your vocabulary shrinks to about the size of a walnut? You can find expressions like: "Omigod [OMG]" and "eeeeeeeeee" but not, "What a terrifying experience. I do believe I've wet my pants." Well, that's kinda what my life has been like since you last heard from me on a volcano in Italy.

I present herewith a brief synopsis:


Doctor's office, mid-July: "Welcome back from Italy. BTW, you know that operation you were hoping to put off for a year? Not a good idea."
BB: OMG.
Dr.: "You can come for a pre-op August 4, and we can do the surgery Aug. 12."
BB: "Eeeeeeeeee!"

My brain began to spin. Wait! What about my plan to hang out with my Washington buddies until the California desert cools down enough for human habitation? What about patio parties and lakeside picnics and a leisurely move to Palm Springs? Where does surgery fit into that scenario? It doesn't. I needed a Plan B.

OK. Here's Plan B: Move stuff to house in California, set up house, come back to Washington for surgery, recuperate until able to take road trip back to Calfornia. (Hey, I didn't say it was great plan!)

Movers: "Sure, we can help you pack and get your stuff down there, for about a bazillion dollars."
BB: "OMG."
Movers: "It's only a half a bazillion dollars if you do all the packing yourself."
BB: "Eeeeee!"

Thank God for friends of friends (Note to self: try to establish friend network in California ASAP). A friend knew a professional packer whose work load was light. She was able to spare me a couple of whirlwind days.

Packer: "Newspaper? Do you want newspaper ink all over your dishes?"
BB: But I've been saving it for months--it takes a long time when the newpaper is only 10 pages long!"
BB: "White paper."
BB "OK."

It's a good thing I learned to say "OK" early in the game. She whizzed through my stuff with labels and a tape gun big enough to tape me to the wall. Within a few days, she turned my terrifying mountain of rubble into stacks of tidy boxes.

Movers: "We can give you a 7-day window."
BB: "Huh?"
Movers: "We'll drop off your stuff sometime between Sunday and Sunday. The driver will call the day before."
BB: "You want me to wait in the desert for a week? In summer? Eeeeeeee!"
Movers: "OK, we'll give you five days."
BB: "OMG."

Scheduled for "sometime between Monday and Friday," my stacks of tidy boxes arrived on Friday, of course. They were immediately turned back into a terrifying mountain of rubble. Thank God for the army of professional helpers whose sole job is setting up and maintaining the homes of retirees in the desert. The Unpacker whisked things out of boxes, suggested where to put them, and put them there before an "OMG" or "Eeeee" could bubble to the surface of my shell-shocked brain. My main function was handing out water bottles to movers and unpackers to prevent my living room from becoming littered with unconscious, heat-prostrated bodies. We caught a break. It was only 110 degrees outside. (On Thursday, it was 118.)





Unpacker: Don't worry. We'll get it all done so you can go back to Washington and have your operation. Your little house will be all ready for you to come back to!"
BB: Operation? Eeeeeee!

This being a synopsis and not an epic, I will tell you that deadlines were met. I flew back to Washington, stumbled into the hospital on time and full of gratitude for blessed anasthesia-induced unconsiousness. Surgery was successful, and I'm healing quickly. As soon as the doctor says I'm fit to drive (though there are those who would argue that may never have been true,) Scruffdog and I will head south. Probably to spend quite a bit of time lolling about here:


Some may call it sloth--I'm going to call it, "Well-earned rest."